Important People In My Lifetime
More Than Just An Honorable Mention
True Short Stories By: Bradley Chapline
Disclaimer
(Due to the extreme passage of time, there may well be unintentional flaws in the story-lines).
More Than Just An Honorable Mention
True Short Stories By: Bradley Chapline
Disclaimer
(Due to the extreme passage of time, there may well be unintentional flaws in the story-lines).
PREFACE
During the early 1950’s, my baby, toddler, and preschool years all seemed to be normal. But, something bad, and I mean real bad happened with my parents just before I started elementary school.
My mother undoubtedly became an undiagnosed schizophrenic. To say in many ways she was deranged and irresponsible would have been an understatement. However, Rose Ellen, was most likely, as a child, mentally and physically abused by her parents, including being repeatedly raped by her biological father.
My older brother, David Allan, by four years, was her preferred child, and as time proved, I was the kid who became the throwaway. My father, Daniel, from World War II, had lingering lifelong effects of malaria.
Rose Ellen, who was raised in an old broken down farmhouse in New Freedom, Pennsylvania, ran away from home at an early age. As an underaged child, it was rumored that Rose Ellen first took a job on the famous Block on Baltimore Street. This is where prostitutes routinely masqueraded as exotic dancers.
After the end of World War II, my father returned back to his hometown of Baltimore. It was said that Daniel’s favorite hangout was one of the nightclubs on “The Block”. Most likely where he met my mother, Rose Ellen.
This would tend to connect the puzzle, some years later, where I heard a verbal fight ensue between my parents. My father believed that my older brother, David Allan, was not his biological child. However, my father did concede that I was, in fact, his biological son. This may well have been the beginning of my mother, Rose Ellen, and my brother, David Allan, waging war on me.
During the early 1950’s, my baby, toddler, and preschool years all seemed to be normal. But, something bad, and I mean real bad happened with my parents just before I started elementary school.
My mother undoubtedly became an undiagnosed schizophrenic. To say in many ways she was deranged and irresponsible would have been an understatement. However, Rose Ellen, was most likely, as a child, mentally and physically abused by her parents, including being repeatedly raped by her biological father.
My older brother, David Allan, by four years, was her preferred child, and as time proved, I was the kid who became the throwaway. My father, Daniel, from World War II, had lingering lifelong effects of malaria.
Rose Ellen, who was raised in an old broken down farmhouse in New Freedom, Pennsylvania, ran away from home at an early age. As an underaged child, it was rumored that Rose Ellen first took a job on the famous Block on Baltimore Street. This is where prostitutes routinely masqueraded as exotic dancers.
After the end of World War II, my father returned back to his hometown of Baltimore. It was said that Daniel’s favorite hangout was one of the nightclubs on “The Block”. Most likely where he met my mother, Rose Ellen.
This would tend to connect the puzzle, some years later, where I heard a verbal fight ensue between my parents. My father believed that my older brother, David Allan, was not his biological child. However, my father did concede that I was, in fact, his biological son. This may well have been the beginning of my mother, Rose Ellen, and my brother, David Allan, waging war on me.
The Replacement Father
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
Jun 2022
Artie Shaw
1907 - 1968
In the 1950's, early 60's, I was raised by my parents not to like black people. In fact, in our household, the word nigger was a common word. But, in 1964, with me, all that changed. I met Artie. An aged-black man, whose face showed without doubt the decades of virtual slavery that he somehow endured.
He became the nighttime janitor at a place called the Perry Hall Bowling Center. This all white conservative town located well outside the slums of Baltimore City certainly viewed Artie as a typical nigger. He had a foul odor coming from his unwashed clothing. Artie was unshaven, and his frowzy hair looked like a steel wool pad.
But, the moment my father introduced me to Artie, I just knew there was something special about him. And boy would I find out the heart and soul of this great man..
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Artie was a terminally ill man with no medical insurance. Artie was never a cigarette smoker, but had a horribly sounding chronic cough.
I learned when Artie was six years old he was forced to work in both production factories and coal mines. In the coal mines, specifically, Artie would have to crawl through these filthy tunnels with no facial protection. The crawl spaces were too narrow and low for adults to access. Artie, during his childhood, was also forced to work as a crossing sweeper. More than any other job as a kid that Artie did, a crossing sweeper was the most humiliating. Artie had to sweep a clean path ahead of white people crossing dirty urban streets. As Artie grew into adulthood, his main jobs for the coming decades were that of a shoeblack and an errand boy.
So, in Artie's senior years, becoming a night watchman / janitor in the local bowling alley of Perry Hall, for him, was a dream job. He thought being paid one dollar and twenty-five cents an hour with no benefits made this a wonderful job.
I could tell Artie was hurting, bad. The duties Artie would have to cover during the graveyard hours seemed impossible for a young healthy man to accomplish, much less Artie. I told my father I wanted to stay over with Artie and help him. For the moment my father was proud of me. Even though Artie was black, my dad really liked him.
That night was the beginning of our very close friendship that would last for the coming years. In time, but still a preteen, I was put on the payroll of the Perry Hall Bowling Center. In starting out, I was making near what Artie was earning an hour. I knew it bothered Artie, but he never said anything.
I worked swing shift cleaning up after the bowling leagues, usually, seven nights a week. I frequently stayed over, off the payroll, and helped Artie as much as possible. Our friendship and trust between each other grew significantly. At the opposite end of the spectrum, my relationship with my father was worsening by the day.
I was failing in school, and I was in trouble a good bit with authorities. I had more absent days from my classes than present days.
I decided to leave home and live at the bowling alley. There was a mechanic's towel room behind the pinsetters that was hardly ever used. I would make my bedroom there. Artie helped me set it up.
I had been gone for four days before anyone noticed that I was not at home anymore. Finally, my father came to the bowling alley looking for me. Artie was furious. He was scolding my father in telling him what a lousy father he was. Dad never opened his mouth. But, he did walk away and leave me there at the bowling alley.
With the exception of being with Artie at the bowling alley, I was an outcast everywhere I went. My "crazy eye" made the case for people to think this way about me. When I told Artie that my brother had intentionally inflicted permanent harm to my right eye, Artie never spoke to David Allan again.
It was only on rare occasions that I went home. And then Artie asked me if there were any homes in the neighborhood that rented rooms. I only knew of one place. It was located just a quarter mile away from the house I grew up in. The rent was the same as I was paying my mother, twenty dollars a week. The bonus was, the rental was very close to a school bus stop. Artie advised me to take it. He wanted to see me get my own place, and learn to care and support myself. But, above all, Artie wanted me to have peace and quiet where I could begin improving on my school work.
But, I was missing Artie and my makeshift bedroom at the bowling alley. Whenever Artie got nights off, I took the bus with him downtown into the inner-city. Artie lived in the worst of the inner-city slums. But his home was filled with love. I was immediately accepted by his wife, and two of his grandchildren. Artie and his wife had permanent custody of them.
My fondest memories were the family circles. We would all sit together and listen to basketball games on an old dilapidated AM radio. After the ballgame Artie's wife would teach us about God and Dr. Martin Luther King. There was never much to eat at meal time, but they always shared with me. I finally felt like I had a family.
Again, I got lucky. At my boarding home, the owner was an elderly lady named Ms. McArter. She was a retired teacher. She took a great interest in me. My school work was improving by leaps and bounds. But, it didn't last long.
My father made a surprise visit. He appeared to be quite happy in learning all the advances I was making. However, when he told my mother, she was certainly not thrilled.
Since I was underage, she called the police and demanded that I be returned home. I immediately began lashing out and all my advances had collapsed. Domestic fights became the norm. In fact, when my mother hit me, I picked her up and threw her across the bed. Bouncing off the bed, she landed on an end table and broke a lamp. Dazed, I then watched her fall to the floor.
I was frequently getting drunk and smoking cigarettes. Then I did the worst of all. I fortified a bomb with gun powder. Additionally, I had waterproofed the bomb. I concealed the bomb on my person and took it to school. I wanted to get even with a staff member that I hated more than any other teacher at the school. I followed him into the teachers restroom. He had gone into a toilet stall and secured the door while he sat on the toilet. I went into the next stall and lit the cherry bomb. I dumped it into the toilet bowl and flushed the commode. I then ran out of the bathroom. Just when I thought the bomb would not detonate, there was this huge explosion that rocked the foundation of the school.
Within ten minutes I was detained by school authorities and later arrested by police and taken into custody. I was first expelled from school. Next, I faced a juvenile judge on a multitude of felony charges. My own mother testified against me, and Artie never showed up in my defense. I felt betrayed. I was sentenced to one year in the Maryland State Reformatory For Boys.
