Israel Centeno

America takes pride in calling itself a nation of immigrants. It celebrates the idea that its economic might, cultural diversity, and social dynamism stem from waves of migration. Yet, every new influx faces resistance. From the moment newcomers arrive, they feel the weight of rejection, suspicion, and, at times, outright hostility. The pattern is as old as the country itself.

Each group that has landed on American shores has experienced the same cycle: initial exclusion, gradual assimilation, eventual empowerment, and finally, skepticism toward the next wave. The Irish, fleeing famine, were greeted with job postings that read “No Irish Need Apply.” Italians, who later played a central role in constructing New York’s subway system, were often viewed as unskilled, unruly, and prone to crime. Jews escaping pogroms in Eastern Europe faced discrimination in universities, social clubs, and the job market. Germans, Poles, Russians, and Nordic immigrants all encountered versions of the same resistance.

Yet, over time, these groups gained economic footholds, social mobility, and political influence. And as they did, many adopted the same skepticism toward new arrivals that they had once endured. The rejection was not just institutional but personal—neighbors, employers, and politicians reinforced the idea that every new wave threatened the status quo.

Stereotypes and Power Structures

With each migration, stereotypes followed. Italians became associated with organized crime. Irish immigrants were linked to alcohol smuggling during Prohibition. Jewish migrants were accused of monopolizing finance and gaming industries. These broad caricatures shaped policies and social attitudes, influencing how each group was perceived and integrated.

Today, Latino immigrants face similar stereotyping. Some are labeled as threats to jobs, others as drains on public resources, or as elements of criminal enterprises. The rhetoric shifts depending on economic conditions and political agendas, but the core reaction remains the same—America fears what it does not know.

Republicans vs. Democrats: Two Sides of the Same Coin

There is a misconception that one political party is inherently more welcoming to immigrants than the other. Republican rhetoric is often direct—border security, deportations, and legal pathways over open migration. The expectations are clear. The stance is rigid, but predictable.

Democratic administrations, on the other hand, operate differently. Their approach is framed as more compassionate, but the results are often similar. Under President Obama, deportations reached record numbers, earning him the nickname “Deporter-in-Chief.” The controversial detention facilities used during the Trump administration were first built under Obama. The last-minute acceptance of certain asylum seekers under Biden’s administration has been selective and inconsistent, often followed by increased border enforcement.

Democrats are not necessarily more lenient—they are simply more ambiguous. The rejection is not as overt, but it exists. Migrants seeking a better life often find themselves caught in an elaborate bureaucratic trap, promised relief that rarely materializes.

The Cost of Superpower Status

Immigration is not just a domestic issue. It is a consequence of geopolitics. Powerful nations shape the global order, and with that power comes responsibility. The United States, in its role as a superpower, has intervened in numerous regions—sometimes under the guise of liberation, other times for strategic interests. These interventions, regardless of intent, have produced long-term instability.

European colonial empires once controlled vast territories, carving up Africa and Asia in ways that disregarded ethnic and tribal realities. When they retreated, they left behind fragmented nations prone to civil war, dictatorial rule, and economic collapse. The modern equivalent is U.S. interventionism.

Wars in Vietnam and Korea reshaped Southeast Asia, displacing millions. The invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan created refugee crises that spread far beyond the Middle East. The U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan, for instance, was not just a military retreat—it was an abandonment of those who had depended on American support. Women who had gained access to education, professionals who had aligned with Western ideals, and entire communities that had structured their lives around U.S. promises were suddenly left at the mercy of the Taliban.

If a nation chooses to intervene, it must be prepared for the aftershocks. Imposing foreign models of governance often leads to failure. When those systems collapse, migration follows. America cannot destabilize regions and then express shock when displaced populations seek refuge.

Latin America: Between Indifference and Interventionism

Unlike its military campaigns in the Middle East and Asia, the U.S. has taken a more passive approach to Latin America—often with equally disastrous results. Rather than direct intervention, it has allowed dictatorial regimes to flourish. Venezuela, Cuba, and Nicaragua, once promising nations, have been left to crumble under authoritarian rule.

But the United States has not always been indifferent. When it does intervene, it often does so in ways that create more harm than stability. The War on Drugs is a prime example. What began as an effort to curb the drug trade has instead fueled violence, corruption, and mass displacement. By funding militarized responses to cartel violence while failing to address the economic roots of the crisis, the U.S. has contributed to the instability driving migration.

The result is a self-perpetuating cycle. Drug wars destroy local economies. Criminal organizations exploit the chaos. Entire communities flee. And when they arrive at the U.S. border, they are met with suspicion, rejection, or bureaucratic limbo. The war has been waged for decades, yet the flow of drugs and people has only intensified.

Nobody Feels Welcome Until Generations Have Passed

One of the great myths of American immigration is the idea that newcomers integrate quickly. In reality, it takes two to three generations before an immigrant group begins to feel fully accepted. The children of immigrants may still face social and economic barriers. Their grandchildren may finally reach a level of mainstream acceptance.

Until then, the struggle for belonging is relentless. Immigrants are told they are taking jobs, altering culture, and straining public resources. They are stereotyped, criminalized, and often scapegoated for larger systemic issues. Yet, once they assimilate, many adopt the same attitudes toward the next wave. The cycle repeats.

Who Will Be the Next Gatekeeper?

History suggests that today’s struggling migrant will be tomorrow’s established citizen. The rejected will eventually integrate, and some will become the very gatekeepers they once opposed. It is a cycle as old as America itself.

The question is not whether migration will continue—it always has and always will. The question is whether America will recognize its own role in shaping these movements. If the country continues to reject newcomers while maintaining policies that create them, it will remain locked in an endless loop of resistance and resentment.

For those arriving today, the challenge is twofold: to find a place in a society that has always been reluctant to accept outsiders, and to resist the temptation to become the next generation of gatekeepers when the next wave arrives.