Newspaper Column Writing 2009 Harvey Winners

January 23, 2009

If I Were...

Tyler Wildman

editor-in-chief

5

experience

locked up

I hope no one reading this knows how badly handcuffs hurt. I do. And believe me, they hurt.

On Friday, January 16, I got arrested at my home around 10 p.m. Deputy Evan Love of the Hendrick’s County Sheriff’s Department was my arresting officer. My wrists got no mercy from him. I was going to jail.

Handcuffs are used both as holding and submission devices, and they are one of the most humbling objects on this planet. I was going nowhere and the car ride to the jail was the most uncomfortable ride I had ever experienced.

I’ll go no further before plainly saying that jail is no place anyone wants to be. I felt so guilty being escorted in handcuffs past all of the officers in the booking area of the jail; no smile was going to cross my face on this Friday night. I was immediately seated while the booking officers prepared for me to be in the system.

Okay, I’ll admit this wasn’t real. I wasn’t actually getting a black spot on my criminal record. Don’t think I’m crazy, but this is something I wanted to experience. With that in mind, I told the booking staff that I wanted the full treatment. “Treat me as a criminal.” Once those words left my mouth, I heard “Then don’t speak until you are spoken to.”

“Okay,” I replied. “No. ‘Yes, sir’ is how you respond to me,” barked the officer.

“Yes sir,” I sheepishly replied.

I guess they figured that a small bit of attitude was enough to understand how serious the officers are, because immediately after that, I was offered a full-scale tour of the jail. The county jail is divided into three levels, each level housing different types of inmates. The first floor was full of preliminary holding cells, basically for people who have just been arrested and are waiting for bail or placement in a cell block for longtime holding. The holding cell floor was where I would be staying.

The second floor had central command and the four cell blocks. Each cell block was marked by colors. Red was for minor crimes, like not paying child support for example. The other cell blocks were blue, yellow and green, each color signifying a greater danger concerning the inmates inside. The reds were peaceful, but the green inmates were the criminals not to be reckoned with. They could see me through the giant glass window at the door of their block, and I was afraid of them, only being a few layers of glass and a locked door away.

The second floor also had the cell sections 2 East and 2 West. These were the baddest of the bad; the criminals who had to be constantly watched. The murderers and wife-beaters, the freaks of our nightmares.

Granted, I looked through a window of a cell door of probably 9-inch thick solid steel; nonetheless, I felt more vulnerable and in danger than ever in my life. I then saw the kitchen, the third floor cells and then it was back down to holding.

Now it was down to business. I took everything out of my pockets signed my waiver, and was subsequently frisked and then given my orange-striped pants, itchy canvas shirt and old rubber sandals to wear. Everything I had with me was put into my bag, number 315, and then taken from me to the property room with every other inmates’ belongings.

I was then given a bucket with all that I was being supplied with for my cell: a towel, a very itchy and warm blanket, a bar of soap, two half ounce deoderant sticks, plaster-paste toothpaste, a toothbrush and toilet paper. That was it. I grabbed a bed pad to sleep on and was taken to holding cell 01. My home was a red and yellow cell with two metal bunks, a sink and a toilet. I had a small metal stool to sit on and a tiny desk. Home sweet home were definitely not the words I thought of when the door was locked behind me.

The officers were extremely nice, and made an arrangement with me that after a few hours of being in my cell, I could come watch them put actual criminals into the system and into their cells.

Time stops in those holding cells. I fell asleep shortly after being in my cell. I would guess this was 11 p.m. I was awakened by an officer at my door and I immediately thought, “Oh shoot, I slept through them booking all of the real ones. It’s time to leave.” Not even close. Only three hours had passed. Still in my “oranges,” as the booking officers called them, I sat behind the desk to wait for the incoming arrests. Logic told me that early Saturday morning would bring in some of the most interesting criminals. I guessed right.

I saw seven people brought in, and six of them were here for some alcohol-related charge. I obviously won’t reveal their names, but some of their stories need to be told.

