The Lady of Liberty
As I made my way across the Brooklyn Bridge, I peered into the distance and thought of my great-grandparents—what they must have felt coming into this country. Fleeing poverty, seeing opportunity in Lady Liberty’s outstretched hand. The joy of abundance, of possibility, of life itself. It is only when we are no longer in survival mode that we truly begin to live.
As I walked, I noticed a cluster of balloons caught on the bridge. Not just any balloons, but hearts—symbols of longing, of desire. Balloons that may have once carried messages of love, appreciation, or hope. And yet, there they were, trapped, tangled in the steel framework of the bridge, fighting against its solidity. They reached for the sky, but something held them down, tethering them in place.
One balloon, separated from the cluster, clung on by a single thread. Around them, buildings towered, and off in the distance stood Lady Liberty herself. The scene struck me as haunting, a reflection of where we are as a country. The balloons, once filled with love for America, now caught in limbo, unable to free themselves. We, too, find ourselves suspended—split on a bridge between two sides, our love for this country hanging by a mere thread.
I fear that only men and women willing to climb that bridge and release the balloons will be our salvation. Words will no longer suffice; only action can restore what has been lost.
Looking around, I saw the city’s skyline towering over the Statue of Liberty—profits of business rising higher than the very ideals of freedom and liberty. Men and women toil away their lives, not to thrive, but to survive. As the average American struggles more than ever, corporations continue to post record-high profits. Freedom, once the foundation of this country, has been overshadowed by profit.
Lady Liberty stands blurred in the distance, her presence fading beneath the weight of the system. And just like the everyday woman, she stands to lose her rights. When the middle class is turned against the lower class, when the lower class is given just enough to survive but never to advance, fear takes root, and division festers. A country built on immigration now weaponizes itself against itself, fueling hatred among races and classes alike. When people are at war with one another, their essential liberties are quietly stripped away.
This moment—these balloons caught between hope and entrapment, Lady Liberty shrouded by corporate towers—is where we find ourselves. When businesses rake in unimaginable profits while the working class struggles, when a government allows private entities to dictate public policy at the expense of its people, we must ask ourselves: Is this still a democracy?
When a single party gains overwhelming control, we should not just question the individuals who exploit the system—we must acknowledge that their ability to do so reveals a deeper, more radical failure. The system itself has evolved into a modern form of economic servitude. The belief that society has reached its peak, that it cannot or should not be improved, is the very thought that will lead to its downfall.
Innocent men and women will continue to suffer as the common worker lacks the time, energy, and resources to fight back. This moment on the bridge, these balloons, the looming skyline—this is the reality New York City finds itself in under the weight of an emerging system designed to keep people in place.
As the moment passed, the wind shifted, and for fifteen minutes, snow began to fall. A reminder that even in uncertainty, in chaos, we still have the chance to leave our footprints upon the surface. To carve out a different reality. One where love does not simply drift away—where it is not so easily caught, tangled, or forgotten.
-Noa Nocciola