ALL PERSONA QUESTIONS

Reflect on what “representative” really means for you right now: Who represents you politically if you cannot vote yet? Which institutions still shape your daily life (schools, police, courts, local government) even without formal political power? Consider whether federalism helps or hurts you: does your state’s policies make your integration easier, or more difficult?

“representative” feels complicated because I live under American laws but cannot vote yet. I am affected by decisions made by federal, state, and local officials, even though I do not have formal political power. My visa and work limits depend on federal rules, while my housing, transport, safety, and university life are shaped by Massachusetts and Boston. Living in a progressive state makes my integration easier, but I remain only indirectly represented. I can contact officials, join campus groups, or participate in advocacy, but I cannot choose the people making decisions about my life. So, representation feels real socially, but incomplete politically.

Ask yourself what it means to live under a “supreme law” you did not help create: Which constitutional rights protect you even as a non-citizen, and which political rights do not? How might constitutional interpretation (by courts) affect your safety, opportunities, or sense of belonging?

living under the U.S. Constitution means depending on a supreme law that I did not help create, but that still shapes my daily life. As a non-citizen, I can still rely on important rights such as free speech, due process, and protection against unfair government action. These rights matter because I live here, study here, and may need legal protection even without citizenship. At the same time, I do not have full political rights, especially the right to vote in federal elections. That makes the Constitution feel both protective and distant. For immigrants, women, students, and minorities, constitutional protection is only meaningful if institutions apply it fairly in real life.

Consider which constitutional functions you experience most strongly: structure, power, or rights. For instance, do you encounter government mainly as a protector (rights and due process), as a regulator (rules and enforcement), or as a gatekeeper (immigration procedures, licences, eligibility)?

I experience government mainly as a gatekeeper, because my visa, study, work options, and legal status depend on rules I cannot fully control. I also experience it as a protector, because the Constitution gives me rights such as due process and free speech. In daily life, I encounter government through immigration paperwork, university compliance rules, and employment restrictions. So, the Constitution protects me as a person living in the United States, but it also places me inside systems where I have limited influence.

Examine the tension in “We the People”: Do you feel included in “the people” socially even if you are not included politically? When you consent to laws you cannot vote on, what makes that consent feel legitimate—or not?

“We the People” sounds inspiring, but I experience it with some distance. Socially, I want to feel included in “the people” because I live in Boston, pay rent, study at a university, use public transport, and contribute to academic and cultural life. Politically, however, I am not fully included because I cannot vote or choose representatives. That makes consent complicated: I follow laws and depend on institutions I did not help elect. Still, those laws feel more legitimate when immigrants and non-citizens are treated as part of public life, protected fairly, and given ways to be heard. For me, “We the People” is not only a legal phrase; it is a question about who is actually heard, protected, and welcomed.

Consider whether stability feels protective or restrictive. If you face discrimination or exclusion, does a slow amendment process feel like a safeguard—or like a barrier to reform? What kinds of issues affecting immigrants might require constitutional change versus ordinary legislation?

the slow amendment process feels both protective and frustrating. It feels protective because basic rights cannot be changed quickly by one election. That stability matters to me as someone with temporary status, because sudden legal changes could affect my studies, work options, or safety. But it can also feel restrictive when people face exclusion and need reform sooner. Many issues affecting immigrants, such as visa rules, student protections, or access to services, could be improved through ordinary legislation rather than constitutional change. Still, when large groups of residents live under laws without political voice, deeper constitutional questions appear. Stability is valuable, but not when it preserves inequality.

Identify which rights feel most urgent: speech, religion, fair treatment by police, or due process in courts. Then ask: Do you experience these as real protections, or as ideals that are unevenly applied depending on race, class, language, or status?

the rights that feel most urgent are freedom of speech, due process, and fair treatment by authorities. Freedom of speech matters because my academic life depends on discussion, criticism, research, and the ability to express political views without fear. Due process matters because my legal status depends on rules being applied clearly and fairly. If something went wrong with my visa, work authorization, or university paperwork, I would need a system that treats me as a person with rights, not just as a file. Fair treatment by police and courts also matters because newcomers may feel vulnerable or unsure of how institutions work. These rights are real protections, but not everything is applied fairly especially depending on race, language, or immigration status.

