Since the 1990s, a quiet but powerful transformation has been taking place in the United States—one that speaks volumes about who gets ahead in American society, who gets left behind, and why. Immigrants from countries like Mexico, China, India, Vietnam, the Philippines, El Salvador, and Nigeria have been arriving with a mix of ambition, desperation, and determination. Many have brought with them strong family networks, deep cultural commitments to education and work, and, in some cases, professional or entrepreneurial skills.
Decades later, many of these immigrants—and increasingly, their U.S.-born children—are outperforming large segments of the American-born population, including Native Americans, African Americans, and poor white communities.
The reasons behind this upward mobility are multifaceted and rooted in global inequality, U.S. immigration policy, and institutional breakdowns at home.
Some groups, particularly immigrants from India, China, and increasingly Vietnam, have entered the U.S. through highly selective pathways such as the H-1B visa or academic routes, often arriving with advanced degrees or technical skills. These immigrants tend to settle in urban centers or near research hubs, where their educational capital can translate into high-paying jobs, business ownership, and access to elite schools. Indian Americans, for example, now have the highest median household income of any racial or ethnic group in the country.
Meanwhile, other immigrants—such as those from El Salvador, Mexico, and parts of West Africa—have taken more difficult paths. Fleeing violence, economic collapse, or environmental crisis, many came with little more than survival in mind. Yet even among these groups, strong kinship networks, informal economies, and a relentless push for education and homeownership have helped many families gain a foothold over time. Salvadoran Americans, often stereotyped as stuck in low-wage work, have quietly built churches, businesses, and extended support systems that span cities like Los Angeles, Houston, and Washington, D.C.
By contrast, large portions of the American-born underclass—especially in deindustrialized towns and marginalized rural communities—have faced a steady erosion of economic opportunity and institutional support. Factory closures, crumbling public schools, the opioid crisis, and stagnant wages have all contributed to a deep sense of betrayal. For these groups, the American Dream no longer feels like a promise. It feels like a cruel bait-and-switch.
Higher education, once a ladder out of poverty, has not kept up. Public colleges are more expensive than ever. Student debt burdens are crushing. And for many first-generation American students from poor communities, the system feels rigged. While some immigrants use education as a springboard, others born into multigenerational poverty are more likely to experience it as a burden with no clear return.
This uneven access to mobility is generating resentment, especially among people who feel they have been “skipped over.” Poor white Americans in Appalachia and the Rust Belt, working-class Black families in segregated urban areas, and Native American communities locked in cycles of poverty see immigrant success not just as another demographic trend—but as a challenge to their own legitimacy as Americans.
The backlash has been growing. It's heard in chants to “close the border,” seen in rising support for nativist candidates, and reflected in policies that seek to block even legal immigration. But the backlash isn’t confined to white conservatives. It is increasingly surfacing among immigrant-descended communities themselves. Some second-generation Americans, especially from East and South Asia and increasingly from Latin American backgrounds, are moving rightward—opposing affirmative action, supporting police crackdowns, and calling for stricter immigration enforcement. The shift often comes with a sense of, “We did it the right way. Why should we pay for others’ mistakes?”
This reconfiguration of the American Dream is reshaping political coalitions and social identities. Success is no longer guaranteed by ancestry or even citizenship, but by one’s ability to adapt to a hyper-competitive global economy. Those who can leverage transnational family ties, accumulate credentials, or build businesses are climbing. Others are stuck in place or falling behind.
As this stratification continues, American higher education finds itself at the center of the divide. For immigrants and their children, a college degree can still be a passport to the middle class. But for too many native-born students, higher ed is a financial gamble—one with poor odds and limited support.
The tensions are real, and they are growing. The idea that immigrant success is somehow a threat to national cohesion is not new. But in this era of heightened inequality and political volatility, it has taken on a sharper edge. Old racial hierarchies are being challenged. Class structures are being reordered. And the question of who belongs—who truly deserves a place in the American story—is more contested than ever.
In this climate, it’s easy to default to zero-sum thinking: that someone else’s gain must mean your loss. But that framing obscures the deeper truth. The real problem is not that immigrants are succeeding. It’s that America’s institutions—especially in education and economic development—have failed to lift everyone else.
Until we confront those failures head-on, resentment will continue to grow. So too will the appeal of false solutions—like closing borders, slashing diversity programs, or blaming “outsiders” for structural collapse. A more honest reckoning would ask: Why are so many American-born communities struggling to survive in the wealthiest country in the world? And why have we come to depend on immigrant determination to sustain what should be shared opportunities?
Immigrant success should not be a threat. It should be a challenge—to build a country where mobility isn't reserved for the newest, the luckiest, or the best-positioned, but is truly available to all.
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