She Showed Up Broken

Her gaze reaches beyond New York, over the mountains and rivers, beyond forests and valleys. Her eyes watch over the picketers and the soup kitchens and the football games. They fall over skyscrapers and subway cars and rush hour traffic, people trying to get where they’re going. Mostly people just trying.

I’m not sure exactly what she’s looking at, who she’s looking for. Whether she’s glaring in distain, or studying with sorrow. Maybe both. I think there’s a lot of both. She has stood in as many moments of glory and pride as agony. And still standing, yes, but the copper has turned green and is starting to chip and give in under the thankless responsibility of playing host for the millions standing on American soil.

One of the millions, armed with power and delusion, said that now we are starting to stand for pride, for safety, and for justice. Standing for greatness. And some cheered and some cried, some sang prayers of gratitude while others muttered prayers of fear. And she stood, lost in the notion that greatness had been missing, for she had seen it all and is proof that greatness was and is still very much intact. 

But suits did not listen, and people remained in their countries and in their homes, on couches and on floors. And some in airports, and some in holding rooms. And they looked to her. They waited for her. They stood silent, not by the absence of thought, but in the presence of shock. Bags in their arms, suitcases at their feet, children on their backs, a stinging silence in the air.

She first arrived in America in October of 1886. A gift of friendship and freedom, the intention was for her to inspire and invite. She showed up broken, disassembled and in boxes on a ship. She was rebuilt here. Her life was rebuilt and started over here. A broken chain rests at her feet. Her left hand holds a tablet stating the date of American independence, her right holding a torch, a symbol of enlightenment and freedom. Enlightenment and freedom. This is what she says we stand for.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” she said. She said it then and says it now. I think she knows that walls don’t win wars. She remains in spite of the wars and stands without the walls, planted in a harbor of her own. The water reminds her of all who have arrived through it, and she wonders what makes now different from then, for this nation does not exist without its immigrants, she says. She says more with her presence than could ever be said with words. When pleas and shouts and protests fall short, her flame does not burn out, but continues to glow with the warmth of home, burning the same for those who are in their granite counter top kitchens and wood floor living rooms, and for those with planks and nails and hammers aching in their hands, asking when.

She still stands just as proud, just as strong, but now with tears hidden under a cold Manhattan rain. Her knuckles turn white as her grip tightens around the torch held high above her head. Still she stands, unwavering, unchanging, as a warning in waiting. A warning to those who dare to betray her tradition, one not of exclusivity, but of permission and belonging. A proposal by Lady Liberty, to stand firmly through the waves, through missiles and through walls, with the knowledge of who we are and who she is. A request by Lady Liberty, to “send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”