She had a difficult time adjusting to life in Brooklyn. “We didn’t actually speak any English, so I got depressed. I wanted to go back home,” she says. “I would lock myself in the bathroom and cry.” Once Montserrat started school and met other students who spoke Spanish, many from Mexico, she began to acclimate to New York. Because of President Obama’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, Montserrat was able to enroll in a college program and work a part-time job as a cashier at a pharmacy.

Lourdes crossed the border in 2004 and worked as a housekeeper and factory worker before sending for her children. “For me the most important thing is for them to study so that they have a better future, and hopefully stay in this country that we’ve learned to love. Because, in reality, we consider this country now like our country. There was a moment when I felt exasperated, that perhaps I had made a mistake in having brought them over,” says Lourdes. “But looking at it now, I feel like it was worth it. Everything that we went through was worth it.”

“For us, it was a choice to move here,” says Benoit Bosc, one of Tristan’s fathers. “You don’t want to over-romanticize it, but you know, the land of dreams where things are possible. We hope that it stays this way because for him, that’s the future.”

At home, her mother, Seyun Kim, speaks to her only in Korean. When Pepper started preschool in September, Kim packed a translation sheet for the teacher. It included words and phrases like water, mommy and daddy, and I want a hug. “She’ll learn English,” says Kim. “But it’s important for her to know Korean, too.”

They moved back to Guinea soon after, with plans to stay. Then, when he was 9 months old, Ibrahim started showing signs of a still-undiagnosed skin disorder, and she returned to New York to seek treatment. “We dealt with it for a whole year in Guinea,” Diaraye says. “The hospitals over there are terrible. Here, in case of emergency, we can call an ambulance.” But while Ibrahim has citizenship in the United States, Diaraye is here under Temporary Protected Status, granted to immigrants from Guinea during the Ebola outbreak. There is no path to citizenship for people on TPS, and TPS for Guineans is set to expire in May.

In December 2007, Doris went to Nanning, China, to adopt Milena. Now, they live in the Bronx. “When I hear my mom’s story about coming from the Dominican Republic,” the 10-year-old Milena says, “I understand it was nerve-racking for her because she was a very little girl and she was just on the plane with her two siblings.”

“I had to learn a whole new language,” he recalls. “You do learn English in the Netherlands, but only very little. You say things like, ‘Hi, how are you?’ but in a very Dutch accent.” The family became legal permanent residents in 2011 but still goes back to the Netherlands for a month every summer. “The people are different here,” Indigo says. “Nobody really cares if you go to the store in your pajamas in the morning. At home, most of the strangers you meet on the street are nicer ― probably because the population is so much smaller.” He misses his native cuisine when he’s here, and he made Indonesian dumplings (which are prevalent in Holland) for Thanksgiving. But the sushi in the Netherlands, he says, “is awful.”

“We decided to stay because it’s a great city. I remember that as soon as I walked through the doors at school, I knew it was going to be an easy transition. Everyone asked me, ‘How was Spain? What was it like there?’”

She was 6 years old. A recent high-school graduate, Galicia aspires to go to college, but that hope is tempered by the uncertainty of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals under Trump. “We want to work. We want to succeed. Other people don’t see it like that. They see it as us wanting to take other people’s jobs.”

“I worked as a waitress in Turkey,” she says. “The first time I heard a plane’s voice over the restaurant, I went under the table because I was scared it would drop bombs like in Syria.” Her father longed to make it to the United States but died of cancer before the family was admitted last August. Gareb and her mother, sister, and brother were among the 15,000 Syrian refugees President Obama pledged to accept in 2016.

Once, during a riot, our car was almost overturned while we were in it. I was about six or seven. I just remember being in the car with people all around. We got lucky, because there were other cars all around that had been burned.” Once his family arrived in New York, they stayed with an aunt in Jamaica, Queens. “I spoke very little English — just little basic words, and my pronunciation was shit. But I immersed myself in the culture and learned the language quickly. I was fine after a year or two. I grew up as if I were another American kid.” He became a citizen as a teenager, and now works as an account manager at an ad agency and lives in midtown.