Reflect on which amendments you might care about most and why. Do you focus on rights protections, voting rules, or citizenship definitions? What does it mean that many changes came only after crisis and conflict?

I care most about amendments connected to rights, equality, citizenship, and voting. The First Amendment matters because it protects speech, religion, and expression, which are essential to my life as a humanities student. The Fourteenth Amendment matters because equal protection and due process shape whether people are treated fairly by law, even when they are not politically powerful. As a woman and non-citizen, I notice both progress and exclusion. The fact that many amendments came after crisis or conflict shows that American democracy can change, but usually only after people fight for recognition. That makes me hopeful, but also realistic about how slow rights can be.

Ask whether the Declaration feels like a promise or a paradox. Which parts of “equality” and “rights” have you experienced, and which feel out of reach? How might your background shape whether you view these ideals with hope, scepticism, or both?

the Declaration of Independence feels like both a promise and a paradox. Its language about equality and rights is powerful, especially for someone like me who came to the United States seeking education, opportunity, and intellectual freedom. I can experience part of that promise in university life, where I can research, write, speak, and build a professional future. But the Declaration is also complicated because many people were excluded from those ideals at the time, including enslaved people, Indigenous peoples, and women. So, I read the Declaration with hope and scepticism: it gives Americans a language of freedom, but history shows that freedom has never been automatically shared equally.

Consider how national founding stories function for newcomers. Do they help you understand civic identity, or do they mask histories of exclusion? What parts of the founding story are most welcoming—and which are most complicated?

national founding stories help me understand American civic identity because they explain why freedom, rights, independence, and self-government are so central in U.S. political language. As a newcomer, that gives me a useful framework for understanding public debates. However, founding stories can also hide histories of exclusion from political life. The most welcoming part is the idea that government should serve people rather than dominate them. The most complicated part is that “the people” did not originally include everyone. For me, understanding America means holding both together: the inspiring civic ideal and the painful exclusions behind it.

Choose two of these ideas and test them against your lived situation this semester. Where do you see equality and liberty in everyday institutions (workplaces, schools, policing, healthcare)? Where do you see limits—especially for people with less money, weaker English, or insecure status?

the two ideas I connect with most are equality and liberty, but I experience both as limited in practice. I see liberty in my ability to study in Boston, use archives, write freely, join academic conversations, and imagine a transatlantic career. That freedom is real and meaningful. But equality feels more conditional. Access to opportunity depends heavily on money, legal status, English fluency, and my gender. As an international student, I am encouraged to be ambitious, but my work options are limited, and Boston’s cost of living makes every choice feel financially serious. So, I do not reject American ideals, but I test them against daily life. Liberty exists, but it is easier to use when you already have security.

Translate the phrase into concrete goals: what counts as “liberty” or “pursuit of happiness” for you—stable work, safety, education, family reunification? Which institutions help, and which feel like obstacles?

The phrase becomes very concrete in my own situation. Liberty means having control over my life to finish my degree, search for paid work in archives or publishing, and make plans without constantly worrying about visa rules or debt. The pursuit of happiness does not mean luxury; it means stability, intellectual growth, and belonging in Boston without losing my French identity. Universities, libraries, public transport, museums, and cultural organizations help me pursue that goal. But tuition, rent, health insurance, and immigration restrictions make it harder.

Ask what capitalism looks like from where you stand: upward mobility, precarious work, entrepreneurship, or exploitation. How do your education level, language ability, and legal status affect whether the “free market” feels freeing or risky?

American capitalism looks like both opportunity and insecurity. Boston offers world-class universities, archives, museums, publishing networks, and cultural institutions, which is why I came here. In that sense, the system rewards ambition and initiative. But it also creates pressure because everything is expensive: rent, tuition, health insurance, transport, books, and even professional networking. As a humanities student, I know cultural and academic work can be competitive, underpaid, or temporary. My legal status also limits how freely I can work, which makes the “free market” feel risky rather than fully freeing.

