Jefferson Lives

My favorite spot in Paris was never the café where Fitzgerald penned The Great Gatsby. It wasn't the flower market in the Marais or the staircase in Passy where one can view the Eiffel Tower in its natural state. The place I loved the most is an all-but-forgotten street corner two blocks from the Louvre on the banks of the Seine where a humble American diplomat stands, a declaration in one hand and a pen in the other. When I happened upon this modest statue of Jefferson that afternoon three years ago, it seemed to be the final omen that Paris belonged to me.

I've loved Thomas Jefferson since I was 13, when I had only begun to find my place in the world. He was the first American francophile, a statesman, a musician, a writer, and a dreamer. Of all the founding fathers, I have adored and related to him the longest. Flaws and all, I suppose he is my hero. If I live to accomplish only a fraction of all he did - our first ambassador to France, travelling anywhere and everywhere, writing, reading, and collecting exotic coffees - I think I could die in peace.

Before I moved here, to DC, I'd never been to the memorial that bears his name. Each time I've been to the city, this palatial rotunda was closed for renovation or too far to walk to. I've only ever stared at it from afar, examining its edges with a loving sort of sorrow. Today it was at last within reach.

While Lincoln sits on an immense throne, Jefferson stands to survey the river, the White House, and all those who pass between with soft iron eyes. I approached him with a shiver and fought back the urge to bow. It sounds ridiculous to you, I'm sure, and especially to those who neither love or respect him as I do. He is not remembered for his all but disastrous presidency, nor for his numerous sins. He is beloved instead for his ideas; for the eloquence with which he wrote. It is for those reasons we celebrate his memory. In America, ideas, not deeds, are paramount. After all, we came to exist because a group of middle-aged revolutionaries dared to dream.

It quite befits Jefferson to be honored in a corinthian cylinder nearly a mile outside the city. A true introvert, I imagine he would scoff if he knew that thousands of tourists visit him every day. I listened to the park ranger rattle irreverent and unflattering facts about this paragon in the corner and watched the winds shift on the river. Yes, this place is indeed sacred to me.

My afternoon with Jefferson came full circle when I took a moment to go underground to the tiny museum boutique beneath his feet. There was a quote etched into the entrance wall that read, "Knowledge is Light" and a little emotional alarm went off in the back of my head, repeating "Light, More Light!" (Lawrence University's motto) over and over like a groove etched into a shoddy record. In a month, I will have been graduated from Lawrence a full year. Sitting here on the riverbank, I'm not waxing nostalgic, but rather confused and a bit hopeless. Eleven months ago, I biked to the edge of the Fox River and felt nothing but optimism, knowing that all options were open and that my future held nothing but success. I do not know how I could have been so very regrettably naïve. I no longer possess the energy to accept defeat, nor have I the strength to beg at opportunity's door. These nine months have been endurably unforgiving. I cannot help but feel that this place in all its flaws, is where I am meant to be and yet my doubts are numerous. I sit here in limbo, unable to move. My intuition has led me astray before - is it wrong again?

On a hot July day (the fourth, to be exact), in 1826, John Adams breathed his last and spoke the words, "Jefferson lives." Of course, logical historians find this hilarious, for Jefferson had already expired on the other side of Virginia more than an hour previously. But those of us who are romantics believe a different tale: that Adams knew full well the value of Jefferson's legacy. At least, I'd like to believe that, especially when nothing else makes much sense.

"Were I to proceed to tell you how much I enjoy architecture, sculpture, painting, music, language, I should want for words." - Thomas Jefferson