She first became aware of being undocumented in middle school, at Horace Mann. “I was thinking about the high-school-senior Bahamas trip, and my mom was like, ‘Hopefully in a couple of years something will happen,’” she says. “Whenever I introduce myself as undocumented I do a whole spiel where I say I think I’m one of the most privileged undocumented people out there. “Like, ‘Oh, I found out because I couldn’t go on a senior trip to the Bahamas.’” As she started applying for colleges, the realities of her status became more clear; still she considers herself lucky. “If I were to be deported, I’d be deported back to South Korea. Yeah, that’ll be tough, but it’s not the same as going back to a country where the chances of being murdered are very high. Maybe it’s a state of denial, but I’m just trying to focus my energy on people that are in a worse position.”

“Back in Mexico, in Puebla, where we’re from, my mom was working really long hours and she was barely able to come up with the money for rent,” he says. “We had family that’d lived in the U.S. since the early ’90s, so from pictures we saw that they were really happy and going to school, so my mom wanted to give us that.” And she did. Ricardo is now working on his bachelor’s degree in public affairs. “They say that we are the dreamers, but in reality, it is our parents who are the original dreamers. They’re the ones that gave up their entire lives and left everything behind just so that they could provide a better future for their kids,” he says. Ricardo was a cashier at a diner in Hell’s Kitchen when President Obama granted Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals in 2012, and with papers, he eventually applied for a job at a restaurant in the Trump SoHo hotel. “At first, it was something I would kind of brag about with my friends, like ‘Oh, I work at a Trump hotel.’ But then, once he ran for president, things started to change,” he says. ” He labeled Mexicans as rapists, criminals, and drug dealers. I was very offended because not only was he labeling me as a criminal, he was labeling my family, he was labeling the people that I work with, the people who work in his hotels.” Should President-elect Trump eliminate the DACA program, Aca would need to find off-the-books work. “My DACA renewal came on November 9, literally the day after the election. I was supposed to celebrate or be excited about it. I didn’t even open the envelope. I just put it aside and I went back to bed.”

She also joined the protests around the city. “I was shot at one demonstration,” she says. “I liked the doctor who took care of me so much. He was very cute, a real hero. One month later, he was arrested, tortured, and burned in the street by the Assad regime.” Her activism won her the attention of a Syrian journalist who featured her story in a documentary film called Syria’s Rebellious Women. In November 2015, Ahed came to the United States to speak at a few screenings of the film. “I used to run in Aleppo, before the war,” Ahed says. “I started running again, every morning for an hour in Prospect Park. I started to be like what I was before the revolution in Syria. I started to be alive again.”

“We spent most of our summers here in the U.S. So then I came for college — at Drexel University in Philadelphia. I studied corporate communications,” she says. She came to New York to live permanently in 2009. “In New York, no one asks you where you’re from because you have an accent. Everyone’s from somewhere. It has a completely different feeling from the rest of the United States. The possibilities of what one can be — there’s just something in the air here.”

“When my father’s friends started showing up in body bags, we moved to Yemen,” she says. Then, less than four years later, a civil war broke out, and they relocated to Saudi Arabia, and eventually to Boston. “I was 11, almost 12. I learned English here.” When she came to New York in 2004, it was with common aspirations: “I do East African music,” she says. “I came in the typical, ‘Come to the Big Apple, follow your dreams.’ I wanted to get away from small-town America. It was a rough decade at first, but then it worked out. I’ve been gentrified out of every apartment I’ve had in Brooklyn. Now I’m in Crown Heights, and I’m planning to live there, come hell or high water, ’til death do us part.”

In 2003, she received a full scholarship to Hampshire College and moved to Massachusetts on a student visa, eventually landing in New York. “I speak Thai and Sinhala and I had one of these moments when I was walking on the street and I heard Sinhala,” she says. “I sort of turned around, was like, whoa, and then I kept walking and a minute later I heard Thai. It’s interesting to have these little pieces of my own home and where I’m from but in a whole different situation, simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.” After college, and again after graduate school, Thanu faced the unnerving prospect of finding a job that would sponsor her for a work visa or face deportation. She was hired by the New York Immigration Coalition, where she now works in communications and recently became a lawful permanent resident.

