The Difference Between Liberty and a Liberty Bell
Yesterday, I wandered around the Old City, Philadelphia’s historic district. Almost everything is closed right now, but I stood outside a few of the buildings — Independence Hall; the Graff House, where Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence; and the President’s House, which functioned as the “White House” for a few years. I went to a few of these places when I was a kid, but I was too focused on checking historical sites off my list to think about what actually happened in them.
My main takeaways from my childhood trip: I spent a lot of time standing in line. I was impressed by the Liberty Bell and disappointed at the room where the Declaration of Independence was signed because it didn’t have a bunch of flags hanging on the wall, like in the Trumbull painting. I bought a miniature Liberty Bell and a copy of the Declaration of Independence on aged paper, then piled in the car for a visit to the Franklin Institute.
This time around, I meandered from place to place, enjoying a nice fall day and thinking about what happened in Philadelphia a little over 200 years ago. I had to agree with my childhood self that Independence Hall isn’t really all that impressive — it’s about the size and shape of a small college administration building or a neighborhood Episcopalian Church. Even with the COVID-era barriers around it and the handful of security people patrolling the grounds, there isn’t much to indicate the enormity of what happened in its rooms or how much the events there would eventually steer the destiny of the United States — or the world.
The building where Jefferson wrote the Declaration is similarly modest, wedged on a corner across the street from a Dunkin’ Donuts. The President’s House — America’s third Presidential mansion — doesn’t even exist anymore: in its place, there’s an outdoor museum with displays about the people, including the slaves, who once lived there. When I got there, a guy was perched on one of the low walls, playing on his phone.
Somehow, in the rooms of those small, unimpressive buildings, a few dozen men hashed out the founding documents and early decisions of our country. They were deeply flawed, extremely racist and misogynistic by today’s standards, and they ruled by committee, which means that the final documents they approved were riddled with compromises and caveats.
People often comment on the irony of a slaveowner writing the Declaration of Independence or the first President — and moral symbol — of the United States living in a house where he was waited on by people that he owned. But I think that’s part of the point: Jefferson, Washington, and the other founders were people who aspired to high ideals, then struggled to live up to them.
Their shortsightedness, some of which was deliberate, directly led to the Civil War and to many of our current political traumas. In an ideal universe, they could have seen what was coming, but in the real world, they did what they felt they had to do to get their country off the ground, trusting in the people who followed to fix problems as they arose.
After wandering around for a bit, I dropped into the Independence Hall gift shop. The place is filled with Liberty Bell items — cards and puzzles, cups and magnets, keychains, mouse pads and every manner of kitsch. Talking with the woman working the register, I mentioned that I don’t really get the Liberty Bell fetishism — it’s a big chunk of (mostly) copper and tin that was probably one of dozens of bells that rang in Philadelphia on July 4,1776, although there’s no direct account of its ringing. The first time it tolled, it broke because it was made of cheap metal, and the men who ordered it unsuccessfully tried to send it back. It was recast by two foundrymen, Pass and Stowe, who had almost no bell casting experience. Their solution to the problem — adding even more low-grade metal — produced a bell with a tone that was described as “two coal scuttles being banged together.” Ashamed, the pair recast the bell again, finally yielding a finished product that was grudgingly deemed “satisfactory.”
In short, it’s a sub-par bell with a wildly exaggerated legend that hasn’t been rung since 1846. Nonetheless, it’s gained a reputation as perhaps the definitive symbol of our founding — a metaphor that, if we run with it for even a second, raises some pretty depressing issues about the construction, composition, and flawed clarion call of our nation. Despite its weaknesses, it receives the kind of devotion usually reserved for holy relics: In 1915, it went on tour across the country, and an estimated 2 million people kissed it.
The attendant pointed out that the park staff shares my skepticism about the bell. When new items show up in the gift shop, she told me, rangers and guides grab the Independence Hall items, but rarely touch the Liberty Bell merch. “It’s the difference between the symbol and the actual event,” she said. “Most people love the symbol, but they don’t pay as much attention to the place where the real work happened.”
I’ve spent a lot of time this year thinking about U.S. symbols and the things they signify. We have a lot of symbols — the Stars and Stripes, amber fields of grain, the twin towers and the Iwo Jima memorial — and those symbols bring out a lot of love and devotion. But if you burn the fields and the flags, topple the towers and melt down the Liberty Bell, does America cease to exist? Are those things America, or are they transient symbols of something more meaningful? The answer’s obvious, but I think a lot of people miss it.
Wandering around Philadelphia, I realized that our symbols have caused a lot of us to misplace our devotion. I’ve talked to a lot of people who will express deep devotion to the Liberty Bell, even as they support politicians who try to restrict voting, cut desperately needed social services, and ignore a disease that has infected millions of people. They talk about the sacredness of “America,” without really thinking about what makes it sacred.
If we want a symbol, maybe we should forget the Liberty Bell and instead imagine a slaveholder who desperately believes in — and writes about — freedom, but can’t bring himself to grant it to his slaves until after his death. Or someone who knows that the Constitution gives too much political power to low-population states, but compromises because that’s the only way to get the damned thing passed. Or someone who thinks everyone should have free health care, but knows that the only way to make it happen is by working with the same insurance companies that make denying and gouging patients part of their business model.
The key in all of these circumstances is that they involve people who recognize their flaws and the flaws of their society, but don’t let that stop them from getting involved. While they may make some necessary compromises, they don’t lose sight of the goal — democracy, free speech, the right to participate in your government, and to build a country that improves the lives of all its people. They recognize the moral arc of the universe, despair at its slow progress toward justice, and hop on anyway because, for all its flaws, it’s still the best ride in town.
