What does it mean for the globe to watch every movement and muscle of a woman’s body perform feats yet unseen? To hang a nation’s hopes and glory upon her body, and expect her to soar above even those? To contort her body under the pressure of humanity’s glare and consume it as entertainment? To judge her career by a single blip of time and reward her for a lifetime of her work with the honor of standing silent under our anthem and consider it a blessing… to stand beneath our limp flag and expect her to consider it her honor. To assign the task of convincing us that our nation is better than another by hanging stone around her neck. As if—in this moment—because the body of the first woman we ever met gave us life, only this solitary woman before our eyes will save us from death. Her body, a tool for our salvation.