And So We Made A Liar of Lady Liberty
By Haley Ruth Spencer
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
-Emma Lazurus, ‘The New Colossus'
I was built
For more than beauty.
For more than bored tourist
Feet shuffling begrudgingly around inside my head,
Stopping only to take a picture of themselves with an elongated black plastic rod,
False white smiles spread across their empty faces, to offer up as proof to their friends
That they have laid flippant eyes on me,
When in fact,
They have not seen me.
I was created to be a colossus, an unmistakable beacon,
A David the size of Goliath,
So that everyone who would see
My right hand raised in the air, torching the azure sky,
Would know that I was leading them
Home, to safety and tolerance and
Fairness above all.
I was meant to symbolize
Everything good in
This country born from renegades
And radicals who rebelled,
poured tea into the same ocean
I stand in, who risked it all
And bled and fought and sacrificed
To declare that “all men are created equal.”
And I have stood as a guardian
Of justice and equality for one hundred and thirty one years.
I have seen generations born and laid
To rest in the belly of the earth.
My once brilliantly copper skin
Is frosted in patina, and I have never
Lowered my torch,
Or put down my tablet, emblazoned with
The birthdate of the Declaration of Independence,
And my call out to those in need of shelter
Has never been pried from
Me.
So how is it
How is it that I feel the breaking heartbeats of our brothers and sisters
Turned away, being shown bars where there should be open arms,
Simply because of the direction and name they pray to, and the language their
Tongues were born to speak.
How is it that a lifeless little boy
Laid face down in the surf meant to
Bring him to safety isn’t playing
Somewhere, secure inside the country
That I gaze over?
I hear their wails and pleading voices, and the
Book cradled in my left hand feels heavy,
Dragging me down to the ocean floor, and I creak and grow old at the lie
Written on the pedestal I am bound to.
The torch in my clenched fist
Begins to burn my palm,
But I am bound to keep it aloft,
However heavy it may become,
However useless,
However much of a false promise.
For they have called me
‘Mother of Exiles’
And my children are suffering,
And my children are bleeding,
And my children are dying.
And I must look on
Onto a country
Who has forgotten where they
Came from
And who cannot hear me remind them
Anymore.