I learned quickly that this prison for underaged kids was predominately black. For the first few months I did nothing but fight blacks, prison staff, and learn what life was like in solitary confinement.
After about five months behind bars, Artie came to visit me. He hadn't betrayed me. His health had significantly worsened. He looked to be near death. I was crying my heart out. Artie begged me to get my life back together. I then saw Artie talking to all the other imprisoned black kids who were in the visiting room. I wondered what was going on. Artie had asked them to take care of me. And did they ever!
But, within the coming weeks I got the worst news possible. Artie had passed away. I fell to pieces. But, the other black kids greatly helped me in dealing with my loss. Prison authorities did not allow me to go to Artie's funeral. This really hurt. Artie was my replacement father. I loved him dearly.
About a month later I was released early from prison on good behavior and was allowed to return to high school.
But, I fell back into my old ways. I needed my replacement dad more than ever. But, of course Artie had passed away. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to him. My biological father, Daniel, re-entered my life, but I pushed him away. Artie, my replacement father, was surely not replaceable.
I graduated high school only because school authorities wanted to get rid of me once and for all. I then faced the same juvenile judge on more felony charges. I had a choice to either be tried as an adult, or join the U.S. Marine Corps. I knew Artie would have advised me to join the Marines. So, that's exactly what I did.
1907 - 1968
In the 1950's, early 60's, I was raised by my parents not to like black people. In fact, in our household, the word nigger was a common word. But, in 1964, with me, all that changed. I met Artie. An aged-black man, whose face showed without doubt the decades of virtual slavery that he somehow endured.
He became the nighttime janitor at a place called the Perry Hall Bowling Center. This all white conservative town located well outside the slums of Baltimore City certainly viewed Artie as a typical nigger. He had a foul odor coming from his unwashed clothing. Artie was unshaven, and his frowzy hair looked like a steel wool pad.
But, the moment my father introduced me to Artie, I just knew there was something special about him. And boy would I find out the heart and soul of this great man..
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Artie was a terminally ill man with no medical insurance. Artie was never a cigarette smoker, but had a horribly sounding chronic cough.
I learned when Artie was six years old he was forced to work in both production factories and coal mines. In the coal mines, specifically, Artie would have to crawl through these filthy tunnels with no facial protection. The crawl spaces were too narrow and low for adults to access. Artie, during his childhood, was also forced to work as a crossing sweeper. More than any other job as a kid that Artie did, a crossing sweeper was the most humiliating. Artie had to sweep a clean path ahead of white people crossing dirty urban streets. As Artie grew into adulthood, his main jobs for the coming decades were that of a shoeblack and an errand boy.
So, in Artie's senior years, becoming a night watchman / janitor in the local bowling alley of Perry Hall, for him, was a dream job. He thought being paid one dollar and twenty-five cents an hour with no benefits made this a wonderful job.
I could tell Artie was hurting, bad. The duties Artie would have to cover during the graveyard hours seemed impossible for a young healthy man to accomplish, much less Artie. I told my father I wanted to stay over with Artie and help him. For the moment my father was proud of me. Even though Artie was black, my dad really liked him.
That night was the beginning of our very close friendship that would last for the coming years. In time, but still a preteen, I was put on the payroll of the Perry Hall Bowling Center. In starting out, I was making near what Artie was earning an hour. I knew it bothered Artie, but he never said anything.
I worked swing shift cleaning up after the bowling leagues, usually, seven nights a week. I frequently stayed over, off the payroll, and helped Artie as much as possible. Our friendship and trust between each other grew significantly. At the opposite end of the spectrum, my relationship with my father was worsening by the day.
I was failing in school, and I was in trouble a good bit with authorities. I had more absent days from my classes than present days.
I decided to leave home and live at the bowling alley. There was a mechanic's towel room behind the pinsetters that was hardly ever used. I would make my bedroom there. Artie helped me set it up.
I had been gone for four days before anyone noticed that I was not at home anymore. Finally, my father came to the bowling alley looking for me. Artie was furious. He was scolding my father in telling him what a lousy father he was. Dad never opened his mouth. But, he did walk away and leave me there at the bowling alley.
With the exception of being with Artie at the bowling alley, I was an outcast everywhere I went. My "crazy eye" made the case for people to think this way about me. When I told Artie that my brother had intentionally inflicted permanent harm to my right eye, Artie never spoke to David Allan again.
It was only on rare occasions that I went home. And then Artie asked me if there were any homes in the neighborhood that rented rooms. I only knew of one place. It was located just a quarter mile away from the house I grew up in. The rent was the same as I was paying my mother, twenty dollars a week. The bonus was, the rental was very close to a school bus stop. Artie advised me to take it. He wanted to see me get my own place, and learn to care and support myself. But, above all, Artie wanted me to have peace and quiet where I could begin improving on my school work.
But, I was missing Artie and my makeshift bedroom at the bowling alley. Whenever Artie got nights off, I took the bus with him downtown into the inner-city. Artie lived in the worst of the inner-city slums. But his home was filled with love. I was immediately accepted by his wife, and two of his grandchildren. Artie and his wife had permanent custody of them.
My fondest memories were the family circles. We would all sit together and listen to basketball games on an old dilapidated AM radio. After the ballgame Artie's wife would teach us about God and Dr. Martin Luther King. There was never much to eat at meal time, but they always shared with me. I finally felt like I had a family.
Again, I got lucky. At my boarding home, the owner was an elderly lady named Ms. McArter. She was a retired teacher. She took a great interest in me. My school work was improving by leaps and bounds. But, it didn't last long.
My father made a surprise visit. He appeared to be quite happy in learning all the advances I was making. However, when he told my mother, she was certainly not thrilled.
Since I was underage, she called the police and demanded that I be returned home. I immediately began lashing out and all my advances had collapsed. Domestic fights became the norm. In fact, when my mother hit me, I picked her up and threw her across the bed. Bouncing off the bed, she landed on an end table and broke a lamp. Dazed, I then watched her fall to the floor.
I was frequently getting drunk and smoking cigarettes. Then I did the worst of all. I fortified a bomb with gun powder. Additionally, I had waterproofed the bomb. I concealed the bomb on my person and took it to school. I wanted to get even with a staff member that I hated more than any other teacher at the school. I followed him into the teachers restroom. He had gone into a toilet stall and secured the door while he sat on the toilet. I went into the next stall and lit the cherry bomb. I dumped it into the toilet bowl and flushed the commode. I then ran out of the bathroom. Just when I thought the bomb would not detonate, there was this huge explosion that rocked the foundation of the school.
Within ten minutes I was detained by school authorities and later arrested by police and taken into custody. I was first expelled from school. Next, I faced a juvenile judge on a multitude of felony charges. My own mother testified against me, and Artie never showed up in my defense. I felt betrayed. I was sentenced to one year in the Maryland State Reformatory For Boys.
I learned quickly that this prison for underaged kids was predominately black. For the first few months I did nothing but fight blacks, prison staff, and learn what life was like in solitary confinement.
After about five months behind bars, Artie came to visit me. He hadn't betrayed me. His health had significantly worsened. He looked to be near death. I was crying my heart out. Artie begged me to get my life back together. I then saw Artie talking to all the other imprisoned black kids who were in the visiting room. I wondered what was going on. Artie had asked them to take care of me. And did they ever!
But, within the coming weeks I got the worst news possible. Artie had passed away. I fell to pieces. But, the other black kids greatly helped me in dealing with my loss. Prison authorities did not allow me to go to Artie's funeral. This really hurt. Artie was my replacement father. I loved him dearly.
About a month later I was released early from prison on good behavior and was allowed to return to high school.
But, I fell back into my old ways. I needed my replacement dad more than ever. But, of course Artie had passed away. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to him. My biological father, Daniel, re-entered my life, but I pushed him away. Artie, my replacement father, was surely not replaceable.
I graduated high school only because school authorities wanted to get rid of me once and for all. I then faced the same juvenile judge on more felony charges. I had a choice to either be tried as an adult, or join the U.S. Marine Corps. I knew Artie would have advised me to join the Marines. So, that's exactly what I did.
The Landlady
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
June 2022
Emma McArter
1892 - 1971
This was the elderly woman who provided me with my second temporary safe haven in my childhood years. I had recently, in or about 1968, moved into her boarding home located just a half-mile up the road from the house I grew up in. It was the perfect place for me. I had planned on staying there for a long time.
