Democracy is a Bridge
Bridge is a verb as well as a noun, and isn’t that interesting.
Democracy is a suspension bridge spanning centuries of despair.
We who walk over it daily sometimes feel its swaying
But mostly we just use it as an apparatus to get us
from where we are to where we want to be.
We forget the labor that went into it—the engineering required to real-ize the innate human desire to span impassable places.
We forget the men who plunged to the earth, climbing ladders that would not hold them.
We forget the women who died in childbirth for lack of a bridge to the doctor.
We forget the slaves who stumbled below us trying to scramble the canyons to freedom.
We forget the immigrants dying of thirst— bridges blocked by rolls and rolls of the coiled barbed wire of greed.
There is a suspension bridge in my neighborhood built in 1912. I live in an area known to us locals as the Land of the 7 Bridges, so I get to contemplate bridges frequently as I well, bridge them. Bridge is a verb as well as a noun, and isn’t that interesting.
This morning as I walked across my favorite bridge I stopped to study the two giant locks at the end of the it. It is in them that all the suspended wood and cable wires come together, and are held in place—secure. These locks are not large by any means. In fact, I measured them. Each lock is merely fourteen inches wide, eight inches deep, and thirty two inches long. And yet they are set a good twenty feet past where the bridge itself actually ends.
The designers knew these locks
had to stretch beyond what was seen
in order to support the weight
they would someday bear.
These locks are astounding in that they are the ones that must hold, unflinching, what we walk upon every day.
Democracy is a bridge, and I pray—Oh how I pray
That our long time, carefully designed locks will hold…
That the Courts will be unflinching
And hold
That the Press will be unflinching
And hold
That the Universities will be unflinching
And hold
I am sad to say that today rampaging teenagers
are spraying orange profanities everywhere-
their gang leader’s name spelled out so
Bigly
for all the world to see
As they jump around and laugh and hurl insults
at the people below them
just because they can.
Because the bridge was designed to hold them too.
I take a deep breath as I watch all this, trying to think consoling thoughts.
Graffiti can be painted over….maybe soon the swaying will stop.
And….This bridge has lasted longer than I have been alive.
But what do these locks think about all this, I wonder,
And do they alone
know the tolerance
Of what this bridge
can hold.
LBJ ~ Live. Breathe. Joy.
Impact Writing Weekend June 6-8, 2025 in San Diego, CA
Join me for the next Impact Writing Weekend and discover your purpose for writing your story, crafting your message, starting or finishing your manuscript. I will be sharing how my process allowed me to write and publish three National Best-Sellers as well as twelve other books.
Registrations are open for the June 6-8, 2025 Impact Writing Weekend in San Diego, CA. This particular weekend will offer both in person and online participants. If you are unable to attend in person consider attending online for the June Impact Writing Weekend.
Listen to my interview and conversation from the February 2025 Impact Writing Weekend. (Audio file is located at the bottom of the page once you visit the Impact Writing Page on my website.)
You are one of my favorite people on this earth.
This morning on TikTok, I saw a video of the Royal Gorge Bridge & Park in Cañon City, Colorado. My last memory of that bridge is of my father walking across it with my then two-year-old son and my two daughters. It’s one of the highest bridges in the United States. My father a Puerto Rican man who proudly served in both the Korean and Vietnam Wars crossed that bridge with his grandchildren. He earned five Bronze Medals serving the Army he loved, for the family and nation he cherished. He passed away from the effects of Agent Orange 20 years after retiring. If his health had allowed it, I believe he would have kept going. Now, when I look at that bridge, I don’t just see steel and cables I see memories that bring a smile to my face and warmth to my heart. I know my father loved us deeply. My father trusted that bridge as he trusted the Army he served and the promise he made to the constitution.
I look at what’s happening in our nation, and my heart aches. I cry for what we are allowing to happen. Yet even though the bridge sways, I believe with all my heart that it will hold that we will not fall apart. I had lost hope, but I now realize that sometimes when hope feels lost, it's only being shaken tested so that our beliefs might be strengthened. The men who built that bridge must have known it would need to withstand storms just like our people, our spirit, and our faith. Today, I see the light. I see the sky painted with colors that remind me: in the end, He wins.
Bridges can and are abused. If I drive a truck over a bridge burdened with too much weight, I destroy the bridge for everyone. If I abuse a system for my own advantage I destroy the system for everyone. If I allow someone else to use the bridge for nefarious acts I put my loved ones at risk. Let’s make sure we see to the security of the bridges as well as the fair, compensatory uses.