The Statue of Liberty has always been more than a monument. She’s been a promise—a towering reminder to the world that America could be a place where people come not just to live, but to breathe free. For over a century, she’s greeted immigrants with Emma Lazarus’s immortal words: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Those words were meant to represent who we were as a nation, or at least who we aspired to be.

But standing here in 2025, it’s hard not to feel like Lady Liberty would lower her torch in shame. The country she symbolizes feels more divided, cynical, and cruel than ever before. If the statue was once a symbol of hope, today she feels like a mirror reflecting our hypocrisy.

The Statue of Liberty was a beacon to those who dreamed of opportunity. But opportunity is harder to find now than it has been in generations. Wealth inequality has ballooned to historic highs, with billionaires openly warning that America is drifting toward autocracy. Even President Biden, in his farewell address, warned of an “emerging oligarchy” that threatens democracy itself.

The American dream that Lady Liberty symbolized wasn’t supposed to be a lottery ticket for the lucky few. It was supposed to mean something for the single mom working two jobs, the factory worker who lost everything when plants shut down, the kid who came here seeking safety from violence. Instead, our political and economic systems have tilted so far toward the wealthy and well-connected that the torch feels like it only lights the path for them.

It’s been five years since George Floyd’s murder sparked a global reckoning on racism and policing. But today, much of that momentum feels like a memory. Police reform bills have stalled. Corporations that pledged support for diversity, equity, and inclusion are quietly dismantling those programs. Federal oversight that once held abusive police departments accountable has been scaled back.

As someone who grew up believing in that “land of the free,” it’s exhausting to watch this country repeatedly tell Black and Brown Americans to wait for justice while systems that harm them remain intact. When Lady Liberty was erected, she wasn’t meant to symbolize a country where justice is reserved for those with power. Yet that’s exactly where we are.

Perhaps the most glaring betrayal of what the statue represents is how we treat immigrants and refugees. Families are still being separated at the border. Children have been detained in inhumane conditions. Asylum seekers are turned away and deported back to violence. Politicians, across parties, use migrants as props—busing them across the country to score political points, instead of offering them dignity and safety.

It’s hard to reconcile that reality with the statue’s inscription. “Give me your tired, your poor” has been replaced with “Go back where you came from.”

What hurts the most is that so many Americans don’t realize how much diversity has enriched this country—or their own lives. I’ve been lucky to raise my children in a community that reflects the world: kids with parents from Jamaica, Ghana, Korea, Mexico, Syria. My children have eaten dishes I couldn’t pronounce at first, learned phrases in languages I didn’t speak, and celebrated holidays I didn’t grow up with. They’ve experienced a mosaic of cultures before they even got their first passport stamp.

That’s the America Lady Liberty was supposed to represent: a place where difference isn’t just tolerated, it’s celebrated. Where a child can grow up in a neighborhood and see the world through their friends’ stories, food, and traditions. That’s what makes this country rich—not just wealth, but humanity. And yet, fearmongering politicians have convinced millions that diversity is a threat instead of our greatest strength.

The United States loves to call itself the “greatest country in the world,” but greatness is measured by how a nation treats its most vulnerable, not just its richest or strongest. Right now, we’re failing. Book bans are spreading across schools and libraries. Voting rights are under attack. Misinformation spreads faster than truth. Hate crimes are rising.

Fear has become a political strategy, and fear always shrinks the circle of who is considered “worthy” of liberty. Lady Liberty’s torch was meant to expand that circle, not narrow it.

Here’s the thing: this isn’t a hopeless piece. I don’t think America is beyond redemption. In fact, I think the torch still matters precisely because there are people fighting every day to make it mean something. Activists are organizing for fair elections. Journalists are exposing corruption and injustice. Communities are standing up for immigrants, LGBTQ+ rights, reproductive freedom, and racial justice.

Lady Liberty was never meant to symbolize a perfect country. She was meant to represent the ideals we strive for. But striving means holding a mirror to ourselves—and right now, that reflection isn’t flattering.

If you’ve ever stood on the Staten Island Ferry and looked at her face, you know there’s something humbling about her presence. She doesn’t just tower over the harbor; she challenges us. She asks if we’re living up to what we claim to be.

Right now, we aren’t.

But shame can be a catalyst. Shame can motivate us to do better. The Statue of Liberty isn’t just a relic; she’s a reminder. Her torch can either symbolize a lie we tell the world about who we are—or it can light the path toward becoming the country we were always meant to be.

The choice is ours.