You used to be mine. Obviously, not in a literal sense, and not in a legal sense. But I always thought of you as mine. My own special statue.
You stood in the park, on your awkwardly large pedestal, looking out over the sloping green lawn and the colorful flower beds. You were the perfect centerpiece, nestled between two leafy trellises. Boats bobbed gently in the ocean behind you, its glittering blue surface stretching towards the horizon. No one really seemed to notice or care about you. Tourists didn’t snap photos, businesspeople walked briskly past, children frolicked in the park but never seemed to glance your way. But I noticed you. Your existence meant everything to me.
I remember the first time I saw you. It was a warm, summer night in 2009, and I was volunteering at a political event at a restaurant called Tia’s. From the patio, I saw you, lit up beautifully in the fading light of dusk. I was surprised to see you. Until that moment, I had no idea that you existed. I had been taught in elementary school that you were evil and horrible, and I was surprised that any public place would have a statue of you, let alone a city with such a liberal reputation as Boston. Your existence meant that Boston was a place for me. It meant that people like me – people who are unpopular, rejected, misunderstood, different from the norm – were welcome there. I had never really identified much with the city or state that I am from, but from that day on I was proud to be from Boston. From that day on, I became interested in exploring Boston and photographing its neighborhoods and landmarks. From that day on, you were mine.
Years passed, and I visited you numerous times during my travels. I graduated from college and switched jobs a few times, eventually landing at a law firm that was just a short walk from your park. I went to visit you nearly every day during that time. I looked forward to my lunchtime walks, which took me along a gravel path, past tulips and sunflowers, up a short flight of stairs, and under the trellis to where you stood on your pedestal. Every time I walked past you, you made me smile. When I had a stressful day at work, you lifted my spirits. Sometimes, seeing you was the only positive thing in my day. Some people might have been put off by your serious expression, your arms crossed sternly over your chest. But I found you beautiful. You were different from all the other statues in Boston. You were like me.
I didn’t think about how you came to be in the park that bore your name. I didn’t think about who made you, or when, or how the money was raised to do so. I didn’t think about who legally owned you, whose property you were, or who was responsible for your protection or maintenance.
I loved you.
Every day, you were there, surveying the park from your marble pedestal at the intersection of the two trellises.
I thought that you would always be there.
June 10, 2020 changed all that. Four and a half years later, I am overcome by grief and rage so strong that my soul feels like it is being eviscerated, when I think about what happened on that date. I remember where I was when I found out. I was working from home, in my living room, and decided to turn on the 4:00 local news. What I saw on the TV screen caused a sickening feeling like nothing that I had ever felt before, and which words still cannot full describe. That day changed me irrevocably. The Marissa that existed before June 10, 2020 is dead. The bigot who ripped your head off your shoulders and smashed it on the ground killed her, just as much as he killed you.
The mayor issued a bland, lukewarm statement. The police department made a perfunctory promise to investigate the crime, but no leads ever turned up. The Friends of Christopher Columbus Park, the organization that was supposed to take care of you, took no position on your murder and instead continued to post pictures of flowers, kids’ activities, and pumpkin festivals, as if you had never existed. The Boston Arts Commission held hearings at which, voice shaky and hands trembling, I testified, desperate to be heard, desperate to convey how much you meant to me. In what would be a sign of things to come, my voice didn’t matter. The city announced that they would give you to the Knights of Columbus, to be displayed at their new headquarters, which would also serve as low-income housing. Events continued to be held in the park, street musicians strummed their guitars, people took part in outdoor yoga and zumba classes, workers strode briskly through as if nothing had changed, children played tag around your pitiful empty pedestal, seemingly oblivious to its tragic significance.
I learned things about you that I hadn’t known before, researching every fact and compiling every bit of information that I could, as if that would somehow enable me to make sense of what had happened. I learned that you had been created by a sculptor named Andrew J. Mazzola, out of marble from Carrara, Italy. You were commissioned by an organization called the Friends of Christopher Columbus Committee and then donated to the city of Boston, which placed you under the jurisdiction of the Boston Arts Commission. Numerous citizens and businesses of the North End had contributed money for your creation. On October 21, 1979, you were unveiled in the beautiful park on the waterfront, at a ceremony that was attended by Mayor Kevin White, Governor John Volpe, and various dignitaries.