The rent was twenty dollars a week. The same amount my mother had been charging me. The school bus stop was just a few steps away from Ms. McArters house. The food at meal time was fantastic. Ms. McArter's cooking was quite similar to my grandmother's, but nothing like the unhealthy morsels of food at the bowling alley, or the bland meals my mother had haphazardly slapped together.
Ms. McArter had taken to me right away. She wanted my schoolwork to greatly improve. After all, she was a retired teacher.
Doing my classwork and homework assignments, behaving in school, and establishing a good reputation at my job as a janitor at the Perry Hall bowling lanes were all conditions of retaining residency at Ms. McArters boarding home.
She asked me point blank why I was doing so horrible in school. I didn't answer. She asked again. Still, I remained silent. At this point I was afraid she would kick me out of her house. But, she didn't. She handed me a high school history book and asked me to begin reading, outloud. I still said nothing. Ms. McArter said, "Oh my God, you can't read!" I replied that I could, on an elementary level, but only if the print was large enough. Ms. McArter then asked me what was wrong with my vision. I was willing to tell her.
"When I was in first grade, my older brother and I were told to go play in a nearby park while my parents went off to shoot in an archery tournament. I knew, even at this age, Ms. McArter, that my older brother, (David Allan), hated my guts. After all Ms. McArter, I was the nice looking kid, and David Allan was the most pathetically ugly child I had ever seen. He had these huge buck teeth with skin pits and pimples all over his face. In the picnic area of the park, I was jumping from table to table. David Allan pulled one of those tables out from underneath me. I went face first into the corner of the table made out of lumber. I could feel wood splinters in my right eye, and my face was bleeding profusely. While many people in the area seemed to be yelling for a paramedic, I also heard David Allan laughing at me. This time, my brother was right. I was no longer a good looking kid. After surgery, vision in my right eye was only partially restored. I had trouble seeing most anything close. If I kept trying to see up close, I would get double vision. And then, to top it all off, my right eye would begin popping up and down uncontrollably. I had become a freak show for everyone."
Ms. McArter had tears running down her face. She then asked, "Don't you have reading glasses?" I replied, "No, my mother would never get them for me."
Within minutes, I was in Ms. McArters car and on the way to the town drug store. Lucky for me, there was an optometrist on duty. He gave me an eye test. Of course, the test results for my right eye were horrible. He ordered strong prisms for my right eye. I told Ms. McArter that I could not afford this. She told me not to worry about it. Until my prescription lenses would come back from the manufacturer, Ms. McArter would loan me her reading glasses. They did help my ability to do my school assignments and homework.
Several weeks had passed, and still my new prescription glasses had not arrived. However, overall, I was doing much better in school and at work. For once, since before the time I lost Artie in my life, I was finally becoming a happy child again. But, as usual it was short-lived.
For reasons unknown to me, my father had come to Ms. McArter’s boarding home to pay me a visit. But, my father was denied. His arrival was the time Ms. McArter had slotted for me to do my homework. There were no exceptions. Anyway, I wasn't exactly happy to have my father come visit me..
But, several days later he was back. Ironically, this was the same day my new prescription reading glasses had come in the mail. I was absolutely thrilled.
My father said he was proud of me with all the improvements I had made. But, when my father asked me how I afforded my glasses, I told him Miss. McArter had bought them for me. At that second, my Dad turned around and gave Ms. McArter one nasty stare.
Before I knew it, my father had told my mother about all my advances. She immediately called the police and told them that Ms. McArter was unlawfully holding an underaged child at her boarding home. That day, the Baltimore County police forced me to return to the so-called care of my mother and father. To make matters even worse, David Allan took my new reading glasses and broke them into several pieces. They were now unwearable. I began lashing out. I was now, once again, in a great deal of trouble with both parents and authorities.
I had heard it was over a year later when Ms. McArter saw my mother shopping in the Woolworths store in the Perry Hall Shopping Center. They got into a quite heated argument. The police were called, when allegedly, Ms. McArter had shoved my mother. No one was arrested, but they both were separated and ordered to stay away from each other.
Another twist came three weeks later when Principal Bowerman of the Perry Hall Senior High School informed me that I would be graduating high school with a diploma. I was shocked, because my grade point average was 0.98, one of the lowest GPA’s ever recorded in Baltimore County.
Now, all I had to do was finish a basic math summer school course. Mr. Bowerman gave me a pair of reading glasses. I passed the summer session and officially graduated next to last in my class of five hundred and twenty-four students.
When I look back, Ms. McArter was surely my replacement mom. Because, whenever I had academic problems that I could not figure out on my own, I always snuck up to see Ms. McArter. She was always glad to see me, and always certainly willing to help me with my school work.
But, six months later I lost my second most dear friend in Ms. McArter. She had passed away in her sleep. However, I was glad her passing was not painful.
But, I hated Perry Hall and nearly everything about it. Once again, serious trouble was looming on my horizon.
1892 - 1971
This was the elderly woman who provided me with my second temporary safe haven in my childhood years. I had recently, in or about 1968, moved into her boarding home located just a half-mile up the road from the house I grew up in. It was the perfect place for me. I had planned on staying there for a long time.
The rent was twenty dollars a week. The same amount my mother had been charging me. The school bus stop was just a few steps away from Ms. McArters house. The food at meal time was fantastic. Ms. McArter's cooking was quite similar to my grandmother's, but nothing like the unhealthy morsels of food at the bowling alley, or the bland meals my mother had haphazardly slapped together.
Ms. McArter had taken to me right away. She wanted my schoolwork to greatly improve. After all, she was a retired teacher.
Doing my classwork and homework assignments, behaving in school, and establishing a good reputation at my job as a janitor at the Perry Hall bowling lanes were all conditions of retaining residency at Ms. McArters boarding home.
She asked me point blank why I was doing so horrible in school. I didn't answer. She asked again. Still, I remained silent. At this point I was afraid she would kick me out of her house. But, she didn't. She handed me a high school history book and asked me to begin reading, outloud. I still said nothing. Ms. McArter said, "Oh my God, you can't read!" I replied that I could, on an elementary level, but only if the print was large enough. Ms. McArter then asked me what was wrong with my vision. I was willing to tell her.
"When I was in first grade, my older brother and I were told to go play in a nearby park while my parents went off to shoot in an archery tournament. I knew, even at this age, Ms. McArter, that my older brother, (David Allan), hated my guts. After all Ms. McArter, I was the nice looking kid, and David Allan was the most pathetically ugly child I had ever seen. He had these huge buck teeth with skin pits and pimples all over his face. In the picnic area of the park, I was jumping from table to table. David Allan pulled one of those tables out from underneath me. I went face first into the corner of the table made out of lumber. I could feel wood splinters in my right eye, and my face was bleeding profusely. While many people in the area seemed to be yelling for a paramedic, I also heard David Allan laughing at me. This time, my brother was right. I was no longer a good looking kid. After surgery, vision in my right eye was only partially restored. I had trouble seeing most anything close. If I kept trying to see up close, I would get double vision. And then, to top it all off, my right eye would begin popping up and down uncontrollably. I had become a freak show for everyone."
Ms. McArter had tears running down her face. She then asked, "Don't you have reading glasses?" I replied, "No, my mother would never get them for me."
Within minutes, I was in Ms. McArters car and on the way to the town drug store. Lucky for me, there was an optometrist on duty. He gave me an eye test. Of course, the test results for my right eye were horrible. He ordered strong prisms for my right eye. I told Ms. McArter that I could not afford this. She told me not to worry about it. Until my prescription lenses would come back from the manufacturer, Ms. McArter would loan me her reading glasses. They did help my ability to do my school assignments and homework.
Several weeks had passed, and still my new prescription glasses had not arrived. However, overall, I was doing much better in school and at work. For once, since before the time I lost Artie in my life, I was finally becoming a happy child again. But, as usual it was short-lived.
For reasons unknown to me, my father had come to Ms. McArter’s boarding home to pay me a visit. But, my father was denied. His arrival was the time Ms. McArter had slotted for me to do my homework. There were no exceptions. Anyway, I wasn't exactly happy to have my father come visit me..
But, several days later he was back. Ironically, this was the same day my new prescription reading glasses had come in the mail. I was absolutely thrilled.
My father said he was proud of me with all the improvements I had made. But, when my father asked me how I afforded my glasses, I told him Miss. McArter had bought them for me. At that second, my Dad turned around and gave Ms. McArter one nasty stare.