They settled in the Bronx. “My parents ended up working some shit jobs like, you know, turning over hot dogs at some place upstate,” she says. “My mom now still has one of the same jobs she’s had for many years. She cleans hotel rooms at the Edison Hotel in Times Square.” When she was 19, Svay got a job at Trash and Vaudeville in the East Village. “I would work 12-hour shifts standing in platform boots,” she says. “I was in this world of punk and goth and leather, and I was also into the rave scene. I would try to not see [my parents] when I came home. I never thought about my safety. I think about it now — as a mother it’s like, Oh my fucking God. I just felt like I was invincible. Nobody’s going to do anything to me.”

Raised by a single mother, Cumberbatch’s upbringing was classically American — he was into hip-hop and worked hard to graduate high school. Then, in 2003, Khalil was arrested and convicted of robbing two white women at gunpoint on the Upper East Side. He served six years in prison. Upon his release, determined to stay out of prison, he earned his undergraduate degree and went directly into a masters program, got married, and started working at a nonprofit to help formerly incarcerated offenders. Then, on May 8, 2014, Immigration Customs Enforcement knocked on his front door. Cumberbatch faced deportation for his 2003 crime. “They arrested me, brought me out of my home in handcuffs in front of my kids, and my neighbors, dragging me out of my home to four unmarked vehicles, making it look like El Chapo himself was living in our neighborhood,” he says.

Cumberbatch spent five months in immigration detention, a period he describes as the hardest time in his life. With the help of friends and co-workers who worked in advocacy, a judge ruled that he didn’t deserve to be deported. Cumberbatch was released in October 2014, but the government could reopen the case at any time. Then, on December 31, 2014, Governor Andrew Cuomo pardoned him. “On January 1, I woke up for the first time in ten years and felt like I wasn’t under this cloud.” Now he trains former-offenders on how to be leaders in their communities. “I was in immigration detention with a guy who had similar circumstances as me, he had family, working, old conviction, from Guyana, and he got deported. The only difference was that I had access to all of these people.”

Her mother moved to New York in 1987, and Lee and her sister followed two years later. “We came to Astoria — a very different Astoria. I was nine. It was terrifying, but mostly exciting, because we had been away from our mom for two years. She wanted to give us a very New York experience, so she took us to Toys “R” Us and FAO Schwarz.” After the initial excitement wore off, regular life began. “Having learned under a different education system, it took a while to catch up. I didn’t make it the first year; I spent two years in fourth grade,” she says. Meanwhile, her mother worked night shifts as an emergency-room nurse. “She had a roommate who helped her out, because she’s a single mom. At the time, it was just the three of us. Later on, she helped her brother come as well.” Now, Lee lives in East Flatbush with her two children and works for New York City Transit. Her mother is still in Queens.

“It was ’74, I think. We came right to Staten Island, and we moved from there to Times Square, then the Lower East Side. I was a couple years old. My mom had this fascination with Studio 54. Growing up, she told me the most important things were Robert Redford, Lauren Hutton, Studio 54, Hollywood, and fashion. So, of course, I gravitated toward being a photographer for GQ. It’s that Vietnamese dream of Hollywood.” He modelled for Levis, then became a Ford model, and eventually moved into fashion photography.

But I had known many Americans in my life, and I always felt like there was something quite ballsy and tenacious about them. It was very hard for me, having the personality that I have — this sort of alpha-female presence — and I found that Americans liked it and sort of embraced it. I felt like I needed to be here, because I felt like I was suffocating in Europe.”