Reflect on whether law feels like protection or threat. Do you trust police and courts to treat you fairly? What experiences or stereotypes might shape your fear, confidence, or willingness to report problems?

the rule of law feels both protective and threatening. It protects me when procedures are clear and institutions apply rules fairly, because my visa status, lease, university enrolment, healthcare coverage, and possible employment all depend on legal certainty. But law can also feel threatening because one mistake in paperwork, one missed deadline, or one unclear rule could have serious consequences. I would like to trust police and courts, but I know that trust is shaped by race, class, language, and immigration status.

Think about how political “design” affects real lives. If you come from a country with a weak central government or a very strong one, which U.S. choice seems safer to you? What trade-offs do you notice between stability, freedom, and effective governance?

coming from France, I am used to a more centralized system, so the U.S. federal structure feels more complex. The safest system for me would be a balance, but with a strong federal government to guarantee basic rights. My visa depends on federal law, while housing, education etc depend on state and local authorities. Without national protection, states could apply rules unevenly, which is risky for the vulnerable. At the same time, too much central power can limit freedom, which is why checks and balances matter.

Reflect on whether “restraint” feels reassuring or frustrating. If you need quick policy changes (immigration rules, protections, benefits), checks and balances can feel slow; if you fear abuse of power, they can feel protective. Which matters more to you right now, and why?

separation of powers feels mostly reassuring because it prevents one branch from controlling everything. As someone with temporary status, I worry about sudden political decisions that could affect immigration rules, student rights etc. Checks and balances can slow harmful policies and give people more time to react and organize. At the same time, the system can feel frustrating when urgent reforms are needed, such as better housing protections, fairer student debt policies, or stronger workplace equality. From my position, though, restraint matters more than speed: I would rather live in a system where change is slower but power is limited than in one where a single leader can quickly reshape my legal security.

Reflect on which branch you encounter most directly everyday. Do you experience executive through agencies , legislative through laws that shape your rights & eligibility, or judicial through courts & legal procedures? Which branch feels most like a protector, which most like a barrier?

I encounter the executive most directly because agencies shape visas, travel, university compliance, and work authorization. In everyday life, government means forms, deadlines, embassy rules, border procedures, and university offices responding to federal requirements. Congress matters because it writes laws on immigration, education, labour, and civil rights, but it feels more distant because I can’t vote. The judicial branch feels most like a possible protector if my rights are violated, but also intimidating because courts require money, time, and confidence. For me, executive feels closest and sometimes like a barrier, Congress feels powerful but indirect, and courts feel like a safeguard I hope I never need.

Reflect on how the executive branch shapes your everyday life more directly than many other institutions. Which agencies or executive decisions would you encounter first—visas and residency procedures, workplace rules, policing, or access to services? How might your trust in government change depending on whether the executive branch feels efficient and fair, or unpredictable and punitive?

The executive branch shapes my daily life more directly than I expected before moving to the United States. The president may seem far away in Washington, but executive agencies influence my visa, travel documents, work options, and the general tone toward international students. If these agencies are efficient and fair, I can plan my studies, job search, and future more calmly. If they become hostile, unpredictable, or overly political, practical decisions feel fragile. This matters because my life already involves uncertainty, debt, and limited work possibilities. For me, the executive branch is where government becomes personal: it is not only about speeches, but about whether systems treat me fairly.

Reflect on how laws written in Congress can shape your life even if you cannot vote yet. Which areas of law would affect you most—immigration status, work rights, access to public services, or protection against discrimination? How might your persona’s background (class, language, legal status, religion) influence whether Congress feels like a distant institution or an immediate force in your daily decisions?

laws written in Congress shape my life even though I cannot vote for the people writing them. Immigration law affects whether I can stay, work, or change status after graduation. Education law and federal funding affect universities, research opportunities, student debt debates, and humanities programs. Labor laws matter because I am job-seeking and want fair conditions. Coming from France, where I expect the state to play a stronger role in social protection, Congress feels powerful but distant. It creates the legal framework around my life, but I have no direct electoral voice in it, so advocacy and community participation matter, even if they remain limited.

