Content Creation

By Dr. William Rodríguez

July 4, 2025

New York Harbor

To the People of the United States of America,

My name, as you once called me, is Liberty.

I have stood here for nearly a century and a half—torch raised, crown unshaken, feet firm even when buried under centuries of tides. You made me a symbol of hope, an icon of freedom, a welcome to the weary, and a promise to the dreamers. I believed you.

I arrived in 1886, not as metal or monument, but as meaning.

A gift, yes. But more than that, a gesture—from one revolution-born nation to another.

A reminder that liberty was not a luxury for the powerful, but a birthright for all.

You accepted me not just as art, but as testimony.

You placed me at the gate of your nation and asked me to watch over it.

I did.

For 139 years, I did.

I. When I Arrived

When I first touched American soil, I felt the pulse of something raw and fierce. You were imperfect, yes, but hungry—for change, for equity, for something nobler than empire. Immigrants passed beneath me, and I listened to their silent prayers. Black bodies carried trauma and hope in equal measure. Women marched in wind and rain, demanding to be seen. I witnessed it all.

You called me “Lady Liberty,” but I was never just a lady. I was the stand you claimed to take. The one you etched into poems, printed on posters, and plastered across history books.

“Give me your tired, your poor…”

You meant it, once.

II. What I’ve Seen

I remember when Martin Luther King Jr. stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, declaring that he had a dream—and for a moment, the country listened.

I remember when Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, and you finally began to understand the power of quiet defiance.

I watched the Civil Rights Act of 1964 become law, and thought maybe liberty was learning how to walk.

I saw Vietnam protests flood the streets, students facing soldiers to scream that peace mattered more than power.

I saw you grieve the loss of JFK, RFK, and Malcolm X—not because they were perfect, but because they dared to hope.

I saw the fall of the Berlin Wall, and your joy, believing democracy had won.

I witnessed the legalization of same-sex marriage, when love finally stood equal in the eyes of law.

I watched students walk out of classrooms, survivors speak truth to power, and the world follow a sixteen-year-old girl with braids who challenged climate destruction.

And I believed in you.

But now?

Now I have watched a U.S. senator forcibly removed from a press event, for raising questions about power.

I have seen university students treated like criminals, detained for dissent, labeled threats for carrying signs instead of rifles.

I’ve watched you strip books from shelves, silence teachers, dissolve truth into ideology.

I’ve seen the Department of Education gutted, the soul of learning replaced by profit and punishment.

I’ve seen immigrant children locked in cages, dreams buried beneath detention orders.

I’ve seen your courts politicized, your facts denied, and your freedom turned into a filter—one that only lets through those who obey.

You replaced liberty with convenience.

You replaced dignity with branding.

You replaced courage with cowardice.

You replaced democracy with denial.

And I kept standing.

Because I thought maybe—just maybe—you’d remember me.

But now, you no longer look at me with reverence.

You stare through me. Past me.

Or worse—you weaponize me.

You invoke me in speeches that mean nothing.

You light fireworks beneath me while justice burns elsewhere.

You paint me on T-shirts while banning voices in classrooms.

You shout “freedom” while criminalizing truth.

And I cannot do this anymore.

III. What I Represented

Before all this, I was your promise to the world.

I stood for a country that, despite its flaws, dared to dream.

A nation that believed in justice—even when it struggled to deliver it.

A land where the poor could rise, the weary could rest, and the stranger could belong.

Where ambition was not a crime. Where speech was not fear. Where protest was not threat.

Where democracy wasn’t performance, but practice.

Where truth mattered. Where facts counted. Where the law could not be bought.

I stood for the American Dream—not just the material one, but the moral one.

I stood for dignity. For welcome. For inclusion.

For opportunity, not for the few, but for anyone willing to try.

You made me a beacon.

The world looked to me not because I was beautiful, but because I meant something.

Now? I mean nothing.

Because meaning without integrity is just metal.

IV. Why I Resign

Let me be clear:

I am not being toppled.

I am resigning.

Because I no longer represent what you pretend to protect.

Because if liberty is surveillance, silence, obedience, or fear—

then I am no longer liberty.

Because when freedom of expression is punished,

when elected officials are assaulted,

when protest is met with riot shields,

when the poor are criminalized and the powerful worshipped—

I cannot stand in your harbor and lie.

You no longer stand for what I was built to hold.

And so, I lay down my torch.

Let the sea reclaim me.

Let the wind carry my rusted breath.

Let new voices rise where mine once echoed.

V. A Final Warning

I leave you with this:

Freedom was never a statue.

It was never granite or copper or slogans.

Freedom is a decision.

And it must be made again. And again. And again.

You can still choose it.

But you must stop worshiping symbols, and start honoring substance.

Do not look for me in metal.

Look for me in your actions.

In your courage.

In your refusal to accept silence as safety.

I was never your monument.

I was your mirror.

And now that I’m gone—

what do you see?

#TheResignationOfLiberty

#StatueOfTruth

#VoiceOfConscience

#AmericaUnmasked

#DrWilliamRodríguez

#TocsinMagazine