At first, New York was a shock. “I’ve felt like I’ve been able to be free and build a life here, and I don’t think anywhere else would allow me to do that. Even though sexism is alive and kicking, I felt like in New York, I could knock down any door, even as a girl.” She worked as a bartender and server at first, and now calls herself a “creative entrepreneur.” “I’m working on a bunch of different things. I was in A&R and the music industry. I did luxury sales-training programs for LVMH. I had a photography business at one point. I had barbershops in Harlem. I’ve done all kinds of things,” she says. “I came here with nothing. I’m really kind of like the American dream story.”

“When I came to the United States is when I realized I was black. It’s when I knew I was black,” he says. “Because that’s when the color of my skin became relevant. Then in the process, I saw how skin color can really determine whether you get something or you don’t get it. I realized that how you speak, the accent you have, can determine what you get and what you don’t get. Can determine the kind of friends you have. Can determine how people describe you.” Despite the adversity, Ogutu figured he could do more for his people in Kenya if he pursued an education in the United States. He applied and spent two years at Northampton Community College in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, before earning a scholarship to nearby Cedar Crest College. He’s now earning a master’s in social work at Columbia University, focusing on immigrant and refugee studies.

“I saw Robert De Niro and Joel Schumacher filming a movie on the street, and I followed them around for two weeks, in the rain, every time I had a moment off. I tried to talk to Joel Schumacher because my father had said, ‘If you find something interesting in America, then maybe I’ll let you stay another six months.’ So I had to come up with something amazing, and I thought, ‘Joel Schumacher is my only chance.’” Eventually he cornered De Niro and Schumacher on a street corner near Tompkins Square. “I said, ‘My name is Pieter. I’m from Holland. I want to be here, and I want to be your intern. I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you want me to do.’ Joel Schumacher started laughing. He said, ‘You finally made it!’ And I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he said, ‘I’ve seen you around for two weeks, trying to talk to us. You finally figured it out.’”

Henket interned for Schumacher on the movie Flawless. His next job, working the freight elevator for a furniture designer, ended up launching his career in photography. “He had really ugly pictures on his website, so I said, ‘Your pictures on your website are really ugly. I think I can do a much better job,’” Henket says. He went on to photograph Lady Gaga’s first album cover. “In between all of this, I met Roger. He’s from Panama. He also came in 1998, and he’s a restaurant waiter. We’ve been together now 16 years and married. So I’m an immigrant from a first-world country; he’s an immigrant from a third-world country. He got his citizenship. Then I got my citizenship because of him: a Black/Latin, third-world immigrant.” The two live in Washington Heights and have begun collaborating. “We’re working on a book about the Pygmy tribes in Africa.”

His grandmother and extended family lived near New York, and while growing up in Panama, it was always understood that after high school he would move to the United States to live with them. In Panama, he worked for TGI Fridays, and when he moved to New York, Inniss continued to work for the company. Roger sponsored his husband, Pieter Henket, when he applied for citizenship.

“I’d seen graffiti before, in Pakistan, but for whatever reason one thinks about the United States in a particular way and that way does not include graffiti.” She grew up in New Jersey and has lived in New York since 1999, the same year she became a U.S. citizen. She’s currently a graduate student at Columbia University focused on the anthropology of warfare. “I choose to live in New York because it’s one of the few cities in the country where one is able to intermingle with a lot of different kinds of people,” she says. “One is able to find community, which is particularly hard for immigrants.”

“During the revolution, and when we came to the U.S., the only toy I had was pen and paper,” she says. “I just learned to tell stories, as a way to entertain my parents, who were so panicked.” After attending Sarah Lawrence, she moved to New York to be a writer. “I’m really hoping we can continue to feel safe in New York, ’cause I don’t know where else I could live,” she says. “I don’t feel like I live in America. I don’t think I’m an American as much as I’m a New Yorker.”

He says Filipino physical therapists have migrated to the U.S. in massive numbers, and in 2007 he followed the others. “When I was running my own clinic, people kept asking me, ‘Why are you not in the States?’” he says. “I really got tired of it.” He worked at a nonprofit for two years, then eventually accepted a gig on Park Avenue. After four years he bought out the practice. He’s married to an American immigration lawyer. “Think about an American dream,” he says. “I used to always dream about it. And I got it in a few years.”