Before I knew it, my father had told my mother about all my advances. She immediately called the police and told them that Ms. McArter was unlawfully holding an underaged child at her boarding home. That day, the Baltimore County police forced me to return to the so-called care of my mother and father. To make matters even worse, David Allan took my new reading glasses and broke them into several pieces. They were now unwearable. I began lashing out. I was now, once again, in a great deal of trouble with both parents and authorities.
I had heard it was over a year later when Ms. McArter saw my mother shopping in the Woolworths store in the Perry Hall Shopping Center. They got into a quite heated argument. The police were called, when allegedly, Ms. McArter had shoved my mother. No one was arrested, but they both were separated and ordered to stay away from each other.
Another twist came three weeks later when Principal Bowerman of the Perry Hall Senior High School informed me that I would be graduating high school with a diploma. I was shocked, because my grade point average was 0.98, one of the lowest GPA’s ever recorded in Baltimore County.
Now, all I had to do was finish a basic math summer school course. Mr. Bowerman gave me a pair of reading glasses. I passed the summer session and officially graduated next to last in my class of five hundred and twenty-four students.
When I look back, Ms. McArter was surely my replacement mom. Because, whenever I had academic problems that I could not figure out on my own, I always snuck up to see Ms. McArter. She was always glad to see me, and always certainly willing to help me with my school work.
But, six months later I lost my second most dear friend in Ms. McArter. She had passed away in her sleep. However, I was glad her passing was not painful.
But, I hated Perry Hall and nearly everything about it. Once again, serious trouble was looming on my horizon.
Never Cheated
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
June 2022
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
June 2022
Air Force
Senior Airman Jerome Richarson
1955 - Present
Academy Instructor
Ft. Benning, Ga.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff had officially approved in 1970 its own version of the U.S. Marshal's Academy It was located at the U. S. Army base in Ft. Benning, Ga.
In a recent five year stretch there had been one-hundred and fifty nine planes hijacked in American airspace. Broken down, this was almost one plane a week were forcibly being diverted to Cuba by terrorists. Stunningly, but kept as quiet as possible, six of these hijacked aircraft were military supply planes.
In adding more serious problems to our military, servicemen who had been convicted of felonies and sentenced to military penitentiaries during transportation periods were escaping in quite large numbers.
Therefore, the academy sent out recruitment notices to all branches of the military. The recruitment posters for military marshals made it abundantly clear that only the best educated and trained soldiers needed to apply.
For me personally, I was temporarily assigned to a sub-unit on the Marine Corps base of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Sub-units typically held Marines awaiting court-martial, and or other than honorable discharges from military service. Lucky for me I was no longer pending either. The Commanding General of the 2nd Marine Division had grudgingly given me one more chance to get my act together. His words to me were crystal clear, "Foul up in any way just once, and you'll be out of the Marine Corps on an Undesirable Discharge." My Commanding Officer of the sub-unit was outraged. He wanted me out of the Marines, immediately!
The Captain wasn't wrong about me. For, I had been AWOL, (Absent Without Leave), and I had disrespected and physically assaulted more than my fair share of both commissioned officers and staff non-commissioned officers. I smoked a lot of pot, and even delivered and sold some. Plus, I drank a ton of beer, wine and whiskey. No one would have ever accused me of being a polished Marine.
I was called into the Commanding Officer's hut. He gave me some stunning news. "I have selected you, Chapline, to attend the Military Marshal's Academy at Ft. Benning Ga.." This was so absurd, I couldn't help but to laugh. "Wipe that fucking smile off your face Marine!" My CO wasn't kidding. By a set of orders that was already handed to me, I was set to transfer out from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina in the next three days.
I went back to my barracks to give this a lot of thought. And then it hit me. The Captain knows I will be immediately washed out of the academy. I won't even make it past their indoctrination of all the applicants. But, there was nothing I could do, except follow the orders to report to Ft. Benning, as ordered.
I took no leave. I was the first trainee to report for the marshal's academy. I got to know an instructor named Senior Airman Jerome Richardson. I told him the fix I was in. I also informed Senior Airman Richardson of all the truths of my dismal past. He didn't look very confident that I could possibly stay in the academy. Instructor Richardson said, "You’ll have to face Senior Master Sergeant Thomas Rollins for your indoctrination. For each academy, he washes out thirty-five to forty-five percent of the class right during the first day of training. He is by the book, and he is really mean."
Senior Airman Richardson certainly was not kidding me. My body was trembling in front of Master Sergeant Rollins. He was a huge man that was built of solid muscle. Master Sergeant Rollins said to me, "Pack your bags, you piece of shit!" I did not move. I remained at the position of attention Master Sergeant Rollins roared, "Did you hear me slime ball?" Still, I did not move. Master Sergeant Rollins got up from his desk and put his face right in front of mine. We stared into each other's eyes. Neither one of us blinked. Master Sergeant Rollins then said, "Are you as dumb and tough as they say you are? I read your presentence investigation that detailed your bombing of the high school you went to, plus, all your racial fights while you were incarcerated for your crime." Still, I did not answer. Senior Airman Richardson then interjected, "Top Rollins, I think in this case, there is hope. I feel we can really work around dumb, because we sure as hell need tough Marshal's in our ranks that are not politically correct. Top Rollins, the hijackings, the escapes, maybe we should take a chance on Chapline. I think he is worth the effort. He really wants to turn his life around." Top Rollins then said, “Okay Richardson, it's your stripes and your career that are on the line, not mine. Senior Airman Richardson nodded his head in agreement.
Top Rollins said in a gruff tone,, "At ease Chapline. I'm probably going to regret this, but, like the Commanding General of Camp Lejeune said, you got one chance Chapline, and one chance only. You blow it, and you are done. That is, both with this Academy and the Marine Corps." I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Thank you Master Sergeant Rollins! I will not let you down!"
But, throughout the academy I was frequently tested by Master Sergeant Rollins. For example, he would interrupt an academy class, and say, "Chapline, describe to me what Aircraft Tactical Training involves?" I replied, "Aircraft tactical training requires trainees to move quickly and maneuver inside an aircraft. Trainees must possess a full range of motion in both their arms and shoulders to properly search, handcuff, and restrain individuals." Top replied, "Good job Chapline." Senior Airman Richardson was smiling from ear to ear.
I had many other subjects to learn that Senior Airman Richardson and a host of other instructors were teaching. There was legal control, control tactics, driver training, use of force, less than lethal devices, service of process, military court procedures, courtroom evidence and procedures, court security, officer survival, search and seizure, protective service training, firearms training, physical conditioning, trauma and first aid procedures, prisoner search and restraint, tactics and structure entry, building entry and search, high threat trials, and surveillance.
But, even outside of class instruction, there was a written test coming up on English, Mathematics, the Sciences, and U.S. History. This part scared me. I didn't know whether or not I would make it. But, during my off duty hours I was tutored by Senior Airman Richardson while I definitely studied these subjects..
On the test, first was chemistry, and then mathematics. I had correctly listed sixty-seven of the one hundred eighteen periodic tables of elements. In geometry, I described it as the properties of points, lines and angles.
And then, the test asked about U.S. History. The question was, "What is the most important part of the U.S. Constitution?" I wrote, "The Preamble, and its first three words, 'We The People'."
I scored high on this test. What a sigh of relief for both me and Senior Airman Richardson. But, this was not the final exam.
For me, this academy was seventeen and a half weeks of truly absolute hell. After class had shut down at 5PM daily, on weekdays, Senior Richardson tutored me most every night, in shortened shifts, till approximately 2AM in the morning. Exhausted and burned out, neither one of us ever gave thought to giving up. In time it all paid off, hugely.
I knew I did well enough on the final exam to graduate. I was indebted to Senior Airman Richardson for not only taking a chance on me, but, as well, believing that I could both learn and succeed as a Military Marshal.
But, I was shocked when the rankings were posted on the bulletin board. I was ranked third in my class. The allegations of cheating stormed through the student body. While Master Sergeant Rollins knew better, this did not stop some of Richardson's fellow instructors and students from placing allegations of corruption on him.
Granted, these allegations of cheating and corruption were about to put a huge cloud over our graduation ceremonies. But first, more drama was to come our way. Master Sergeant Rollins announced that later on in this day all forthcoming graduates would be required to run in the "Marshal Mile". This run, according to Master Sergeant Rollins, is a tribute to all those who have gone through this academy. The name of this run was deceptive. It was no mile run. At each mile marker, another mile was added on by instructors. This continued on until the run exceeded nine miles. About twenty-three of my classmates dropped out of the run. They figured dropping out of the nine mile run would have no repercussions. But, they were wrong. Top Rollins was quoted as saying, "I know each and every one of you who completed this very demanding run was suffering physically. Your reward is your badge. For those of you who did not complete the run, you are hereby immediately dismissed from the academy for failure to meet our standards and regulations.
