Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “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!”
You may recognize the above poem as the inscription on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. It is one of the most moving and beautifully written poems in the English language. But Lady Liberty, where is the golden door? Why has it been hidden behind greed and privilege, avarice and fear? Where is the freedom that was once the inspiration of all the world?
In the land of patriotism, there are parades every day. We sing, "Land of the Free, Home of the Brave!" and we sing, "This land is your land, this land is my land" But no longer do these words mean what they should. Instead I hear, "This land is MY land, this land is MY land." It is no longer OUR land. We live in a land where there is such a haugtiness, a sense of privilege that as long as you have your rights, you won't fight for mine. But you still will command me to a distant land to fight for the rights of others. We claim we want the spread of democracy, that we want freedom to expand around the world. Yet, we are prisoners in our own country. Instead of increasing our freedom here in America, we have passed laws that eliminate due process, shuttling us towards a police state. We have passed consitutional amendments that purposfully discriminate against a solid group in society, a group that threatens no harms to others.
Where is this place that I live? This is not my land. This is not the land of the free. No longer do we thrive on the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of teeming shores, nor tempest-tost.
When did the inscription change:
“Send away from me the tired, the poor,
Arabs, Africans, and Asians yearning to breathe free,
The wretched homosexuals that I abhor.
Send these, the heathens, the non-christians away,
I lift my lamp beside a glass door.”
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