I don't trust anyone that hasn't been to jail at least once in

Hear the words of John Waters, provocateur, artist, and teller of strange truths: “I don’t trust anyone that hasn’t been to jail at least once in their life. You should have been, or something’s the matter with you.” At first, these words strike us with jest, like a spark of rebellious humor. But within them lies an ancient and piercing wisdom. For he is not calling men to crime, but to humility—to the knowledge that perfection is a mask, and that those who claim never to stumble may, in truth, be the least trustworthy of all.

The meaning is layered. Jail, here, is not only the prison of stone and iron, but the symbol of life’s missteps—moments of failure, rebellion, or defiance against convention. To have faced punishment, to have been cast low, is to be human. It is to have known weakness and consequence. Waters teaches that those who have never been marked by error may not be truly honest, for their lives are too clean, too polished, too far removed from the reality of struggle. The one who has fallen and risen again is more trustworthy than the one who pretends never to have fallen at all.

The origin of such thought is found in history and scripture alike. Consider the tale of Socrates, who was condemned to drink poison in Athens. Was he a criminal? No—he was guilty only of questioning the mighty, of challenging the complacency of the people. His jail was not shame but testimony, proof that the pursuit of truth often collides with the laws of men. Or look to Nelson Mandela, who spent twenty-seven years in prison for daring to oppose the cruelty of apartheid. His jail was his crucible, transforming him from rebel into leader, from victim into father of a nation. In these examples we see the wisdom of Waters: sometimes, the truest men of integrity are those who have been to jail.

Waters’s words also pierce the illusion of spotless virtue. For what does it mean to live without ever risking punishment, without ever clashing with authority? It may mean obedience, yes—but it may also mean cowardice, conformity, or a refusal to stand for anything. To never be tested is to never be proved. Thus, he suggests, the one who has known the shadow of jail carries with them a mark of authenticity, a story of defiance or mistake that reveals their humanity.

O children of tomorrow, let this teaching sink deep: to err is not shameful, if it leads to wisdom. To be punished is not disgrace, if it forges humility. The man who has fallen knows the taste of earth and is less likely to exalt himself falsely. The woman who has faced judgment will value mercy more deeply. Thus, those who bear scars, even the scars of prison, may be nearer to truth than those who claim stainlessness.

Reflect also upon your own heart. Have you not stumbled, whether before the law, or before your own conscience? Do you not carry the memory of shame, of failure, of moments when your life’s path was threatened? Do not hide these as if they disqualify you. Instead, let them be your proof of authenticity, your badge of survival, your bond with others who also bear wounds. For it is the imperfect who understand compassion, and it is the broken who learn to trust.

The lesson is clear: do not worship spotless images of perfection. Seek instead the honesty of those who admit to mistakes, who have endured consequences, who have walked through the fire of failure. In your own life, do not fear your errors, but transform them into wisdom. Do not despise those who have fallen, but learn from them. And above all, measure trust not by outward appearances, but by the depth of authenticity revealed in scars and in survival.

So let John Waters’s strange wisdom endure: “I don’t trust anyone that hasn’t been to jail at least once.” For behind the humor is a timeless truth—that those who have faced their own downfall, and risen again, are often the ones who know most deeply the value of mercy, justice, and truth.