After finishing military service in Israel, he says, “there’s always that question of what’s next.” New York, he says, “was kind of a beacon that was calling to me.” But when he left Israel, people kept telling him, “Oh, you’ll be back in two weeks.” In one of his first classes at Cooper Union, he learned about Chermayeff & Geismar Inc., which has designed some of the world’s most iconic logos, including NBC’s and National Geographic’s. So when he got a three-day-a-week internship with the firm, “it was kind of a dream come true for me. Now I’m a partner with these two guys and my name is on the door.”

“It was great experience, but it was just too much, and I wanted to take a break. And I was into jazz. I still love jazz. One reason I came here is because I saw the movie Taxi Driver by Martin Scorsese. That was a very powerful movie.” He came here initially thinking he’d just take a year break. “I decided to study English at NYU as a foreign student, he says, “but then I ran out of money, and I had to look for a job. We were in a very bad recession.” He got a job with a furniture maker. “I didn’t have experience as a fabricator, so they hired me for $5 an hour to sweep the floor. They had a very big shop in Williamsburg — like 10,000 square feet. They were doing really high-end furniture fabrication. It was fantastic. That’s when I decided, ‘Okay, this is something I want do for the rest of my life.’” He ended up at Rafael Vinoly Architect as a craftsman in the model shop. “That was 24 years ago,” he says. “I still work for them, and I have my own woodshop.” He became a U.S. citizen in August. “I’m not going to go back to Japan. Everything is here: my friends, my clients. Tokyo is very different from New York. New York is so much more diverse, and it has this energy. It’s almost like an independent country to me. I wouldn’t want to be in any other city in the U.S.”

He became a naturalized citizen in 2009. “[In New York] there is too much competition, and if you sleep five minutes, you’re done. I like the challenge. When you have the fire under your balls, that’s what I call it, and I think New York is the best place to be … I mean I struggle over here, it’s tough, you know, one day you’re good, another day you’re down in the gutter — it’s like an emotional, economical, financial roller-coaster. But that’s what keeps you young, it keeps you on the edge. It’s like a jungle. You’re weak, you die. The vultures, they’re gonna eat you up. The hyenas. You know what I mean, the jackals. That’s why, I feel you have to be strong and ready to rumble.”

“In 1994, I had tried to stage the first same-sex marriage in Russia, with my then-boyfriend, who was American,” he says. “It was one year after homosexuality was officially decriminalized, so it was still a really homophobic environment. I was under three different criminal cases for my journalism and for outing some politicians. So, I had the choice between fighting the persecution and trying to escape it altogether, which, back then, was still possible — before they introduced a computer system at the border. It wouldn’t be possible nowadays.” He got to New York in March of 1995. “I was 21. It was a very difficult transition, obviously, because all of a sudden I was stripped of all the titles and privileges — my audience, my language, my circle of friends, all of that. I guess I was lucky to meet a lot of great people who could help me.” He received asylum, and his professional focus shifted from writing to photography. “I’ve had shows all over the world. I’ve showed in New York many times and recently had my first solo U.S. museum show — in Indianapolis, at iMOCA.”

The family lived in Stuyvesant Town. “It was during the ’70s heroin epidemic, so it was much different.” Singh went to NYU, double-majoring in economics and political science, and worked in finance. “I was in India in October of last year. It’s one of those places where we go and we like, but don’t want to stay more than ten days. It’s interesting: Even living in New Jersey now, I’ve found that the only place that feels like home is still Manhattan.”

She used to tell us the stories. I always wanted to come here.” He and his new wife moved to Astoria. “It was a culture shock for my wife. When we came, it was 100 degrees and humid. Over there, it gets hot, but it’s dry. She wanted to go back, but I said, ‘I’m not going to go back.’ Then she started liking it. We found a Maltese community here in Astoria, which made it easier for her. Back then, Astoria was Greeks, Europeans, some Maltese, Italians, Yugoslavians. Now it’s a melting pot, you know? It’s Pakistanis, Chinese, Mexicans.” Ten years later they moved to 84th Street and 1st Avenue, where Tabone works as a building superintendent. “There’s still a Maltese club in Astoria. I don’t really go over there anymore, because I’m too busy. But my daughter goes there with her boyfriend. They have Christmas dances and stuff like that. They have their Maltese cooking. I don’t know if you like rabbits, but that’s one of the main dishes.”

