My first American experience was in the harbor of New York City

Host: The harbor breathed with the sound of waves and engines, the distant hum of ferries cutting through the evening fog. The sky above New York City burned with an orange haze, the last light of day tangled in the silhouettes of cranes, ships, and dreams arriving from far-off shores.
The Statue of Liberty stood still, her torch flickering faintly against the twilight — an eternal symbol frozen between hope and illusion.

Jack and Jeeny stood at the edge of a pier, their coats pulled tight against the biting wind. The city lights reflected off the water, shimmering like liquid fire.

Jeeny: “Rita Moreno said something once — about the first time she saw the Statue of Liberty. She thought, ‘Oh my goodness, a lady runs this country.’”

Host: Her eyes glowed with warmth and quiet reverence, watching the distant figure of the statue.

Jack: “That’s sweet. Naïve, but sweet.”

Jeeny: “Naïve?”

Jack: “Yeah. Come on, Jeeny. A lady runs this country? Even now, that’s barely true. In her time, it was a fantasy — a misunderstanding dressed in optimism.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what made it beautiful.”

Host: The wind carried a low whistle, lifting strands of Jeeny’s hair as she looked toward the statue — the way a believer looks toward something both real and unreachable.

Jeeny: “She wasn’t wrong, you know. That statue — that lady — did run the country, in a way. Not with power, but with meaning. She was the face of freedom before anyone else dared to be.”

Jack: “A statue isn’t leadership. It’s marketing. The United States didn’t hand her a torch to guide — they used her to sell the idea of democracy to the desperate. That’s the cruel truth.”

Jeeny: “And yet it worked. My grandmother told me the same story — when she came here from Manila, she cried when she saw the statue. She said it was the first time she believed her suffering might mean something.”

Jack: “That’s the illusion I’m talking about. The system gives people hope so they’ll survive the pain it creates. They arrive, they dream, they struggle — all under the shadow of that green goddess who doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t help.”

Jeeny: “But she watches. She endures. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what women have always done in history — carried the weight of nations quietly while men made speeches.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes drifted to the statue — her silhouette luminous against the dusk. He spoke softly, but his tone still cut like a knife wrapped in velvet.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing suffering again. Endurance isn’t power, Jeeny. It’s resignation.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s resistance. Power that doesn’t have to announce itself is still power.”

Host: The tide rose, licking at the wooden posts of the pier. A seagull screamed overhead, its voice sharp as history.

Jack: “You think Lady Liberty runs this country? Look at Congress. Look at the CEOs, the banks, the men who write the laws. Liberty is a woman made of copper, but the country’s still run by steel suits.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point, Jack. Rita wasn’t describing the system — she was describing the feeling. That brief, childlike moment when you believe the symbol means the truth.”

Jack: “But feelings don’t change anything.”

Jeeny: “Oh, don’t they? Every revolution began with a feeling. The American dream itself was born from one — the feeling that something better could exist.”

Host: A pause. The kind that drips with unspoken tension. The city behind them roared — the sound of millions living their separate hopes, their secret despairs.

Jack: “Do you really think symbols still mean anything in this world? We’ve turned them into memes and merchandise.”

Jeeny: “Meaning doesn’t disappear just because it’s misused. Look at Martin Luther King Jr. He spoke beneath that statue once — said she was a promise America still hadn’t kept. But he believed she could keep it. That’s what keeps the torch alive.”

Host: The flames of the harbor lights shimmered in Jeeny’s eyes — small fires of conviction flickering against the dark.

Jack: “Hope is dangerous. It makes people stay when they should run.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes people build. You think Rita’s vision was naïve, but it was revolutionary. A Puerto Rican girl in the 1940s looking at that statue and thinking, ‘A woman runs this country’? That was her rewriting the narrative. That was her rebellion.”

Host: Jack turned away, his reflection shimmering in the black water, fractured by the wind.

Jack: “Rebellion without power is just poetry.”

Jeeny: “And yet poetry has outlived every empire.”

Host: The city lights pulsed behind them — a heartbeat of electricity and ambition.

Jack: “So you think Liberty is a woman’s story?”

Jeeny: “Completely. Think about it — she’s there, holding light for others, standing tall while everyone else moves past her. She’s silent, but she defines the horizon. Every immigrant who’s ever arrived here has met her first. She’s the country’s conscience, even when it forgets her.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t change behavior.”

Jeeny: “It starts it. The rest is up to us.”

Host: The ferry horn echoed through the harbor, deep and mournful. Somewhere in the distance, the torch glowed faintly gold — like a heartbeat under stone.

Jack: “You really believe a statue changed people’s lives?”

Jeeny: “I believe she witnessed them. And maybe that’s what we all need — to be seen, even if by something we imagine cares.”

Jack: “That sounds lonely.”

Jeeny: “It’s human.”

Host: The wind shifted, bringing with it the faint smell of salt and diesel and stories. Jeeny walked closer to the edge, looking up at the lady in the harbor — that silent matriarch of dreams.

Jeeny: “Maybe she doesn’t run the country, Jack. But she runs its imagination. And that’s more powerful than politics.”

Jack: “Imagination doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “But it makes people believe they can. And sometimes, belief is the only currency that matters.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a low sigh that mingled with the sea air. The cynicism in his voice softened into something weary — almost reverent.

Jack: “You know… my mother told me once she cried when she saw the statue for the first time. Said it made her feel like America was smiling at her. But when she got here, nobody smiled.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that statue smiled for her — because no one else did.”

Host: Silence again. The waves brushed against the pier. Somewhere in the darkness, a ship moved slowly toward the open sea — its lights small, its direction uncertain.

Jack: “Maybe we keep her there to remind us what we’re supposed to be. Even if we never quite get there.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Symbols are maps, Jack. You don’t worship them — you follow them.”

Host: The sky deepened to indigo. The torch of Liberty flickered, and in its glow, the two of them stood as silhouettes — one grounded in skepticism, the other in faith — both searching the horizon for the same invisible thing.

Jeeny: “Rita saw a woman leading a nation. Maybe she was wrong. But maybe, in that one beautiful mistake, she saw what we could become.”

Jack: “A country run by light, not fear.”

Jeeny: “A country run by women who hold torches, even when their hands shake.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the harbor, the statue, the faint ripples of the sea catching every trace of reflected gold. The city’s noise would fade, leaving only the heartbeat of waves against wood.

Two figures.
One dream.
And the silent promise of a lady in green, still holding her torch for those who dare to believe she means it.