At the end of the work day, as Top Rollins and Senior Airman Jerome Richardson walked towards their privately owned vehicles, they noticed that rocks had been thrown at their windshields. There was glass splattered all over the area.
The next day at graduation, it was an absolutely beautiful military ceremony. Top Rollins made it clear in his closing speech that our classmates who had dropped out of the "Marshal Run" were also the same individuals who placed false allegations of corruption and academic fraud on not only a fellow classmate, but, as well, one of our most treasured instructors.. Top Rollins went on, "The expelled students who committed vandalism yesterday on POV's owned by both myself and Senior Airman Richardson, were identified by videotape and subsequently arrested upon reporting to their new military posts. In closing, the few instructors who falsely accused their fellow trainees and instructors of corruption and academic fraud have been immediately relieved of duty and reassigned to another military installation. In closing, I would like to congratulate every graduate for a job well done."
However, my Captain back at Camp Lejeune was livid over my graduation. Apparently, he went directly to the Commanding General of Camp Lejeune demanding a full in depth investigation. It was granted.
In an odd kind of way, I could see why my fellow students, Airman Richardson’s fellow Academy Instructors, and my Commanding Officer back at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina all thought I cheated on the academy's final exam. My academic and disciplinary conduct records would make all my accomplishments at the academy seem quite impossible.
But, Senior Airman Richardson, unlike other instructors at the academy, knew how to teach a student in taking a test. I had paid strict attention.
Instructor Richardson showed no favoritism. He made it mandatory among his students to first memorize an overview of course material, and not bother with the particulars of the subject matter. That would come later at a more appropriate time. Senior Airman Richardson was very popular in using his quote, "Cramming makes confusion." He made sure his students would stick to a study schedule. After formal class instruction ended daily at 5PM, he encouraged students to study early in the evening hours, and for shorter periods. Instructor Richardson was constantly removing distractions from his students. He always rewarded his students when they hit a milestone. He strongly encouraged his students to rewrite the course material in their own words. Instructor Richardson was an avid supporter in the use of flashcards for good memory retention. And finally, Instructor Richardson encouraged study groups where students would come to teach each other course material.
For me, the on-going investigation of cheating was kind of nice. I was restricted to my private barracks room, with television, stereo, and meals delivered to me. This went on for over two weeks.
Both Master Sergeant Rollins and Senior Airman Richardson stopped by to see me each and every day. The company was nice.
Then finally, the verdict. There was absolutely no cheating, or any form of it by any student and or instructor.
Master Sergeant Rollins said he was going to get my transfer orders ready so that I could leave the base. He asked where I'd like to go, but strongly recommended a nice quiet Marine base far away from the east coast. "How about Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, Chap? Doesn't that sound nice and relaxing? Plus, we have no certified Military Marshals in that region". I took the offer.
Over a period of years having Hawaii as my home base, I successfully transported over one-hundred Navy and Marine prisoners by both military and commercial air to our military penitentiary, Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas.. From as far away as the Philippines and Okinawa, I only had one minor inflight incident, and zero escapes.
But, while headquartered in Hawaii, as my authority expanded to both an Assistant Regional Director of Prisoner Security and the Commanding General's Secretary, I eventually wound up locking horns with a convicted U.S. Marine, who became one of America's most notorious mass-murderers. If that wasn't enough, I would politically lock horns with some of the Marine Corps most powerfully corrupt officers. Hawaii was anything but relaxing.
Senior Airman Jerome Richarson
1955 - Present
Academy Instructor
Ft. Benning, Ga.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff had officially approved in 1970 its own version of the U.S. Marshal's Academy It was located at the U. S. Army base in Ft. Benning, Ga.
In a recent five year stretch there had been one-hundred and fifty nine planes hijacked in American airspace. Broken down, this was almost one plane a week were forcibly being diverted to Cuba by terrorists. Stunningly, but kept as quiet as possible, six of these hijacked aircraft were military supply planes.
In adding more serious problems to our military, servicemen who had been convicted of felonies and sentenced to military penitentiaries during transportation periods were escaping in quite large numbers.
Therefore, the academy sent out recruitment notices to all branches of the military. The recruitment posters for military marshals made it abundantly clear that only the best educated and trained soldiers needed to apply.
For me personally, I was temporarily assigned to a sub-unit on the Marine Corps base of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Sub-units typically held Marines awaiting court-martial, and or other than honorable discharges from military service. Lucky for me I was no longer pending either. The Commanding General of the 2nd Marine Division had grudgingly given me one more chance to get my act together. His words to me were crystal clear, "Foul up in any way just once, and you'll be out of the Marine Corps on an Undesirable Discharge." My Commanding Officer of the sub-unit was outraged. He wanted me out of the Marines, immediately!
The Captain wasn't wrong about me. For, I had been AWOL, (Absent Without Leave), and I had disrespected and physically assaulted more than my fair share of both commissioned officers and staff non-commissioned officers. I smoked a lot of pot, and even delivered and sold some. Plus, I drank a ton of beer, wine and whiskey. No one would have ever accused me of being a polished Marine.
I was called into the Commanding Officer's hut. He gave me some stunning news. "I have selected you, Chapline, to attend the Military Marshal's Academy at Ft. Benning Ga.." This was so absurd, I couldn't help but to laugh. "Wipe that fucking smile off your face Marine!" My CO wasn't kidding. By a set of orders that was already handed to me, I was set to transfer out from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina in the next three days.
I went back to my barracks to give this a lot of thought. And then it hit me. The Captain knows I will be immediately washed out of the academy. I won't even make it past their indoctrination of all the applicants. But, there was nothing I could do, except follow the orders to report to Ft. Benning, as ordered.
I took no leave. I was the first trainee to report for the marshal's academy. I got to know an instructor named Senior Airman Jerome Richardson. I told him the fix I was in. I also informed Senior Airman Richardson of all the truths of my dismal past. He didn't look very confident that I could possibly stay in the academy. Instructor Richardson said, "You’ll have to face Senior Master Sergeant Thomas Rollins for your indoctrination. For each academy, he washes out thirty-five to forty-five percent of the class right during the first day of training. He is by the book, and he is really mean."
Senior Airman Richardson certainly was not kidding me. My body was trembling in front of Master Sergeant Rollins. He was a huge man that was built of solid muscle. Master Sergeant Rollins said to me, "Pack your bags, you piece of shit!" I did not move. I remained at the position of attention Master Sergeant Rollins roared, "Did you hear me slime ball?" Still, I did not move. Master Sergeant Rollins got up from his desk and put his face right in front of mine. We stared into each other's eyes. Neither one of us blinked. Master Sergeant Rollins then said, "Are you as dumb and tough as they say you are? I read your presentence investigation that detailed your bombing of the high school you went to, plus, all your racial fights while you were incarcerated for your crime." Still, I did not answer. Senior Airman Richardson then interjected, "Top Rollins, I think in this case, there is hope. I feel we can really work around dumb, because we sure as hell need tough Marshal's in our ranks that are not politically correct. Top Rollins, the hijackings, the escapes, maybe we should take a chance on Chapline. I think he is worth the effort. He really wants to turn his life around." Top Rollins then said, “Okay Richardson, it's your stripes and your career that are on the line, not mine. Senior Airman Richardson nodded his head in agreement.
Top Rollins said in a gruff tone,, "At ease Chapline. I'm probably going to regret this, but, like the Commanding General of Camp Lejeune said, you got one chance Chapline, and one chance only. You blow it, and you are done. That is, both with this Academy and the Marine Corps." I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Thank you Master Sergeant Rollins! I will not let you down!"
But, throughout the academy I was frequently tested by Master Sergeant Rollins. For example, he would interrupt an academy class, and say, "Chapline, describe to me what Aircraft Tactical Training involves?" I replied, "Aircraft tactical training requires trainees to move quickly and maneuver inside an aircraft. Trainees must possess a full range of motion in both their arms and shoulders to properly search, handcuff, and restrain individuals." Top replied, "Good job Chapline." Senior Airman Richardson was smiling from ear to ear.
I had many other subjects to learn that Senior Airman Richardson and a host of other instructors were teaching. There was legal control, control tactics, driver training, use of force, less than lethal devices, service of process, military court procedures, courtroom evidence and procedures, court security, officer survival, search and seizure, protective service training, firearms training, physical conditioning, trauma and first aid procedures, prisoner search and restraint, tactics and structure entry, building entry and search, high threat trials, and surveillance.
