So New London Mayor Michael Passero is doing to the statue of Columbus what Columbus did to the first Americans he met. He’s absconded with it.

The motivations, of course, are different. Columbus wanted a souvenir. He wanted to go back to Europe with proof that he’d sailed around the world and found genuine “Indians” from India.

Those first few captives were just the beginning of a horrific, long-term atrocity that included mass murder, the enslavement of thousands and the establishment of a slave-based economic system that would go on for centuries.

I wish I had space here to go into the heart-wrenching details, but I’m also glad I don’t. My heart is too readily wrenched.

Less wrenching is the issue of the statue formerly inhabiting the corner of Bank and Blinman — Columbus Square, formerly Tyler Square.

The statue doesn’t have a mother or children, nor does it have dreams, dignity or plans for retirement. Exalted on a pedestal or chained at the ankles, it’s all the same to a statue.

I don’t know what it’s made of, but I’m sure it’s not flesh, bone and blood. It has no soul.

Mayor Passero absconded with the statue for its own good. He isn’t rescuing a murderous slaver. He’s rescuing history.

Love him or hate him, Columbus is a significant historical figure. A recent assessment of the 30 most influential people in Western history ranked Columbus No. 1, and not just for bad reasons. He was way ahead of his time, and except for never recognizing that he hadn’t found Asia, he was an excellent navigator.

And let’s face it, to set sail across an ostensibly infinite ocean — or worse, an ocean with an edge — took some courage.

But just as there are two sides to every story, there are at least two sides to every history. Reducing one side to no side by locking it up in the town garage (or, for that matter, heaving it into the Thames) is not the solution.

Here’s a better idea: a Museum of Toppled Statues. The world has plenty that have been or should be torn down — Napoleon, Leopold II, Trotsky, Stalin, Mussolini, Mao, Saddam Hussein, Sha Reza Pahlavi, John Mason, all those Confederate officers and all the horses they rode in on.

Suppose there were a museum where these statues could be preserved and displayed. But instead of standing on pedestals, they’d be chained to facts — detailed narratives, maps, photos, artifacts — in short, the evidence. Both sides of the story. The full history. The truth.

Imagine several dozen stone Columbuses standing in their own museum hall, holding their scrolled maps and globes and looking off toward distant horizons. They’d look like a bunch of overdressed Americans arguing about which way to go — not an atypical scene these days, except for the part about being overdressed.

Imagine Stalin, Mao and Saddam all puffed up together with their ephemeral, Ozymandian arrogance. Imagine Napoleon scratching his left breast in front of the portrait of Donald Trump in fratty leisurewear. Imagine Lenin shaking that inspiring finger at General Lee’s horse.

That, in a nutshell, is what we need: preservation and perspective. Lest we have to watch history repeat once again, let’s consider why the statues were erected in the first place, and why they were torn down.

If we have to make errors worthy of statues in the future, let’s at least try to make different errors.

As Polish aphorist Stanislaw Lec said, “When smashing monuments, save the pedestals — they always come in handy.”

I think it would be a sad error to leave What’s-his-name’s pedestal at What’s-his-name’s Square without a note about whoever it was who stood there and why he no longer does.

We could then use the pedestal for a statue of the New London Development Corporation. Then we could tear it down and haul it over to the Museum of Toppled Statues, located conveniently nearby in the wasteland around Fort Trumbull.

Might as well haul the pedestal over there, too. But, as Lec recommended, save it. Someday we’ll need it. Until then, on the pedestal, let these words appear: “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair.”

Glenn Cheney is a writer, translator, and managing editor of New London Librarium. He can be reached at glenn@nllibrarium.com.