From Kumasi to Brooklyn

Gabriel, my father posing for a photograph in New York.

The year 1968 was filled with societal shifts and cultural milestones in the United States, many of them rooted in the ongoing struggle for civil rights. It was the year two Black American medalists raised their fists in protest on the Olympic podium. The year the world lost Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy to violence. Yale began admitting women. Astronauts aboard Apollo 8 became the first humans to orbit the moon. And for the first time, an interracial kiss aired on television—an embrace between two Star Trek actors in outer space (that dash was mine, not AI’s).

Nineteen sixty-eight was pivotal for my family, too. That same year, my father, Gabriel, immigrated to the United States from Kumasi, Ghana. Like many African immigrants, he came for education—eventually earning his bachelor’s degree from Pace University in New York. He worked as an accountant and, later, built a career as an entrepreneur and small business owner. He built a life.

Brooklyn, the place I grew up, is home to more immigrants than any other part of the country. Just next door is Queens, the most ethnically diverse county in the U.S. I attended Brooklyn Technical High School, or Brooklyn Tech, in Fort Greene. At Tech, over 5,000 students represented more than 60 countries. Most of my classmates were immigrants or the children of immigrants. It wasn’t until after graduation that I realized how rare and remarkable that kind of environment was.

Back then, I believed America was the immigrant story. I thought everyone understood that immigrants arrive not to take, but to contribute. That people like my father, and families like mine, are the American Dream—not a threat to it.

And there’s evidence to support that belief. Forty-six percent of Fortune 500 companies were founded by an immigrant or the child of one. Eighty percent of billion-dollar startups—unicorns—were founded by an immigrant or the child of one. Immigrants are more likely to start businesses and create jobs than to take them. They revitalize cities. They fuel innovation. They widen the circle of what’s possible.

But over the years—through injury, bias, and discrimination—I came to understand that much of America sees a very different picture. The misconceptions run deep. And the fear, even deeper.

At 24, I returned to school as what’s called a “non-traditional” student—a funny term, considering that most undergraduates today fall into that category. I completed six internships across book publishing, international affairs at the NYC Mayor’s Office, corporate social responsibility, and more. I graduated from Columbia University in 2010.

My father arrived here in 1968. Forty-two years later, I walked across that graduation stage. That arc—from his arrival to my becoming—is what immigration looks like at human scale. It’s not just a policy debate or a statistic. It’s a story of investment, risk, legacy, and contribution. It’s why immigration matters—not only as a moral question, but as a long-term asset to the nation.

I went on to earn degrees from Columbia and Harvard, and build a career that began with managing the reputations of the world’s largest companies and most influential people, evolved into launching a tech startup and leading independent research that shaped social and tech policy—and now centers on helping others tell better stories, especially the story of themselves, through the lens of strategy, creativity, and art.

All of this—from my father’s arrival to my work today—is part of the ripple effect immigration creates. Not just the movement of people, but the movement of possibility, knowledge, and legacy across generations. His journey made mine possible.

This story is not just personal to me because it’s about my father—it’s personal because the status and access of international students is being challenged at the very institution where my research is currently based: Harvard University. Immigration, and specifically student immigration, is not an abstract issue. It’s the foundation of families, futures, and the kind of work that moves us forward.

We talk about immigration in slogans and soundbites. But every visa, every student, every arrival is the start of a story—one that often fuels innovation and adds billions to our economy.

As we face renewed debates around who gets to come here, who gets to stay, and who we imagine when we say “American,” I hope we remember that the fullest version of this country has always been shaped by those who arrive, adapt, and add something new.

Immigration is not just about borders. It’s about beginnings. It’s not just a question of policy. It’s a question of possibility.