But, even outside of class instruction, there was a written test coming up on English, Mathematics, the Sciences, and U.S. History. This part scared me. I didn't know whether or not I would make it. But, during my off duty hours I was tutored by Senior Airman Richardson while I definitely studied these subjects..
On the test, first was chemistry, and then mathematics. I had correctly listed sixty-seven of the one hundred eighteen periodic tables of elements. In geometry, I described it as the properties of points, lines and angles.
And then, the test asked about U.S. History. The question was, "What is the most important part of the U.S. Constitution?" I wrote, "The Preamble, and its first three words, 'We The People'."
I scored high on this test. What a sigh of relief for both me and Senior Airman Richardson. But, this was not the final exam.
For me, this academy was seventeen and a half weeks of truly absolute hell. After class had shut down at 5PM daily, on weekdays, Senior Richardson tutored me most every night, in shortened shifts, till approximately 2AM in the morning. Exhausted and burned out, neither one of us ever gave thought to giving up. In time it all paid off, hugely.
I knew I did well enough on the final exam to graduate. I was indebted to Senior Airman Richardson for not only taking a chance on me, but, as well, believing that I could both learn and succeed as a Military Marshal.
But, I was shocked when the rankings were posted on the bulletin board. I was ranked third in my class. The allegations of cheating stormed through the student body. While Master Sergeant Rollins knew better, this did not stop some of Richardson's fellow instructors and students from placing allegations of corruption on him.
Granted, these allegations of cheating and corruption were about to put a huge cloud over our graduation ceremonies. But first, more drama was to come our way. Master Sergeant Rollins announced that later on in this day all forthcoming graduates would be required to run in the "Marshal Mile". This run, according to Master Sergeant Rollins, is a tribute to all those who have gone through this academy. The name of this run was deceptive. It was no mile run. At each mile marker, another mile was added on by instructors. This continued on until the run exceeded nine miles. About twenty-three of my classmates dropped out of the run. They figured dropping out of the nine mile run would have no repercussions. But, they were wrong. Top Rollins was quoted as saying, "I know each and every one of you who completed this very demanding run was suffering physically. Your reward is your badge. For those of you who did not complete the run, you are hereby immediately dismissed from the academy for failure to meet our standards and regulations.
At the end of the work day, as Top Rollins and Senior Airman Jerome Richardson walked towards their privately owned vehicles, they noticed that rocks had been thrown at their windshields. There was glass splattered all over the area.
The next day at graduation, it was an absolutely beautiful military ceremony. Top Rollins made it clear in his closing speech that our classmates who had dropped out of the "Marshal Run" were also the same individuals who placed false allegations of corruption and academic fraud on not only a fellow classmate, but, as well, one of our most treasured instructors.. Top Rollins went on, "The expelled students who committed vandalism yesterday on POV's owned by both myself and Senior Airman Richardson, were identified by videotape and subsequently arrested upon reporting to their new military posts. In closing, the few instructors who falsely accused their fellow trainees and instructors of corruption and academic fraud have been immediately relieved of duty and reassigned to another military installation. In closing, I would like to congratulate every graduate for a job well done."
However, my Captain back at Camp Lejeune was livid over my graduation. Apparently, he went directly to the Commanding General of Camp Lejeune demanding a full in depth investigation. It was granted.
In an odd kind of way, I could see why my fellow students, Airman Richardson’s fellow Academy Instructors, and my Commanding Officer back at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina all thought I cheated on the academy's final exam. My academic and disciplinary conduct records would make all my accomplishments at the academy seem quite impossible.
But, Senior Airman Richardson, unlike other instructors at the academy, knew how to teach a student in taking a test. I had paid strict attention.
Instructor Richardson showed no favoritism. He made it mandatory among his students to first memorize an overview of course material, and not bother with the particulars of the subject matter. That would come later at a more appropriate time. Senior Airman Richardson was very popular in using his quote, "Cramming makes confusion." He made sure his students would stick to a study schedule. After formal class instruction ended daily at 5PM, he encouraged students to study early in the evening hours, and for shorter periods. Instructor Richardson was constantly removing distractions from his students. He always rewarded his students when they hit a milestone. He strongly encouraged his students to rewrite the course material in their own words. Instructor Richardson was an avid supporter in the use of flashcards for good memory retention. And finally, Instructor Richardson encouraged study groups where students would come to teach each other course material.
For me, the on-going investigation of cheating was kind of nice. I was restricted to my private barracks room, with television, stereo, and meals delivered to me. This went on for over two weeks.
Both Master Sergeant Rollins and Senior Airman Richardson stopped by to see me each and every day. The company was nice.
Then finally, the verdict. There was absolutely no cheating, or any form of it by any student and or instructor.
Master Sergeant Rollins said he was going to get my transfer orders ready so that I could leave the base. He asked where I'd like to go, but strongly recommended a nice quiet Marine base far away from the east coast. "How about Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, Chap? Doesn't that sound nice and relaxing? Plus, we have no certified Military Marshals in that region". I took the offer.
Over a period of years having Hawaii as my home base, I successfully transported over one-hundred Navy and Marine prisoners by both military and commercial air to our military penitentiary, Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas.. From as far away as the Philippines and Okinawa, I only had one minor inflight incident, and zero escapes.
But, while headquartered in Hawaii, as my authority expanded to both an Assistant Regional Director of Prisoner Security and the Commanding General's Secretary, I eventually wound up locking horns with a convicted U.S. Marine, who became one of America's most notorious mass-murderers. If that wasn't enough, I would politically lock horns with some of the Marine Corps most powerfully corrupt officers. Hawaii was anything but relaxing.
For The Love Of Mary
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
June 2022
Nevada Department of Corrections
Nurse Mary Thompson
1947 - 2000
Director of Nursing
Nurse Mary Thompson
1947 - 2000
Director of Nursing
My first impression of Nurse Mary Thompson in the early 1990's was not good. When she was first hired, I thought, "We've gone from bad to worse. Now I'm stuck with another black female nurse. And, this one walks around with her nose up in the air." It was time for me, as the sole custody officer in the infirmary on day shift, to get ready to do battle, yet again.
I had been working as a corrections officer at the Southern Desert Correctional Center for approximately four years. This institution was well known for its corrupt network of warring "good ole boys" against the equally prejudiced "black coalition". This woman, in her high and mighty stuck up attitude, especially towards whites, was sure to make racial tensions even worse at this institution than ever before.
It was not uncommon for the nurses at the institutional infirmary to have on-duty sexual affairs with both inmate's and staff. Additionally, the infirmary at the Southern Desert Correctional Center had, by far, the worst security record of any other infirmary in the State of Nevada. Frequently, boxes of syringes would come up missing. As well, controlled substances such as opioids, stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, and even anabolic steroids, were again and again missing off the shelves of the institutional pharmacy. But, since I had recently been assigned to the infirmary, the number of thefts was in the process of lessening.
But, was anyone actually stupid enough to believe that this young African American nurse, named Mary Thompson, with a "black attitude", was going to make a better change to this institutional infirmary than what I was accomplishing? I certainly didn't, and I planned on doing whatever it took to get rid of this nigger bitch.
On her first work day, Nurse Thompson reported for duty, on time. She had all the makeup on to make her face look attractive to all the black slime-ball men in this prison. But, I called her on it. I said, "Have you gone through any type of academy training Nurse Thompson?" Her reply was, "No". I then said, "Well, you are not authorized to wear bold types of makeup. I am not allowing you into this infirmary until you meet proper grooming and dress standards." She immediately got angry. "You open this gate right now and let me go to my work station!" I replied, "No!". Nurse Thompson stormed off.
Within minutes, my phone was ringing off the hook. First, my shift commander, then the associate warden, and next, was the warden himself. In fact, later on in the day, I got a call from the State Nursing Director located in our capital of Carson City. All were outraged at my conduct. Nurse Thompson arrived back at the locked infirmary gate, demanding to be let in. I got up from my desk, slowly, and walked over to the gate and keyed the lock open. I said in a snotty tone, "Good morning Nurse Thompson, you look much better now since you have taken that crap off your face. Just to let you know, this is nothing personal, I don't allow any "cake faced" nurse to work on this post." After that comment, the war between Nurse Thompson and I was definitely on track to become hostile.
Like the other medical staff at the infirmary, Nurse Thompson did not seem to be as concerned with security as she should have been. She, and most of her fellow staff routinely left drug and syringe cabinets in the medicine rooms unlocked. But, even worse, she propped open the pharmacy door, where huge amounts of drugs were stored, even with inmates roaming around the lobby.