Consider how these two chambers might shape your experience differently. If you live in a district with a large immigrant community, you might expect your House Representative to focus more on local concerns like housing, schools, and community safety, while Senators may speak more to statewide and national priorities. How might your sense of political visibility change depending on where you live and how your community is represented? Who is your representative? Who are your senators? How do you feel about their politics?

the House and Senate shape my visibility differently. My House representative, Ayanna Pressley, feels closer to my daily reality because she represents a specific Boston-area district with students, renters, immigrants, and diverse communities. Her focus on justice, housing, and immigrant communities makes me feel more seen locally. The senators, Elizabeth Warren and Ed Markey, represent the whole state, so their work feels broader and more national. Still, their progressive priorities generally make me feel safer in Massachusetts than I might elsewhere. I cannot vote for any of them, but their public positions matter because they help define whether newcomers are treated as part of the community or as outsiders.

Reflect on which congressional power would most directly affect your life right now. Would laws change your rights and eligibility, would war decisions shape how people view immigrants from certain regions, or would budgeting determine whether you can access schools, healthcare, language support, or community programmes? Which of these powers feels most urgent to you?

The congressional powers that affect me most right now are making laws and controlling budgets. Congress can shape immigration rules, student visa conditions and education funding. These are not abstract issues: they affect whether I can study without constant fear, work legally, access university resources, and find jobs. Budget decisions also influence research, public transport, community programs, and support systems that help newcomers integrate. War powers matter too, because U.S. foreign policy can affect how immigrants from certain regions are perceived. But right now, laws and budgets feel most urgent because they decide whether my life in Boston can become stable.

Reflect on how equal state representation can shape whose voices matter nationally. If you live in a small state, your state’s voters have proportionally more influence in the Senate than voters in a large state—how might that affect immigration policy or civil rights debates? Does this system feel fair to you, or does it seem to distort democratic representation?

equal state representation in the Senate feels both stable and unequal. I understand why every state has two senators: it protects smaller states and reflects U.S. federalism. But it also means people in less populated states have proportionally more influence than people in larger or more diverse states. For immigration and civil rights debates, this matters because states with fewer immigrants or international students can still shape national policies that affect people like me. Massachusetts has senators whose politics generally make me feel safer, but nationally the system can distort whose voices matter. As a non-citizen, I already lack a vote, so this unequal representation makes political voice feel even more indirect.

Reflect on how a six-year term affects your sense of political change. If your state elects a senator who supports policies that make your life harder, that senator may remain influential for years—how does that shape your planning and feelings of security? On the other hand, if a senator supports immigrant communities, does the longer term feel like protection and continuity?

a six-year Senate term feels protective when senators support immigrants, students, and civil rights. In Massachusetts, Elizabeth Warren and Ed Markey make the longer term feel like continuity rather than danger, because their politics with my concerns about student debt, housing, education, and social justice. That stability helps me feel more secure while I plan my studies and future. But if a senator supported restrictive immigration policies or cuts to education and social services, 6 years would feel extremely long.

Reflect on how your senator(s)’ priorities affect your sense of security and belonging. Do their policies make you feel supported (rights, services, pathways) or targeted (restriction, suspicion, cuts)? Elaborate on one issue you wish they would prioritise and one realistic way you could make your voice heard.

Elizabeth Warren’s priorities make me feel more supported than targeted. Her focus on student debt, economic fairness, and accountability connects directly to my life as a student in Boston under financial pressure. I worry about tuition, rent, debt, and the limited job options available to international students, so her politics feel relevant to my reality. I would want her to prioritize fairness in higher education, especially around debt, pay transparency and opportunities for international students. Since I cannot vote, I would need other ways to make my voice heard. I could contact her office directly, sign petitions, attend public events, …

Reflect on whether your community is politically visible where you live. Does your district’s population and diversity make you feel more represented—or more politicised? How might changes in population affect how politicians talk about immigrants in your area?

living in the Boston area, I feel more visible than I might in a less diverse or less urban district. My community includes students, immigrants, renters, academics, and progressive activists, so politicians cannot completely ignore issues like housing, public transport, education, and immigrant protection. But visibility can also bring politicization. When populations change, immigrants may be discussed not as neighbours or students, but as numbers, burdens, or symbols in national debates. That can feel uncomfortable. The question is not only whether people count statistically, but whether they are treated as belonging.

