The leap seemed possible to me because, well, why wouldn’t it?

I was that kind of

kid. And in school I was learning that the Statue of Liberty is a 24/7 broadcast of a
powerful story: in America, poor immigrants can close those twenty miles.

I’d emigrated with my mother from Barbados in August 1986 when I was nine. As a
child made hyperaware of my foreignness to the point where I didn’t mention it in
native-born company, I attached to the fact that Lady Liberty was talking to people
like me. I liked looking for her outstretched hand. I now see her as lighting my seat at
the long table, as it were. She anchors me. But between realizing that the American
dream is a lie, especially for the poor and the working class, and rising xenophobia
and gains for the wealthy under President Donald Trump, my place has never felt
less secure.