Symbols

There’s been a whole lot of news recently about symbols. There was a crazy preacher in Florida ready to burn the Koran (question: How does the preacher explain his behavior against his professed faith in the “Prince of Peace?”); Americans are up in arms over the proposed location of a Mosque near Ground Zero. “Sacred land”, some argue, yet not too sacred to disallow a strip joint and an Irish Pub just offsite (I’ve had lunch and drinks at the pub. Great food and Guinness on tap!).


Frankly, to me both issues are asinine. I had a discussion months ago with a Muslim inmate I deeply respect. He got upset one night when the CO left his mail on top of his Koran. “She disrespected and defiled the Holy Koran.” I get the point. I believe the Bible is God’s word to us. One of my few treasured possessions I claim in here is a Holy Bible a close friend sent me two weeks after my arrest. I’ve read it cover to cover and have highlighted and underlined it extensively (which will probably offend some Christians).


The words in that book mean more to me than anything, because in my darkest moments they have provided me comfort and hope. But, as I told my Muslim friend, you could pick that book up and wipe with it and I wouldn’t react. The book isn’t the faith. Those words are etched in my heart.


Ironically, devout Muslims memorize the Koran. The first Koran was burned so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the “infidels”. Muslims memorize it so they can recreate it anytime, anyplace. Somehow the book has overtaken the word as the object of Holy adherence.


Symbols become important because we give them meaning. The same people that call Ground Zero sacred would likely scoff at a “Crips” gang member insisting on wearing his blue bandanna to show his colors.


I only really had one symbol in my life, my wedding ring. The day the divorce papers were served on me, I mailed the ring back to my wife. She wrote me shortly thereafter and said, “You could have kept it. It’s your ring” (ironically, she never thought about sending me the two carat diamond ring I designed and gave her for our 25th Anniversary). I wrote her back and told her I didn’t want a ring she didn’t believe in.


I noticed in that experience a great deal about symbols – they’re overrated. Our wedding ring was a symbol of our lifetime commitment, the eternity of our bond and love. Yeah, I buy that (sorry for the sarcasm).


“Crips” fight “Bloods” over the color blue verses red. Muslims will chop off hands over an alleged slight to their Holy book. Christian preachers burn Muslim Korans. It’s all about nothing except we made it important. I’m not so hung up on having symbols anymore. I see a whole lot of guys in here wearing crosses, yet they’re the first ones to cuss out a CO, get in a fight, or leer at one of the young nurses that work here.


I keep a few symbols in my locker. I have a painted card of Archangel Michael – a gift from an Episcopal minister friend. Michael, I was told, is the Angel that protects us. I look at him every time I open my locker. I keep two quotes from the Psalms in my locker that I recite over and over.


Psalm 55:24 - Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never let the righteous stumble.


and


Psalm 68:6 – God gives the solitary a home and brings forth prisoners into freedom.


I also keep a picture of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model Brooklyn Decker (man’s got to dream!).


The thing I’ve realized is, you can take it all away and I’ll be alright. The Psalms, my verse from Isaiah 40 or Ephesians 4, they’re in my mind and my heart.






We focus way too much on symbols. Prison life especially has too much emphasis on them. Guys will fight over the dumbest things: new blue shirts, crisp sheets, hats. Guys think the newness of their “stuff” signifies their place in here.


Truth is, none of the stuff matters. I’ve read a great deal by men who have overcome imprisonment. Mandela, Dr. Frankl, and the Apostle Paul. Not one of them ever wrote, “Man, I got through that experience thanks to my lucky coin”. No, what got them through was their faith, their hope, their belief in the future. They knew, in their hearts, that all the stuff could be taken away but they didn’t have to give up their souls.


So the Mosque near Ground Zero? Let them build it and perhaps we can all remember a little idea like religious tolerance (and remember, some of the people who worked and died in the Twin Towers were Muslim). The preacher in Florida? Pray God helps him pull his head out of his ass and Muslims remember their faith is based on peace.


As for me, I’ll keep praying for my ex and my sons. I’ll keep working to bring the failures of the prison system to light. And Brooklyn Decker? Her picture’s staying up.