Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,"

[flotsam]

"The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I would expect wretched, homeless, and tempest tossed refuse to need some social services on arrival...I see nothing in the poem that says we should expect to immediately profit from them. We have many congressmen and senators who's parents were immigrants of no particular value to the country.

The first generation survives and the next aspires and sometimes the third soars. But every sojourner is just a start, a root...and what grows from it is what makes America for the better or worse. At best we get an Elon Musk and at worst a Donald Trump but in America few are native sons,