One man, brought in by a sheriff, was so intoxicated that the man couldn’t sign his name, but claimed he had only had two martinis.

Amanda, the officer who I was shadowing, didn’t seem too convinced, but nonetheless she had to believe his account. He was sent to the “Drunk Tank” cell, along with many others who would come in that night.

Another man was brought in who had ill-found prescription pills on him. This man was not intoxicated, this man was not even brought in wearing handcuffs, but he had the biggest ramifications of all of the inmates that were brought in. He was being charged with a Class B felony, which had a bail pricetag of $50,000. He needed an initial ten percent to get out of jail. I was blown away by the man’s reaction on his legally-mandated phone call when he said, “All it was was 20 Vicodin.” I received an abrupt reality check of the drug culture around us everyday.

Around 5:30 a.m., it was time to go home. I got my belongings, changed my clothes and was welcomed back whenever I liked. Obviously, the officers implied that if I came in that it better be under positive circumstances.

Jail is lonely. Life in my cell was terribly boring. Jail is terrifying. I was afraid, even though I knew I would be in my own bed before the sun rose. Like I said, jail is no place anyone should desire to be. The worst reality of my visit to jail was around 2:30 a.m., when one of the inmate workers was collecting laundry. I saw his face and immediately recognized him. He had been in one of my classes just last year. That, is hopefully reality enough for you. twildman@quakershaker.com

five

Off to jail ...

The view from behind

bars

Jails are becoming more overcrowded every day. Here are some of the staggering statistics

At midyear 2007, 780,581 inmates were held in the nation's local jails, up from 766,010 at midyear 2006.

In 2007, jails reported adding 15,502 beds during the previous 12 months, bringing the total capacity to 813,502.

96% of the capacity was occupied at midyear 2007.

On June 29, 2007, local jails were operating 4% below their rated capacity. page design / tyler wildman

December 12, 2008 Cub Reporter

Rules: for a new student body precedent KevinGardner

reporter Rule: Yeah, my bus was late. OK, seeing as ‘tis the season of snowstorms, iced streets, and frost-locked car doors, we can no longer delay the issue of morning delays. I’ll admit that the school district offers transportation for all township residents, so students have no excuse for consistent tardiness in normal road and traffic conditions. But on the rare occasion a bumperto-bumper car line rivals the speed of smell inching down a slush-covered 56th Street, let a kid go to his M5 class—even if he opted to brave the snow with his Caddy in lieu of the MSDLT shuttle service. Can you blame him for taking a functioning heater and his own stereo over the bus seat with a tire hump and an evercracked window? It’s not a symptom of a character development disorder when a student driver is three minutes late to his physics class. Don’t snag me in the hallway and drag me to the CDC; just let me go back to real school so I can learn.

Last winter was ushered in with frequent chimes of “Please allow students to class due to late buses.” No. Please allow students to class because there are Who invited 6 inches of snow and Hummer hasn’t released your unfounded its Suburban Street Tank interpretation?” yet. My Honda is not immune to the weather and traffic that delay a school bus; hold us to the same standards.

Rule: Don’t put prose before bros. Yes, we’re all aware that last night’s Hamlet reading was no grounds to cancel your 9:00 appointment with Steve Carell and Tina Fey, so no one expected you to come in well-versed.

We anticipated your pathetic rotation through the G1 calc class in search of an Act II summary to aid your imminent struggle with the 10-point quiz. But once you’ve exhausted your classmates and lugged your half-completed questionnaire to the teacher’s desk, don’t return to your seat to offer us your insight on the protagonist’s religious motives during the Socratic seminar that follows. Who invited your unfounded interpretation?

If you haven’t prepared the assigned reading—be it for APLAC, APUSH, or APES—please, don’t feel obligated to grace us with your absence of mind. Naturally, you didn’t lend your eyes to Polonius’s paternal counsel, but trust his advice: “Give thy thoughts no tongue.”

