Thoughts on Erykah Badu
Learning to Write

Symbols, Stephen Sudduth, and Facing the Lie

This Easter season we have been inundated with fat wide crosses littering lawns in the strangest of places. I like crosses; and I believe they are beautiful, simplistic, meaningful, and, placed in the right location, they remind us of forgiveness, humility, and truth: unity intertwined with an appropriate motive. This year, however, some of us should have foregone the temptation to symbolize our religious preferences…they fall far short of certain truths, and are misused and out of character on certain lawns and locations. The pretrial hearing for our local accused kiddie porn pervert is looming in July; and fodder for the defense attorney, JC Castillo, is fangled around by local citizens, who are unwittingly supporting the nastiest and cruelest crime. This travesty against little helpless humans seems rather muted in this quiet Texas town. I am disgusted by my fellow citizens and their lack of legal understanding or empathy with the small little victims. I do not want my child subjected to the politics of this horror via his school, or insensitive neighborhood cronies. I have told him enough. I have explained in the plainest language what I expect from the judicial system, and how I wait with gusto for what will surely be a joyous slamming of the prison gate.

We are having our local school board election, and I am confused. Not only is the cross misused this season, but so too is a political ad plunked on the lawn viewed around the world: a man kneeling on the driveway in handcuffs while his father fussed with the police. I disagree with this usage of our symbols from everyday life. They have meaning and influence; they chart our way into the future and lend credibility to people who are unworthy at times of their tangible presence.

Vans parked in prominent places: vans of all things. I dislike it. My mind leaps around to innocent little humans carted away to die in kiddie porn pervert hell. This crime occurs all over the world, often from vans. This makes me think of priests hiding their tendencies in robes flanked with symbols…yet, some of them nothing more than pedophiles. Not mafia men, or gangsters, not business people, or executives, nothing but trash in human flesh breathing valuable air, and hiding behind religion, academia, or whatever.

I haven't been privy to any regret; no apology from the root of this monstrosity. Yet, this crime is smeared in my face day after day, as I drive by the home where he lived. I pull up to my son's school each day with specific concerns and questions unanswered.

It reminds me of a hot October night. I am bothered by the filth below me. I am confused.

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