Reflect on whether frequent elections make you feel safer or more anxious. Do they create opportunities for immigrant concerns to be heard, or do they produce recurring cycles of fear-based rhetoric about newcomers?

frequent House elections feel both useful and stressful. A two-year term can make representatives more responsive to local concerns, which is helpful in a district like mine where many people care about housing, education, and immigrant communities. If local voters are welcoming, frequent elections can keep representatives connected to the needs of residents like me, even if I cannot vote. But I also see the danger. In less welcoming districts, short election cycles could encourage politicians to use fear-based rhetoric about newcomers to win attention quickly. That kind of recurring campaign pressure can make immigrants feel unstable.

Reflect on whether “following public opinion” feels protective or risky. If public opinion in your district is welcoming, short terms might help immigrant-friendly policies; if it is hostile, short terms might encourage politicians to use anti-immigrant rhetoric. Which seems more true where you live, and how does that shape your sense of belonging?

House members following public opinion feels mostly protective where I live, but risky nationally. In the Boston area, public opinion is often more supportive of diversity, education, immigrant rights, and social justice, so short terms can push representatives to listen to concerns about housing, student debt, and discrimination. That helps my sense of belonging, even though I cannot vote. But if public opinion becomes hostile, short terms can reward politicians who use anti-immigrant language to gain votes quickly. In my district, responsiveness mostly helps; elsewhere, it could make immigrants feel unstable and turn them into campaign issues rather than people.

Reflect on whether equal state representation feels fair. If you live in a small state, this system can give your state more influence than its population would suggest; if you live in a large state, it may feel like your vote counts less in the Senate. How might this shape immigration debates and your sense of political voice?

each state having two senators feels like a compromise that protects states but doesn’t always protect equal democratic voice. I understand the historical reason: smaller states needed reassurance that they would not be dominated by larger states. But as someone living in a diverse, urban, immigrant-connected state, I notice the consequences. States with very different populations have the same Senate power, which can shape debates on immigration, education, civil rights, and social policy. Massachusetts has senators who generally make me feel supported, so locally I feel lucky. But nationally, my future can still be shaped by senators from states where international students or immigrants are less visible.

Reflect on how this compromise affects your political visibility. If you live in a large state with a significant immigrant population, does equal representation feel like it reduces your community’s influence? If you live in a small state, does it give your state’s politics extra weigh & does that make you feel safer or more exposed?

the two-senator rule shows how constitutional compromise still affects political visibility today. Every state gets equal representation in the Senate, regardless of population, which protects smaller states from being ignored. However, it can also make large, diverse states like Massachusetts feel underrepresented compared to their population. My senators often support students, workers, immigrants, and civil rights, so I feel represented locally. The compromise creates balance between states, but not always fairness between residents.

Reflect on how you feel about your Representative’s political views and priorities. Do their positions make you feel supported, ignored, or targeted as a newcomer, and why? Name one issue where you strongly agree or disagree with them, and what that disagreement (or agreement) means for your sense of belonging.

Ayanna Pressley’s political views generally make me feel supported as a newcomer living in Boston. Her priorities around housing justice, racial justice, labour rights, and immigrant communities connect to my concerns as a woman, renter, student, and job seeker. I especially agree with her focus on housing justice because affordable and stable housing is essential for feeling safe and rooted in a new city. Since I cannot vote, I often feel affected by political decisions without having much voice in them. Pressley’s positions make me feel less ignored and more included, because they suggest that people with experiences like mine still matter in Boston politics.

Reflect on how you feel about the Speaker’s priorities, since the Speaker can shape which issues (including immigration, budgets, and social policy) the House focuses on. Do those priorities make you feel represented, ignored, or targeted—and why?