I know, you didn’t want to sign up for an AP class, but Mom and Dad thought their son should establish an appealing résumé for those looming college apps. Do the rest of us a favor: Come in quietly, slide into your familiar slumber, and drop the course before we come back from break. It’s the least you could do.

“

Opinions

13

Boys, please ‘man up’ VanessaGee reporter As a girl who is now on a break from her boyfriend, I’ve been wondering: Where have all the real boys gone and could they please come out?

Sorry to be another female complaining about males, but all the good guys are in hiding and I want them to come out.

All the boys I’ve been seeing around are cute and that’s pretty much where the good stuff ends.

So here are some of my thoughts on what men (boys) should be: They should at least try to be unique.

All the guys I’ve talked to are just like all the other guys I’ve talked to. No one stands out among the sea of boys.

Lawrence Central High School

They are all just the same person there is a thin line between being over and over again. It seems like sensitive and being a wimp, and all the boys I know quote the same you are flirting too closely with person over and over again, wear it. I only hope that you find that the same outfits, the same shoes, difference very soon. and have the same attitudes over Last but not least, men should be and over again. able to open things.

All of this just to have some The other day, I had a boy ask boy tell me how different he is from me to open a bottle for him. I could everyone else. have smacked him, right then and If you were so different, you there. Doesn’t he know as a man he wouldn’t have to say it, now would should be able to open that without you? You would walk the way you so much thought as to blink? talk.

If I’m expected There should be to know how to ...will the real boys no complaints. cook and such, please stand up?”

The other which isn’t my day in one of my forte, then men classes I sat through an hour of should be able to open all kinds of complaining about a teacher some things, like doors and jars. people didn’t like, and it was all This may be sexist, but that’s from boys. the way my mind works.

One, whining is stupid.

Now, I’m not saying these are Two, nothing is less attractive the only things I look for, but these than someone who can’t “man up” are the things I see first. Respect and get on with life. and others things come later.

Now for all you sensitive souls Until I get to know you better, out there who think talking about those are top three, so will the real life problems all the time is OK, boys please stand up?

“

Oh, come let us ignore Him SeanJordan news editor ’Tis the season to get presents, make snowmen, get presents, not go to school and, of course, get presents.

And be jolly because of it.

Since standing in line for hours at the mall, awaiting our first visit to “Santa,” who, for most of us, was that fat hobo that we always saw advertising his homelessness at (insert major intersection here), we’ve always thought that Christmas was about getting what we wanted.

We didn’t question why a guy who could see us when we were sleeping and knew when we were awake couldn’t just sense what we wanted for Christmas, and we didn’t wonder why that same guy, who

could circuit the globe in one night, thugs who killed each other over a made 100 people wait two hours to spot in line. talk to him for two seconds.

Sounds like our actions We didn’t care; we just knew are saying we care only about our hopes and dreams would be receiving. fulfilled—by getting toys.

When it appears that we’re Throughout the years, although doing something selfless, though, we found out Santa doesn’t exist (I we’re probably not. Our parents hope), nothing changed. Toys just probably forced us to do it by grew in sophistication. threatening the well-being of our Sure, parents told us that the Christmas presents. holiday season Although is the season of most of us deck our actions are giving, and sure, our halls with we sang about saying we care only Jesus paraphernwanting only two about receiving.” alia, we totally front teeth for disregard the Christmas, but “Homeboy” for actions say more than words. whom the holiday is named. Plenty We make Christmas lists that of people attend an obligatory are as tall as we are. We ignore church service, with their minds on the Salvation Army volunteers the presents they’re soon to receive who stand in the cold for hours at the entire time.

Wal-Mart. We “forget” to buy our No matter the reason Christmas siblings presents. originated, it has somehow evolved We even kill people. Like that into one thing: a bloodthirsty brawl horde of people that crushed a Wal- for the Nintendo Wii. Mart employee on Black Friday, I’m not going to lie: I don’t even or those two Toys-R-Us-shopping know who Mary Christmas is.

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