A Battle Cry

This is the poem on the Statue of Liberty. I'd like it to be my official battle cry.

The New Colossus

Emma Lazarus

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!"

Rather patriotic, isn't it?  It has all been so depressing lately.  I guess I just cannot understand why we are not really like this.  It seems that our highest goal should be to help as many people as possible.  That sounds pompous.  "I have, unlike you.  I shall be charitable and help."  I don't mean that at all.  I guess it just seems that it shouldn't all be this way.  It doesn't seem right that the destitute are also the most neglected.  

Everyday you learn of someone new.  The physically and mentally disabled.  The elderly.  Foster children.  If you are helpless, we will run you into the ground and roast marshmallows as you burn.

When did it become every man for himself?  That's what makes the least sense.  Do we not understand that every footstep on the street corners, every pair of eyes staring blankly into the distance, every thinly sealed mouth is a life and soul just as real as the those we hold in ourselves?  Do we not understand that ten thousand were lost today means that ten thousand ones were lost?  That means a hundred thousand mothers, fathers, children, friends--to them one, the one, was lost.  And we move on.

What can you do, besides move on?  I don't know what to do.  I want to save the world, so I buy fair-trade coffee.  I catch a glimpse of soul, so I write a story.  I try.  I try.  But I don't know what to do.  I can't save them all.        

Wouldn't it be wonderful?  To have a lamp and a door of gold--to stand there, crying as loud as you can cry so all the world hears and all who need come running.  And you could take them all in and fix everything.  All people really need is to feel safe.  That's all.  Once you have that, you have everything.

So why have we aligned ourselves with self-service?  All for one.  You have to earn it.  How dare, how dare we command each other to earn it.  We cannot earn one second, one breath--earn it, we say, waddling along with lizards in our ears.