Mike Johnson’s priorities make me feel more ignored than represented at the federal level. His conservative focus on border security, limited government, and traditional social values feels distant from my life as a progressive French student in Boston. I especially disagree with his approach to immigration because federal policy can affect my visa status and work opportunities in the U.S. I do not feel fully targeted, but I also do not feel represented, since newcomers like me can seem more like political issues than people building lives here. Even though Massachusetts politics makes me feel more included, the Speaker’s priorities remind me that belonging in the U.S. depends on both local and federal politics.

Reflect on whether you feel included in “the people of the state” if you cannot vote yet. Do your senator’s policies suggest they care about residents like you, or mainly about voters? What would make you feel genuinely represented by someone you may not have been able to elect?

it feels frustrating to be affected by senators’ decisions when I cannot vote in Senate elections. Their choices can shape immigration policy, education funding, labour rights, healthcare, and civil rights, all of which affect my future in Boston. This creates a sense of distance from politics: political decisions are close to my life, but formal power still feels out of reach. It also makes me think more seriously about citizenship, even if that is not an immediate option. One non-electoral way I could still respond is by joining a university or immigrant advocacy group that contacts senators, attends public forums, or organizes around student and immigrant issues. My voice may be limited, but it is not completely absent.

Reflect on how it feels to be affected by a senator’s decisions even if you cannot vote in that election. Does that create frustration, motivation to pursue citizenship, or a sense of distance from politics? What is one non-electoral way you could still influence or respond to your senators’ priorities (e.g., contacting an office, joining a community group, public advocacy)?

I do not fully feel included in “the people of the state” because I can’t vote, even though senators’ decisions still affect my daily life. My senators’ policies make me feel somewhat included because they often address issues that matter to me. Still, representation would feel more genuine if it came through practical action, not just supportive language. I would feel more represented by policies that address housing costs, fair pay, academic labour, and humane immigration rules. As a non-citizen resident, I want to be treated as a stakeholder in Massachusetts’ future, not just as someone living outside the electorate.

Reflect on whether you feel visible in your district’s politics. Does your Representative’s messaging suggest they care about all residents, or mainly about voters? How do their political views affect your sense of safety and belonging where you live?

I feel relatively visible in my district’s politics because Ayanna Pressley’s messaging speaks to groups that shape Boston. Her politics suggest that she cares about all residents, not only voters, which matters because I live in the district and contribute to its academic and cultural life. Her views make me feel safer than I might in a district where newcomers are treated mainly as problems. I do not expect one representative to solve everything, but public recognition matters. When leaders name pressures like housing, inequality, and immigration fear, it becomes easier to feel that my life belongs in the community’s story.

Reflect on how it feels to be governed by someone chosen by district voters if you cannot vote yet. Do you feel your Representative’s political views align with your needs and values, or do they make you feel excluded or targeted? What is one realistic way you could still make your concerns visible in district politics (community meetings, advocacy groups, contacting the office)?

being governed by someone chosen by district voters feels incomplete because I live with the results but cannot participate in the election myself. Still, Ayanna Pressley’s views largely align with my needs and values, especially her focus on housing, justice reform, reproductive rights, labour, and immigrant protection. Because of that, I feel less excluded and not directly targeted in my district’s politics. If my representative had hostile views toward newcomers, I would feel much more vulnerable. One realistic way I could still make my concerns visible is by joining campus or community advocacy groups and contacting Pressley’s office about issues affecting students, renters, and immigrants. It is not the same as voting, but it still gives me a way to be heard.

Reflect on how population change becomes political. If immigrants contribute to population growth in your state, does that increase your state’s representation—and does it also increase backlash? How do you experience debates about who “counts” and who is seen as shaping the future of the state?

population change feels political because it affects representation, funding, and whose needs receive attention. If immigrants, students, and new residents contribute to Massachusetts’ population growth, they can indirectly increase the state’s political weight. At the same time, that visibility can create backlash when people question who “really” counts as part of the community. I experience this tension personally because I live in Boston, but I may still be seen as temporary or outside the political community. The census can count me, but it cannot guarantee that I feel welcomed. For immigrants, being counted and belonging are not always the same thing.

