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!”

We need to implement ranked choice voting and abolish the electoral college, or voting third party will remain as effective as screaming into the void.

Why do you say this photo is fake? My dad used to take me for rides just like this. One of his favorite stories to tell is about having to toss me off as it was going to fall over, and how I was having a blast, but my mother was not nearly so excited. I was around two at the time.