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Her skin, once gleaming with coppery iridescence, is now riddled with new corrosion. Its sheen was replaced as years passed and She stood as an emblem of American pride, an ever-present reminder of what we hope to stand for. This change in Her skin makes Her no less alluring – Her green hue serves as a testament to all She has endured: harsh weather, the decades gone by, and an indefinite lifetime as an object of attraction. 

As I see Her image in everyday media, I can’t help but feel some sense of despair: In Her, I see reflections of myself and every young woman that has graced this earth. There is a haunting irony to Her beauty, lurking beneath Her transforming skin: Her strong stance, steely stare, and permanence exist in violent contrast with the utter helplessness inherent to Her reality as an object to be forever gazed upon. She has stood for decades, Her skin slowly breaking down as the oxygen and carbon dioxide eat away at Her beautiful copper hue. The atmospheric CO₂ has attacked Her without mercy and left a new, corroded shell in its wake. With each passing year She becomes less of the woman She once was, losing something as that copper fades. I think She gains something, though, as this green tint appears — a testament to Her lifetime and all that She’s seen. 

As a woman, it’s impossible to escape the gut-wrenching and life-altering realization that you are often viewed as less-than: you’re a sex symbol, an object, a prize to be won and consequently thrown away after you’ve outlasted your usefulness. 

I remember comments thrown at me about my prepubescent body from men thrice my age when I was barely in middle school, and my left pointer finger lightened in color. I remember the feeling of eyes raking over my 14-year-old body as I wore a bikini to the beach with my friends for the first time – I didn’t ever want to wear a bikini again. I thought it was just my imagination that made my pinky toe look slightly different. I remember seeing girls on the internet who posted sexually explicit photos and videos of themselves, throwing their dignity and caution to the wind in exchange for attention and a possible paycheck — I distantly wondered if I should do the same someday. My neck showed light teal. I remember working a restaurant job, my male bosses making snide comments about my leggings or the way my shirt was buttoned. I brushed my hair and the comb came away with green strands tangled amongst its prongs, the warm brown now only a memory. I remember waiting on tables of middle-aged men who made jokes to me about blow jobs and sex workers; my shoulders lost their fleshy pink pigment, opting for seafoam green. I remember seeing my friends in 6th grade getting sent to the principal’s office because their tank top straps were too thin and they should’ve been ashamed of distracting the boys. The skin on my knees went viridescent. I remember someone, whom I loved to the ends of the earth, telling me that I was acting like a slut and should be aware of how certain actions look because men can’t help but think with their dicks. My stomach gained a glint of turquoise. I remember having a sexual harassment case explained away because it was easier for management to wrap up my legitimate claim into a fictional story that I had a crush on the perpetrator; no one wanted to listen to the bitching and whining of a hormonal, attention-craving teenage girl anyway. My face morphed into a sickly green reflection of itself.

So, now, when I look in the mirror, I see every memory reflected in my new green hue. I see my once-tanned skin replaced by the token turquoise of Lady Liberty herself. It’s jarring – my skin has become something new, something I’d never imagined possible before. With every new experience, I feel the oxidized copper crawl across my skin, eating away at the pink flesh and creeping across the body I thought was my own. It writhes and seethes in its inescapable hunger for more of my being. 

I’ve only lived 20 years, but every woman knows the toils endured to get here. Every grueling experience we’ve lived through – every time a man has looked my body up and down before deciding to speak a word to me, every time I’ve been sexualized for no apparent reason, every time I hear men speak about a woman’s body – has made contact with my soul just as the corrosive air makes contact with Lady Liberty’s skin. But this turquoise corrosion that has enwrapped our bodies serves as a sort of armor, too. With each passing experience we shield ourselves further from the world and, on some level, I have to hope that this new skin protects us. But I’m trapped inside. I cannot escape the corrosion and the consumption of my body, no matter how hard I try.

It’s hard to trace the change I see in myself – I don’t know when that change occurred. I don’t think you can pinpoint the moment that Lady Liberty turned green, either. But some part of me hopes that, just as that copper remains inside Her, that untarnished girl still exists somewhere within me. Somewhere in my being and underneath the layers of the woman I am becoming, I imagine her watching and smiling, urging me to continue pushing forward. 

No matter how we try to play the social norms stacked against us, it’s a losing game. 

If you shy away from this reality of objectification, opting to cover up and be mindful of appearances, never attempting to be seductive or alluring, you’re a prude and probably ugly anyway. 

If you embrace it, showing off skin and perfecting a smize because you know that you can play off this deck stacked against us, you’re a slut and an embarrassment.

And if you attempt to wear whatever you want and do what you like, you’re being a nuisance. It’s incomprehensible that a woman would want to do something for herself – why won’t you just accept help? Why are you so intolerable?

I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted from engaging in conversations with men in which their preconceived notions about women blatantly lash out at me. I’m exhausted from trying to explain the nuance of womanhood to them after they spend 30 minutes disparaging female musicians because their lyrics are stupid and shallow, while male artists can produce songs about rape and no one bats an eye. I’m exhausted from educating men, one at a time, on why empathy and other’s viewpoints are valuable. I’m exhausted from hearing the ceaseless remarks about someone’s “bitch” or how “good her ass looked in those jeans.” I’m exhausted from the ever-present fear of having my bodily autonomy taken away by men claiming to “protect” me whether I like it or not. I’m exhausted from feeling like I can’t leave my house without mascara for the deep-rooted fear of being ugly, even though I know I’m not. I’m exhausted from looking in the mirror every day, wondering if I look too bloated to wear those low-rise pants I love so dearly or if my face looks puffier than it did the day before. I’m exhausted from catching a glimpse of my reflection and seeing a corroded, turquoise mask stare back. 

So, when I look upon the Statue of Liberty, I can’t help but think that she’s exhausted too. I feel that she knows – on some level – that same debilitation from being seen as nothing more than a body. This exhaustion manifests itself in that green pigment that scars our skin, visually forcing upon us a reminder of all that has been endured at the hands of men. 

So as we both turn a deeper and deeper shade of turquoise, it’s inevitable to see that we are the same. We are all the same. Womanhood itself is built upon a foundation of objectification, and Lady Liberty’s existence is no exception. 

But the best we can do is hope that, despite our exteriors, our insides stay the same. Who I am and who she is shouldn’t fundamentally change, no matter how much we experience and the toils we endure. But this exterior change is not for the worse – I have lived and learned and lost, just as every woman has. Our green complexions are not something to hate, but rather something to admire and respect – for its presence is evidence that we are all but one and the same, faced with a lifetime of inevitable corrosion but gifted with the strength to stay standing, just like Her.