I wrote a report on Nurse Thompson and filed formal charges on her. These charges were all but ignored. Even in the midst of all this, Nurse Thompson had been promoted to charge nurse of the infirmary. The first thing Charge Nurse Thompson did, in her new position of management, was to throw me out of the infirmary. She got her wish.
However, about a week later my shift commander asked me to return to duty in the infirmary. I finally agreed to do so, and in time, my strict security procedures, once again, significantly dropped the level of pilfering. Due to this fact Nurse Thompson was given a commendation because of the improvements made to her budget. I was incensed that no credit was given to the security work I had performed. I gave notice of not desiring to work the institutional infirmary any longer.
While medical care of inmates at the prison rose to their highest levels, security had returned to its worst. The theft of drugs and syringes was back to business as usual. The budget deficit for medical supplies had nearly tripled. In turn, from getting inside information from Nurse Dotty Hogan, I convinced custody management to file formal complaints on Charge Nurse Mary Thompson. But, Thompson was still boasting about the great level of care nurses and institutional doctors were now providing the inmate population.
I was working in my assigned cell block when the Associate Warden of Operations, Associate Warden of Programs, my shift commander, the State Director of Nursing, and Charge Nurse Mary Thompson all walked onto my post. They asked to speak to me in private. I declined. When asked why, I said, "Nurse Thompson wrote charges on Nurse Dotty Hogan because she was not performing her duties as expeditiously as the charge nurse had ordered her to. Nurse Dotty Hogan was told by Charge Nurse Thompson to not spend so much time on security issues and reports, and to devote her time to inmate care. When Nurse Hogan refused those orders, she was relieved of duty by Charge Nurse Thompson and placed on administrative leave. I said, "I am hereby informing each one of you in this meeting that I am, in fact, Nurse Hogan's legal representative, and any intent on forcing me to make any further comments will be reported as a violation of my rights to the State Hearing Officer." The meeting was immediately terminated.
The thefts of syringes and drugs in the institutional infirmary continued. In fact, news had just broken that a nurse very loyal to Nurse Mary Thompson was pregnant. The father of the child was determined to be an inmate who had been unlawfully frequenting the infirmary on a daily basis. I discovered through Nurse Dotty Hogan that Charge Nurse Mary Thompson had fought to save the pregnant nurse's job. I was not surprised, but on this one, Nurse Thompson lost.
The hearing of the State of Nevada (Mary Thompson) vs Dorthy Hogan, was just around the corner. I told Nurse Dotty to be ready for an all out war. But, I was wrong. After hearing evidence that Nurse Hogan had essentially disobeyed what was actually an unlawful order, Charge Nurse Thompson conceded defeat. She never even gave a simple rebuttal statement. The state hearing officer told us that since we both were committed to performing our jobs to the utmost of our abilities, we would do very well to work with each other in the infirmary, rather than against one another.
Charge Nurse Thompson wanted us all to make up. But, neither Dotty or I was trusting this offer. However, the Assistant Director of Nevada's prisons asked me to return to duty in the infirmary. Unenthusiastically, I agreed.
Several weeks later, when I had returned back to work in the infirmary, Charge Nurse Mary Thompson had drastically changed her ways. I walked into a regimented medical facility. All medical and security reports were up to date, and every drug and syringe cabinet was fully stocked and secured. There were only two inmates inside the waiting area of the infirmary at a time. Housing for long term care inmates in the infirmary were now appropriately segregated according to security classifications. Inmate pill call, which brought nearly two-hundred inmates to the infirmary, three times daily, was now held through the outside window of the pharmacy. There was a custody officer standing close by who was watching each transaction. I was definitely impressed.
Charge Nurse Mary Thompson invited me into her office. We had security and intel briefings twice a day. Instead of nurses being protected in their misconduct, their play days were over. Eventually, all the corrupt nurses had been fired by Charge Nurse Mary Thompson. I was so proud of her. Charge Nurse Mary Thompson and I had finally become trusted friends. Additionally, over a period of years we learned many things from each other. There had been several occasions when short on medical staff, all nurses on duty had to respond to serious man down situations on the prison yard. I would remain behind in maintaining security of the infirmary. But, there were times when multiple situations were taking place in the institution. Custody, for example, brought in one inmate who had stopped breathing. I took the proper action (as Mary had trained me), in clearing the inmate's airway. While Mary was writing a letter of appreciation, custody was busy placing charges on me for acting outside my duties and responsibilities as a corrections officer. But, once Mary had testified on my behalf, the charges were dropped.
The Infirmary at the Southern Desert Correctional Center had become the model for the state. Mary had been promoted to the recently vacated position of Director of Nursing for the State of Nevada.
During her acceptance speech, she made it clear that it was her goal to lead every other prison infirmary to the same standards that the infirmary at the Southern Desert Correctional Center had achieved. She then said, "But, I can't possibly do this without the trusted advice of Corrections Officer Bradley Chapline. He is my security expert. I would not be standing here in this position today had it not been for him."
Director Mary Thompson called me up to the podium, where the audience gave me a quite appreciative ovation. She then turned sideways, gave me a light hug and a kiss on the cheek. This is when the rumors began that Mary and I were having an affair. It was never proven, because the allegations were not true.
Even though Mary's office was now in downtown Las Vegas, rather than the prison at the Southern Desert Correctional Center at Indian Springs, Nevada, we kept very close contact with each other. I felt honored to be her trusted advisor.
As several more years passed, every state run prison infirmary under Mary's direction in the State of Nevada had easily qualified for an ACA (American Correctional Association) accreditation. It would be a huge honor. The only thing that stopped this distinction from going through was the rampant corruption running through many other areas of the state's prisons.
Mary never let up in keeping her infirmaries as some of the top rated in the country.
Mary, already with a full plate, somehow made time to fight the state government for those employees who had been seriously injured in the line of duty, but were not receiving their benefits. Mary also made time to sponsor twelve foster children.
But, in early August of 2000, Mary was driving home with some of her foster children. While doing the speed limit in a residential neighborhood, she approached a lightly traveled intersection. But, unknown to her, a Metro police officer was in a high speed pursuit of a suspected criminal. The suspect, running a red light, crashed into the side of Mary's van. While most of the children had minor to moderate injuries, one of the children did die at the scene. Mary was rushed to the hospital with life threatening injuries. She would pass away later that evening.
I was never even notified by prison authorities. I found out, accidently, by watching the evening news.
I didn't even have the opportunity to attend Mary's funeral services. Her sister became quite ill at the funeral home and I took her to the emergency room for treatment. By the time I got back to the cemetery, Mary's funeral service had concluded, and everyone had left.
I've been crying at the loss of Mary for over twenty years. I will never get over the loss of her.
Her family filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the Metropolitan police department. I testified at that trial. In my testimony I verbally lashed out at the police for unnecessarily taking the life of a lady who did so much for so many people. On the witness stand I then broke down and cried. The bailiff had to assist me in leaving the courtroom. Mary was truly my dearest friend, and I loved her so much.
The suspect that was fleeing during the police chase was only wanted on simple burglary charges. He did not pose an imminent threat to the community.
My world was truly wonderful when Mary was here on earth. Every sick or injured person that she came into contact with would become hopeful that everything would be alright. When Mary died, that same hope had left me, forever.
Mary cannot possibly be replaced.
I had been working as a corrections officer at the Southern Desert Correctional Center for approximately four years. This institution was well known for its corrupt network of warring "good ole boys" against the equally prejudiced "black coalition". This woman, in her high and mighty stuck up attitude, especially towards whites, was sure to make racial tensions even worse at this institution than ever before.
It was not uncommon for the nurses at the institutional infirmary to have on-duty sexual affairs with both inmate's and staff. Additionally, the infirmary at the Southern Desert Correctional Center had, by far, the worst security record of any other infirmary in the State of Nevada. Frequently, boxes of syringes would come up missing. As well, controlled substances such as opioids, stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, and even anabolic steroids, were again and again missing off the shelves of the institutional pharmacy. But, since I had recently been assigned to the infirmary, the number of thefts was in the process of lessening.
But, was anyone actually stupid enough to believe that this young African American nurse, named Mary Thompson, with a "black attitude", was going to make a better change to this institutional infirmary than what I was accomplishing? I certainly didn't, and I planned on doing whatever it took to get rid of this nigger bitch.