Now, thanks to the bigot who destroyed my world on June 10, 2020, the thought of that park, with its stately trellises, its colorful flowers, and its sunny waterfront, makes me sick to my stomach. Now, I have no pride in being from Boston, no interest in its history or culture, and almost no interest in its sports teams. It’s difficult for me to bring myself to take the train into the city that I used to love. I quit my job at the law firm, in large part due to what happened to you. It was too difficult to continue on as if nothing was wrong, surrounded by so many painful associations and reminders.
Is that what they wanted? Was that the goal of this despicable action? To destroy the life of an autistic person by taking away the one thing that made me feel represented and included? To inflict indescribable, excruciating pain on a person who did nothing but try to get through each day as best as she could? To make me feel like the entire world hates me, and like I would be better off dead? Because that’s what was accomplished. By physically ripping you to pieces and obliterating you from the park that is your rightful home, the bigot psychologically and spiritually ripped me to pieces as well. I don’t call that social justice. I don’t call it diversity, I don’t call it equity, and I certainly don’t call it inclusion.
Three years later, you rose from the dead. Your head was somehow reattached to your shoulders, and you materialized in the parking lot of the new Knights of Columbus building. I visited you a couple of times, talked to you, left you flowers and a note. I saw the cracks in your neck and near your hairline. I marveled at your resilience and strength, and at the skill of the sculptors who put you back together. Just as I was starting to heal, to feel somewhat okay about your new location, you moved again, this time to the Peace Garden at St. Leonard’s Church. Apparently, the leaders of the Italian American and North End communities had gotten together and arranged for the Knights to gift you to the church. In late summer, I visited you in your new home, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to post the pictures.
The consensus among the Italian American community is that the Peace Garden is a better location than the parking lot. And logically, I see the good points about your new home. I want to like it. I want, more than anything in the world, to be able to feel that your story has a happy ending. But I don’t like it. And this resolution doesn’t make me happy.
You used to be mine. And now you aren’t.
Before 2020, I had never really thought about the fact that you were owned by the City of Boston and maintained jointly by the city and the Friends of Christopher Columbus Park. When I contacted the Friends to voice my hurt at your murder and their neutrality regarding it, they defended the security measures that they had taken but refused to apologize for “focusing on the positive.” I felt like a fool, a weirdo, for being so emotionally invested in what I realized was a piece of stone owned by someone else. If the organization tasked with protecting you isn’t upset about your destruction, I asked myself, then why am I so devastated? As you’ve come into the ownership of the Knights and then the church, I’ve experienced similar sentiments. I question myself and my feelings. I wonder if by loving you so much, I’m somehow sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I wonder if I am the equivalent of a stalker, obsessively focused on a celebrity who doesn’t even know they exist. Community leaders worked out a deal for your transfer, coordinated the logistics, and announced it to the public once you were already in your new home. I wasn’t privy to this process, and logically I see that I would have no right to be. But somehow the fact that your fate is up to others, and that numerous people are far more involved with you than I will ever be, feels like a knife twisting in my chest.
Things were more straightforward back when you were in the park, where you are meant to be. You were simply mine. I didn’t need to think about any of these things, to feel left out, to feel like a stalker. But now, the innocence is gone. Now I realize that you were never really mine at all.
Perhaps a day will come when I will be able to appreciate the fact that you rose from the ashes, that you endure, albeit with some additional scars that you didn’t have previously. Perhaps a day will come when I will be thankful that you are in the heart of the North End, with flowers planted around you, cared for by people who like and respect you. I’ll be thankful that I can visit you easily, that your location is highly visible but still secure behind a metal fence. Perhaps I’ll appreciate the fact that, as a devout Catholic, you’d likely be flattered to be among a statue garden of saints. Perhaps I’ll be happy that you are happy in your new location, and entertain the idea that you might even prefer it to the old one. Perhaps I’ll be amused by the idea of you hanging out with your new friends. Perhaps I’ll even contact the church office, talk with them, and try to become involved in the church.
But today is not that day. Right now, all I feel is sadness. The thought of you in the Peace Garden, surrounded by your saintly friends, brings nothing but stabbing pain. Now, all I want is for things to go back to the way they were before. I know that this is impossible, and I know that there is no practical utility in feeling this way, but it is the way that I feel, and my brain just can’t move past it. All I want is for things to be the way that they are the picture above. The picture depicts you the way that you are supposed to be. And right now, for me, nothing else is acceptable.
You used to be mine. And now, thanks to the actions of a heartless and soulless bigot, completely lacking in empathy for anyone other than himself, everything is ruined.