Many Americans trace their roots to ancestors who lived in the U.S. without formal citizenship or documentation. Early America had minimal oversight, with people settling freely and often unaware of citizenship requirements. Records were scarce, particularly in rural areas, and moving between states was unregulated.
Trump’s executive order challenges the 14th Amendment by prioritizing jus sanguinis (right of blood) over jus soli (right of soil). It aims to deny citizenship to children born in the U.S. if their parents aren’t citizens or lawful residents, disrupting the long-standing principle of birthright citizenship.
Donald Trump's ancestors immigrated to the United States in the late 19th century. His grandfather, Friedrich Trump, left Germany in 1885, partly to avoid mandatory military service, which he found unsuitable due to his personal circumstances. Starting as a barber, Friedrich later moved west during the Gold Rush, where he established restaurants and hotels. His grandmother, Elisabeth Trump, joined him later. After they married in Germany in 1902, the couple initially intended to settle there. However, Friedrich’s earlier draft evasion caused Bavarian authorities to revoke his citizenship, forcing the couple to return to the United States in 1905, where they ultimately built their life together.
When Friedrich first arrived in 1885, it was before the federal government introduced stricter immigration oversight in 1891. At that time, there was no formal system to track immigrants, making it unlikely that his arrival was documented in the way it would be today. Seven years later, Friedrich formally applied for U.S. citizenship and became naturalized in 1892. The straightforward process of that era allowed him to operate his businesses and fully integrate into American society. Elisabeth, however, did not need to apply for citizenship herself. Under the laws of the time, she automatically became a U.S. citizen through her marriage to Friedrich, reflecting societal norms that linked women’s citizenship status to their husbands.
Fred Trump, Donald Trump’s father, was born in 1905 in the Bronx to Friedrich and Elisabeth Trump. Fred inherited his father’s entrepreneurial spirit, starting his career in construction and real estate in the 1920s. He built single-family homes in Queens and later expanded to apartments for war workers during World War II. Over his career, Fred developed more than 27,000 apartments in New York City, leaving a significant mark on the city’s housing landscape. However, his legacy is not without controversy — Fred faced investigations for profiteering during the war and allegations of racial discrimination in housing practices. He also denied his German heritage during periods of anti-German sentiment, claiming instead that his family was Swedish — a narrative Donald Trump repeated in his autobiography.
Mary MacLeod Trump, Donald Trump's mother, immigrated to the United States in 1930 from Scotland, seeking greater opportunity amidst the economic hardships of her homeland. Growing up in Tong, a small fishing village on the Isle of Lewis, Mary faced limited prospects in the wake of World War I, as the local economy struggled. She joined her sisters, who had already settled in the U.S., arriving at Ellis Island with $50 to her name. Mary worked as a domestic servant in New York City to support herself. She later married Fred Trump in 1936 and became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1942, twelve years after her arrival.
Trump’s own family history is deeply intertwined with immigration, yet the irony doesn’t end there. His first wife, Ivana Trump, was born in Czechoslovakia (now Czechia) and immigrated to the United States, becoming a naturalized citizen in 1988. Ivana’s journey reflects the resilience and ambition of many immigrants, as she built a successful career as a businesswoman and fashion model before marrying Trump. His third wife, Melania Trump, was born in Slovenia and immigrated to the U.S., eventually becoming a citizen in 2006. Melania’s story mirrors the aspirations of countless migrants who seek opportunity and stability in America.
These stories highlight the contradictions in Trump’s immigration policies, which challenge the very principles that allowed his family and spouses to thrive in the United States. The legacy of open immigration in early America is evident in how much it shaped the nation’s demographic and cultural landscape. Native-born Americans (for lack of a better term) have largely benefited from these earlier policies. Many of our ancestors did not formally petition to become naturalized citizens, and it is likely that a significant number of our foremothers never officially obtained citizenship at all. The history of immigration shows that much of what we now consider "American" was built on the efforts, sacrifices, and stories of those who arrived in different eras and under very different circumstances.
A Historical Note: Before the Cable Act of 1922, married women’s citizenship could change based on their husband’s nationality. The Act marked a significant shift, allowing women to retain their own citizenship independent of marriage, reflecting the changing societal norms of the time. However, this autonomy also introduced challenges for immigrant women who had not yet naturalized. If an immigrant woman married an American citizen but did not apply for citizenship herself, her status remained tied to her original country. Should her husband pass away or the couple divorce, she could be left without formal legal standing in the U.S., facing difficulties in remaining in the country, working, or accessing resources. These challenges were particularly acute during a time when women had fewer rights overall and limited options for independence.
Mary MacLeod Trump’s journey is one of many stories illustrating the diverse motivations that brought people to America. Some sought to escape poverty or conflict, while others were drawn by the promise of opportunity or freedom. The story of immigration is as varied as the people who embarked on it, but a common thread is the resilience and hope that shaped their paths.
The legacy of open immigration in early America is evident in how much it shaped the nation’s demographic and cultural landscape. Native-born Americans (for lack of a better term) have largely benefited from these earlier policies. Many of our ancestors did not formally petition to become naturalized citizens, and it is likely that a significant number of our foremothers never officially obtained citizenship at all. The history of immigration shows that much of what we now consider "American" was built on the efforts, sacrifices, and stories of those who arrived in different eras and under very different circumstances.
The famous lines from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus are inscribed on a bronze plaque inside the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
An Afterthought: Immigration laws in Mexico and South American countries are generally less restrictive than those in the United States. For example, Mexico offers various visa options and allows foreigners to apply for citizenship after five years of residency. South American countries like Argentina and Brazil have relatively open policies, including agreements like Mercosur that facilitate migration within the region. These differences may contribute to cultural ideologies among rural populations, who might assume that immigration to the U.S. should be similarly straightforward.
Furthermore, the United States has spent decades broadcasting its image as the richest and most benevolent nation in the world — a place where anyone can thrive if they work hard enough. While those living in the U.S. may see the reality of economic challenges, systemic issues, and wealth inequality, migrants often don't have access to that perspective. Many of them are motivated by the idealized vision of America that has persisted globally for over a century. For those who risk everything to cross the border, this image remains a beacon of hope, even if the reality proves far more complex.
In closing: As Americans, our strength has always come from our diversity—the stories of those who built this nation through resilience, hope, and determination. The ideals etched in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty remind us not just of who we were, but of who we can strive to be: a nation that welcomes the tired, the poor, and the tempest-tost. Let us not lose sight of the values that have guided us through history. May we remember the sacrifices and dreams that shaped America, and may we continue to honor those ideals by building a future rooted in empathy, understanding, and unity.