On her first work day, Nurse Thompson reported for duty, on time. She had all the makeup on to make her face look attractive to all the black slime-ball men in this prison. But, I called her on it. I said, "Have you gone through any type of academy training Nurse Thompson?" Her reply was, "No". I then said, "Well, you are not authorized to wear bold types of makeup. I am not allowing you into this infirmary until you meet proper grooming and dress standards." She immediately got angry. "You open this gate right now and let me go to my work station!" I replied, "No!". Nurse Thompson stormed off.
Within minutes, my phone was ringing off the hook. First, my shift commander, then the associate warden, and next, was the warden himself. In fact, later on in the day, I got a call from the State Nursing Director located in our capital of Carson City. All were outraged at my conduct. Nurse Thompson arrived back at the locked infirmary gate, demanding to be let in. I got up from my desk, slowly, and walked over to the gate and keyed the lock open. I said in a snotty tone, "Good morning Nurse Thompson, you look much better now since you have taken that crap off your face. Just to let you know, this is nothing personal, I don't allow any "cake faced" nurse to work on this post." After that comment, the war between Nurse Thompson and I was definitely on track to become hostile.
Like the other medical staff at the infirmary, Nurse Thompson did not seem to be as concerned with security as she should have been. She, and most of her fellow staff routinely left drug and syringe cabinets in the medicine rooms unlocked. But, even worse, she propped open the pharmacy door, where huge amounts of drugs were stored, even with inmates roaming around the lobby.
I wrote a report on Nurse Thompson and filed formal charges on her. These charges were all but ignored. Even in the midst of all this, Nurse Thompson had been promoted to charge nurse of the infirmary. The first thing Charge Nurse Thompson did, in her new position of management, was to throw me out of the infirmary. She got her wish.
However, about a week later my shift commander asked me to return to duty in the infirmary. I finally agreed to do so, and in time, my strict security procedures, once again, significantly dropped the level of pilfering. Due to this fact Nurse Thompson was given a commendation because of the improvements made to her budget. I was incensed that no credit was given to the security work I had performed. I gave notice of not desiring to work the institutional infirmary any longer.
While medical care of inmates at the prison rose to their highest levels, security had returned to its worst. The theft of drugs and syringes was back to business as usual. The budget deficit for medical supplies had nearly tripled. In turn, from getting inside information from Nurse Dotty Hogan, I convinced custody management to file formal complaints on Charge Nurse Mary Thompson. But, Thompson was still boasting about the great level of care nurses and institutional doctors were now providing the inmate population.
I was working in my assigned cell block when the Associate Warden of Operations, Associate Warden of Programs, my shift commander, the State Director of Nursing, and Charge Nurse Mary Thompson all walked onto my post. They asked to speak to me in private. I declined. When asked why, I said, "Nurse Thompson wrote charges on Nurse Dotty Hogan because she was not performing her duties as expeditiously as the charge nurse had ordered her to. Nurse Dotty Hogan was told by Charge Nurse Thompson to not spend so much time on security issues and reports, and to devote her time to inmate care. When Nurse Hogan refused those orders, she was relieved of duty by Charge Nurse Thompson and placed on administrative leave. I said, "I am hereby informing each one of you in this meeting that I am, in fact, Nurse Hogan's legal representative, and any intent on forcing me to make any further comments will be reported as a violation of my rights to the State Hearing Officer." The meeting was immediately terminated.
The thefts of syringes and drugs in the institutional infirmary continued. In fact, news had just broken that a nurse very loyal to Nurse Mary Thompson was pregnant. The father of the child was determined to be an inmate who had been unlawfully frequenting the infirmary on a daily basis. I discovered through Nurse Dotty Hogan that Charge Nurse Mary Thompson had fought to save the pregnant nurse's job. I was not surprised, but on this one, Nurse Thompson lost.
The hearing of the State of Nevada (Mary Thompson) vs Dorthy Hogan, was just around the corner. I told Nurse Dotty to be ready for an all out war. But, I was wrong. After hearing evidence that Nurse Hogan had essentially disobeyed what was actually an unlawful order, Charge Nurse Thompson conceded defeat. She never even gave a simple rebuttal statement. The state hearing officer told us that since we both were committed to performing our jobs to the utmost of our abilities, we would do very well to work with each other in the infirmary, rather than against one another.
Charge Nurse Thompson wanted us all to make up. But, neither Dotty or I was trusting this offer. However, the Assistant Director of Nevada's prisons asked me to return to duty in the infirmary. Unenthusiastically, I agreed.
Several weeks later, when I had returned back to work in the infirmary, Charge Nurse Mary Thompson had drastically changed her ways. I walked into a regimented medical facility. All medical and security reports were up to date, and every drug and syringe cabinet was fully stocked and secured. There were only two inmates inside the waiting area of the infirmary at a time. Housing for long term care inmates in the infirmary were now appropriately segregated according to security classifications. Inmate pill call, which brought nearly two-hundred inmates to the infirmary, three times daily, was now held through the outside window of the pharmacy. There was a custody officer standing close by who was watching each transaction. I was definitely impressed.
Charge Nurse Mary Thompson invited me into her office. We had security and intel briefings twice a day. Instead of nurses being protected in their misconduct, their play days were over. Eventually, all the corrupt nurses had been fired by Charge Nurse Mary Thompson. I was so proud of her. Charge Nurse Mary Thompson and I had finally become trusted friends. Additionally, over a period of years we learned many things from each other. There had been several occasions when short on medical staff, all nurses on duty had to respond to serious man down situations on the prison yard. I would remain behind in maintaining security of the infirmary. But, there were times when multiple situations were taking place in the institution. Custody, for example, brought in one inmate who had stopped breathing. I took the proper action (as Mary had trained me), in clearing the inmate's airway. While Mary was writing a letter of appreciation, custody was busy placing charges on me for acting outside my duties and responsibilities as a corrections officer. But, once Mary had testified on my behalf, the charges were dropped.
The Infirmary at the Southern Desert Correctional Center had become the model for the state. Mary had been promoted to the recently vacated position of Director of Nursing for the State of Nevada.
During her acceptance speech, she made it clear that it was her goal to lead every other prison infirmary to the same standards that the infirmary at the Southern Desert Correctional Center had achieved. She then said, "But, I can't possibly do this without the trusted advice of Corrections Officer Bradley Chapline. He is my security expert. I would not be standing here in this position today had it not been for him."
Director Mary Thompson called me up to the podium, where the audience gave me a quite appreciative ovation. She then turned sideways, gave me a light hug and a kiss on the cheek. This is when the rumors began that Mary and I were having an affair. It was never proven, because the allegations were not true.
Even though Mary's office was now in downtown Las Vegas, rather than the prison at the Southern Desert Correctional Center at Indian Springs, Nevada, we kept very close contact with each other. I felt honored to be her trusted advisor.
As several more years passed, every state run prison infirmary under Mary's direction in the State of Nevada had easily qualified for an ACA (American Correctional Association) accreditation. It would be a huge honor. The only thing that stopped this distinction from going through was the rampant corruption running through many other areas of the state's prisons.
Mary never let up in keeping her infirmaries as some of the top rated in the country.
Mary, already with a full plate, somehow made time to fight the state government for those employees who had been seriously injured in the line of duty, but were not receiving their benefits. Mary also made time to sponsor twelve foster children.
But, in early August of 2000, Mary was driving home with some of her foster children. While doing the speed limit in a residential neighborhood, she approached a lightly traveled intersection. But, unknown to her, a Metro police officer was in a high speed pursuit of a suspected criminal. The suspect, running a red light, crashed into the side of Mary's van. While most of the children had minor to moderate injuries, one of the children did die at the scene. Mary was rushed to the hospital with life threatening injuries. She would pass away later that evening.
I was never even notified by prison authorities. I found out, accidently, by watching the evening news.
I didn't even have the opportunity to attend Mary's funeral services. Her sister became quite ill at the funeral home and I took her to the emergency room for treatment. By the time I got back to the cemetery, Mary's funeral service had concluded, and everyone had left.
I've been crying at the loss of Mary for over twenty years. I will never get over the loss of her.
Her family filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the Metropolitan police department. I testified at that trial. In my testimony I verbally lashed out at the police for unnecessarily taking the life of a lady who did so much for so many people. On the witness stand I then broke down and cried. The bailiff had to assist me in leaving the courtroom. Mary was truly my dearest friend, and I loved her so much.
The suspect that was fleeing during the police chase was only wanted on simple burglary charges. He did not pose an imminent threat to the community.
My world was truly wonderful when Mary was here on earth. Every sick or injured person that she came into contact with would become hopeful that everything would be alright. When Mary died, that same hope had left me, forever.
Mary cannot possibly be replaced.
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