“The day after I arrived I had work, thank God,” she says. “I cleaned people’s houses in Manhattan. It was really hard to do housekeeping, but it was all worth it because now every one of my daughters is either studying or graduated and is working.” She spent eight years undocumented and recently became a lawful permanent resident.

Her husband longed to make it to the United States but died of cancer before the family was admitted last August. Fadila, her son, and two daughters, were among the 15,000 Syrian refugees President Obama pledged to accept in 2016.

“I had no language. It was difficult for me to make a few dollars. Anything I made at that time it was only enough for me for bills.” Kolkovska took work wherever she could get it, as a babysitter, housekeeper, or caterer. “For 17 years I was in this country illegally. It was a nightmare. When I got my green card, I felt like I could fly in the sky. I went to see all my family in Ukraine. Now I go every year.”

“I wanted to see New York, the United States of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Woody Allen,” he says. Quito’s father was a veteran of the United States Army Forces in the Far East, which provided him with a path to citizenship in 1998. “My first job was at Girl Scouts U.S.A. typing numbers. I was getting tired of it and I saw a Village Voice ad — people still advertised in the Village Voice — about an opening at the Writers Guild of America. You know, a secretary kind of job. So I went there, I took a day off, ironed my suit and everything. That day was very snowy. Like, tremendous snow. When I got there the lady at human resources said, ‘I’m sorry, we already filled the job because this morning somebody came and nobody else came and we were so impressed that we offered the job, and I was thinking, ‘Why didn’t this woman at least call us?’ When I left, right in front of me was CBS News on 10th Avenue, the studio. So I just went in with my résumé and I got in as a secretary. And then from there I would volunteer to do work on the weekends, to pitch in for producers and writers, and eventually I became a staff writer/producer. So it was all by happenstance.”

“I fixed sewing machines at sewing factories on 8th Avenue, but after six or seven months I became a houseman at a hotel, which was much better,” he says. “New York is the land of opportunity. It’s where dreams come true.”

“I committed myself to America; I thought, ‘This is the place.’ After three months living with my brother, I moved out from a nice home into a hole, so I could speak the language. Because you know something? When you speak the language well, you do get the better girls.” After a year, he joined the military. “Later I was the adviser to the chair of Kinko’s. He paid me $1,000 a day to go around the world, to exhibitions in big cities, to find sleepers. A sleeper is somebody who has a good idea, but he doesn’t know he has it, or he doesn’t have the money to take it to the next level, or he’s a complete idiot.” He now has four children, 15 grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. “I love New York so much. There’s no place in the world that offers people as much diversity — in food, in architecture, in art, in museums, everywhere.”

“My sister was born and then I was born in the next trip, I guess,” she says. “And then he sent for us. My sister was five, I was three, and my mother was married at 15, so she must have been 20. It was 1928. It was very, very hard. We went to Mulberry St. to a paisano’s apartment. That’s what they told me at Mulberry St. And then we had another paisano in Elizabeth, New Jersey, who promised him work, and that’s when we went to live in Elizabeth. Two rooms, bath, and hall. Freezing. It was a hard life.” She attended Juilliard and became an opera singer, eventually moving to the suburbs. Then, ten years ago, after a small stroke, she lost some peripheral vision. “They told me not to drive. And I was stuck. If you can’t drive in the suburbs you’re stuck,” she says. “I had two daughters living here — one in Tribeca, one in Brooklyn. And I bought an apartment in Battery Park. It was the best thing I ever did because I could get on the subway, the bus, and go wherever I wanted. Didn’t have to depend on anybody or the kids. Then I joined Village Light Opera and I started singing again.”