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IMMIGRATION -
In Atlas of a Lost World, Craig Childs writes,
“The first arrivals [to the Americas] keep getting older and older because we’re finding more evidence as time goes on. Right now, we can solidly say that people were across the Americas by 15,000 years ago. But that means people were probably already well in place by then, and there’s enough evidence to suggest humans were widespread 20,000 years ago. There’s some evidence of people as far back as 30,000 to 40,000 years ago, but the evidence gets thinner and thinner the further back you go.”
Each new archaeological discovery challenges our understanding of human migration. The notion that there is a singular, definitive moment when humans first arrived in the Americas is fading. What remains undeniable is that at some point, both North and South America were uninhabited. By this measure, every person here — regardless of origin — is, in some sense, an immigrant.
Yet, the term "immigrant" — defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “a person who comes to live permanently in a foreign country” — is rarely used as a neutral descriptor. It is a term loaded with judgment, designed to distinguish between those who belong and those who do not. This distinction rarely invites scrutiny, but it should.
To call someone an immigrant is to create an arbitrary contrast: between the so-called “native” and the “foreign.” The implication is that some people are from here, while others are not. But who, exactly, is from anywhere? Nations are not static; they are built through waves of migration. Borders are arbitrary, shifting over time, and often drawn without regard for the human lives they divide. In this light, the concept of "immigration" reveals its true function: not as a neutral descriptor, but as a tool for exclusion.
The term "immigrant" is politically charged, used to elevate some while diminishing others. The "good" immigrant assimilates, contributes economically, and conforms to dominant cultural expectations. The "bad" immigrant is the one who refuses to adapt, who resists, or refuses to fit neatly into the mold. This selective use of language exposes the real purpose of the term: not to describe human movement, but to enforce social hierarchies, drawing lines between those who are “worthy” of belonging and those who are not.
Historically, European settlers in the Americas were rarely termed immigrants. Instead, they were pioneers, colonizers, founders — words that confer agency and ownership rather than arrival. In contrast, people of color, regardless of how long their ancestors have lived in a place, are often permanently marked as immigrants. This disparity reveals how the term operates: to reinforce racial and cultural dominance and to determine who has the right to belong and who does not.
Take the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. As Chinese immigrants flocked to the U.S. West Coast during the late 19th century, the government responded not with open arms, but with a policy of exclusion. The Chinese were framed as a threat to the American way of life, and their labor was considered less valuable than that of their white counterparts. In this case, immigration wasn’t just a matter of regulating labor — it was a weapon in a racially motivated campaign to preserve economic power and national identity.
Similarly, the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, which abolished racial quotas, was, in part, a Cold War strategy. The U.S. sought to attract skilled professionals from non-European countries to bolster its economic and geopolitical power. Once again, immigration was not merely a matter of human movement, but a calculated tactic to advance national interests.
A darker chapter came with Operation Wetback in 1954 when the U.S. government launched mass deportations of Mexican immigrants — many of whom had been living in the country for years, and some even held U.S. citizenship. Framing Mexican immigrants as undesirable “outsiders” allowed the state to exercise power over marginalized populations, reminding them that their presence was conditional and that they were not truly part of the national fabric. Immigration, in this case, was weaponized to reinforce a racial hierarchy where some were seen as permanent residents and others, as forever transient.
In the 1980s and 1990s, the War on Drugs and the expansion of immigration enforcement worked hand-in-hand to entrench racialized borders. Laws like the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996 expanded the grounds for deportation, targeting immigrants — particularly from Latinx and Black communities — for even minor offenses. This framing of immigrants as criminals highlighted the state's use of immigration as a tool of social control, reinforcing the divide between “us” and “them.”
The most egregious example of this manipulation came with the Family Separation Policy in 2017 when the Trump administration forcibly separated children from their families at the U.S.-Mexico border. Framed as a deterrent to illegal immigration, this policy was an overt violation of human rights, a callous exercise of state power to criminalize vulnerability. By reducing human beings to mere statistics in an immigration debate, the government made clear that some lives matter less than others, and that the very concept of belonging could be used to justify inhumane treatment.
In each of these instances, immigration wasn’t just about movement across borders. It was about using the label to justify policies that served specific interests: racial control, economic exploitation, and national security. Immigration laws have always been manipulated by those in power, not to reflect some universal truth about human migration, but to secure and maintain their dominance.
The debate over immigration in America often swings between extremes: xenophobic rejection on one end, and naïve idealism on the other. But what if the entire concept of immigration is flawed? What if the term itself is the problem?
Perhaps it is time to move beyond the question of who is an immigrant, and ask instead: who decides who belongs?
Even as we challenge the assumptions behind the term "immigrant," we must also face the reality of modern governance. National borders are not just symbolic; they serve to protect the interests, security, and welfare of nations. But in this age of globalization, these borders are increasingly porous and problematic. How do we balance the need for security with the recognition of our shared humanity?
The answer lies not in rejecting borders, but in reconceptualizing the very idea of belonging. To belong is not to claim ownership over land or space, but to honor the ties that bind us all — our shared struggles, histories, and dreams. It is to see ourselves in others and to understand that no one should be reduced to a label of foreignness.
The call for national sovereignty should never be a justification for dehumanization. Borders must be recognized for what they are: necessary, but ultimately imperfect. The question we must ask ourselves is how to create a world where belonging is not contingent on arbitrary distinctions but rooted in empathy and mutual respect.
As Arundhati Roy so eloquently puts it, “Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”
Let’s create that world — one where all people, regardless of where they come from, are seen not as immigrants, but as equals.
(George Cassidy Payne is a writer and educator. He has served in the non-profit sector for 25 years. He lives in Irondequoit, NY.)
