Today marks the 125th anniversary of the dedication of the Statue of Liberty, the world’s most iconic symbol of freedom.
She was a gift from the French, who helped us acquire our independence from Britain but whom we now resent because they refused, wisely, to follow us into Iraq.
Since her debut on Oct. 28, 1886, the Statue of Liberty has been the one thing millions of immigrants have longed to see.
Whenever her form emerges from the mist, no translation is necessary.
In those times when their “otherness” ran headlong into nativism and prejudice, she was reassurance for immigrants who were trying to navigate the swirling uncertainties of life in a new land. She was their reminder that the promise was sure.
For those whose land was taken, or whose forefathers were brought here against their will, the broken chains that lay at her feet are proof that freedom and suppression cannot long co-exist, that God-given equality can never be usurped by man.
The statue, which depicts “Libertas,” the Roman goddess of freedom, was the brainchild of Edouard de Laboulaye, a Parisian poet, law professor and ardent abolitionist. Laboulaye elicited his friend, sculptor Frederic-Auguste Bartholdi, to create not only an enduring symbol of the friendship between France and America but also a rebuke to the oppressive Napoleon III.
Not everyone was on board. It took a New York newspaperman, Joseph Pulitzer, to spur American support for the statue. Eventually, 120,000 readers responded, most giving less than $1.
In a nation currently roiled by anger and fear, it feels as if Liberty, and all that she stands for, has drifted out of our sights. But we need only to lift our heads again to see that her torch still glows in defiance of the willful ignorance and demagoguery that threaten to extinguish it. Her purpose, her meaning, as expressed by the poet Emma Lazarus, has not changed:
She was a gift from the French, who helped us acquire our independence from Britain but whom we now resent because they refused, wisely, to follow us into Iraq.
Since her debut on Oct. 28, 1886, the Statue of Liberty has been the one thing millions of immigrants have longed to see.
Whenever her form emerges from the mist, no translation is necessary.
In those times when their “otherness” ran headlong into nativism and prejudice, she was reassurance for immigrants who were trying to navigate the swirling uncertainties of life in a new land. She was their reminder that the promise was sure.
For those whose land was taken, or whose forefathers were brought here against their will, the broken chains that lay at her feet are proof that freedom and suppression cannot long co-exist, that God-given equality can never be usurped by man.
The statue, which depicts “Libertas,” the Roman goddess of freedom, was the brainchild of Edouard de Laboulaye, a Parisian poet, law professor and ardent abolitionist. Laboulaye elicited his friend, sculptor Frederic-Auguste Bartholdi, to create not only an enduring symbol of the friendship between France and America but also a rebuke to the oppressive Napoleon III.
Not everyone was on board. It took a New York newspaperman, Joseph Pulitzer, to spur American support for the statue. Eventually, 120,000 readers responded, most giving less than $1.
In a nation currently roiled by anger and fear, it feels as if Liberty, and all that she stands for, has drifted out of our sights. But we need only to lift our heads again to see that her torch still glows in defiance of the willful ignorance and demagoguery that threaten to extinguish it. Her purpose, her meaning, as expressed by the poet Emma Lazarus, has not changed:
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!”
These words, and the hope they still bear, are for all of us.
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