Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,With conquering limbs astride from land to land;Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall standA mighty woman with a torch, whose flameIs the imprisoned lightning, and her nameMother of Exiles. From her beacon-handGlows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes commandThe air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries sheWith 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!”
Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.
There is no definition for America, however accurate as to historical fact, that could ever define or contain us. Saying that this "is" who or what we are (whatever we then say about that) is to make a huge error. We make our path by walking. We define ourselves by acting, and we always start from where we are, right here. We start from right here, right now, and we can choose. In fact, we must!
|A Squad of Americans (The Beautiful)!|