Quotes About Immigrant

Immigrant children are highly vulnerable. Their level of disadvantage and fragility has consistently grown due to factors outside their control.

Introduced to this world in Llandyssul, Cardiganshire, Wales, November 14, 1843, I celebrated my first anniversary by landing at Castle Garden, in New York City.

I've never been in a place where I've walked in the street and actually feel home, where I don't feel like a refugee.

If I had the opportunity to speak to a young immigrant girl that just arrived to the U.S. the advice I would have for her would be: ask, speak, search; because there are opportunities out there. And, know that you aren't the only immigrant or the last to come to this country. Many that have come before you have succeeded. It is possible.

My father left Nazi Germany a year after Dr. Kissinger, and so in my household he was very much an icon. He was a kind of immigrant success story, a refugee success story.

My grandfather was an illegal immigrant for the 60 or so years he was in the United States. I had another great-great-grandmother on my mom's side who snuck in in a suitcase.

my generation's screwed—we're not the immigrant experience, we're not the assimilation experience—we're the first nothing generation, we've got nothing to write about and no one to read it, everyone too busy getting technologized, too harried with degrees.

I'm very proud of my Nigerian heritage. I wasn't fortunate enough to be raised in a heavy Nigerian environment, because my parents were always working. My father was with D.C. Cabs and my mother worked in fast food and was a nurse.

At twenty-one he had arrived in America a penniless bodybuilder, born in an obscure Austrian village, armed only with the immigrant's time-honored weapons of hope, ambition, and an almost supernatural belief in the great American dream. Now, through the traditional virtues of hard work, talent, charm, intelligence, positive mental attitude, and persistence, Arnold Schwarzenegger had become a household name.

Racism. . . . fuelled by bitter assertions that no immigrant ever has the least respect for the environment in his adopted country because he never really believes it's his.

The claim staked on the world's richest piers by a vast cadre of Irish American longshoremen was akin to a hereditary birthright.

1940s Jersey City childhood, "I grew up thinking America was an Italian country governed by the

What motivated me? My mother. My mother was an immigrant woman, a peasant woman, struggled all her life, worked in the garment center.

Being American and being an outsider at the same time, it's a perspective I often bring to a character.

We all know the stories about the Human Rights Act... about the illegal immigrant who cannot be deported because, and I am not making this up, he had a pet cat.

Growing up in a brand-new country, coming from the Philippines, was hard. I was treated differently and felt like people thought less of me because I was Asian.

I'm a first - I was the first person in my family born in the United States. My mom is from Croatia, and my dad is from Iran. They met at music school in Belgium. I grew up as a pianist. I was really interested in piano and sort of discovered that I was a writer when I was about 13 and started writing.

America is remarkable, don't you think so? When I came to Washington, I was twelve years old. I spoke English with an English accent. It was assumed that it would go on in that way.

I'm a first-generation Canadian.

I used to think that my mother got into arguments with people because they didn't understand her English, because she was Chinese.

My mum and dad were born into nothing and came to this country with nothing. They've had to make so many sacrifices so I wouldn't have to make any, and always supported me.

No matter how long he lived in the South, Zemurray could never rise above street Spanish overlaid by his American accent, overlaid by his Russian accent. He was all overlay—identity stacked on identity, life stacked on

No matter how long he lived in the South, Zemurray could never rise above street Spanish overlaid by his American accent, overlaid by his Russian accent. He was all overlay—identity stacked on identity, life stacked on life.

Like all immigrants, he seemed to have an unerring instinct for the oldest, truest words in his new language. The way he said the word, it felt free of the treacherous weight of mate