Reflect on how a four-year election cycle affects your sense of stability. Do policy changes after elections make you feel hopeful, anxious, or cautious about making long-term plans? What part of your life (status, work, family, safety) feels most sensitive to presidential priorities?

the four-year presidential cycle makes long-term planning feel uncertain. A new president can change immigration priorities, student visa rules, international relations, and the general tone toward foreigners, which matters because my status is temporary. I cannot plan my job search, career, or future in Boston only around my own effort; I also have to watch political change. This makes me feel hopeful when elections promise reform, but mostly anxious and cautious because policies can shift quickly. The most sensitive parts of my life are my legal status, work opportunities, travel, and sense of safety. That uncertainty makes belonging feel conditional rather than fully secure.

Reflect on whether term limits feel like protection or instability. Do limits reassure you that leadership cannot become authoritarian, or do they worry you because policies affecting your life might swing sharply when presidents change? How does your background shape your trust in strong leaders versus strong institutions?

presidential term limits feel mostly protective because they stop one leader from holding power indefinitely. Coming from France, I understand strong central leadership, but I also value institutions that prevent too much power from staying with one person. Term limits reassure me that democracy is bigger than any president. At the same time, they can create instability because each administration may change policies on immigration, education, work authorization, or civil rights. For me, those shifts affect whether I can plan a future in the U.S. I support term limits, but I would feel more secure if immigrants and international students had protections that did not depend so heavily on who becomes president

Reflect on how the President’s priorities and rhetoric affect your sense of safety and belonging. Do current policies feel supportive, unpredictable, or threatening for someone in your situation—and why?

Donald Trump’s presidency makes me feel cautious and somewhat anxious as an international student in Boston. His focus on border security, immigration enforcement, and stricter visa oversight makes current policies feel unpredictable rather than supportive. Even though I am French, educated, and living in progressive Massachusetts, federal rhetoric still matters because it can affect airports, visa systems, university guidance, and how people talk about immigrants. I would pay attention to whether international students are treated as contributors or temporary outsiders. My local environment may feel supportive, but federal power still shapes my legal security, so I am not panicked, but never fully relaxed.

Reflect on how you feel about the Vice President’s political priorities, especially on issues like immigration, civil rights, and social policy. Do those priorities make you feel supported, ignored, or targeted—and why?

JD Vance’s vice presidency makes me feel politically distant from federal leadership. His priorities around border security, working-class nationalism, and conservative social policy do not reflect my life as a French student in Boston. I do not feel personally targeted every day, especially in progressive Massachusetts, but I do feel less supported and less represented. When immigrants are discussed mainly through security or suspicion, international students can feel less welcome even if they follow the rules. Vance’s politics remind me that local belonging does not erase federal vulnerability.

Reflect on how leadership changes can affect your sense of security. Would a sudden shift in the presidency make you worry about rapid policy changes in areas like immigration, policing, or social services? What would you look for—statements, appointments, early decisions—to judge whether the change would make your life easier or harder?

a sudden change in presidential leadership would make me nervous because executive priorities can shift quickly. If the vice president became president, I would worry about rapid changes in immigration enforcement, student visas, university policy, policing, and social services. I would look for early signs such as executive orders, agency appointments, speeches about immigrants, and guidance sent to universities. Because my life already involves thesis pressure, expensive rent, and limited work options, political uncertainty would make everything feel more fragile. I would not only ask who becomes president, but whether the new administration sees people like me as contributors, problems, or invisible residents.

Reflect on which presidential power affects your life most directly. Do you feel the impact more through enforcement by agencies, through vetoes and signatures that change policies, through diplomatic decisions that affect global stability, or through judge appointments that can reshape rights? Which power feels most protective to you, and which feels most risky—and why?

the presidential power that affects me most directly is enforcing laws through executive agencies. Immigration rules may be written by Congress, but the president’s administration shapes how strictly they are applied, which affects my visa, travel, work authorization, and sense of security. Executive orders on immigration, education, public safety, or civil rights could also affect my daily life. The most protective power is enforcement when it is fair and humane; the riskiest is enforcement when it treats immigrants mainly as threats. For me, presidential power becomes personal when it shapes whether I can study, work, travel, and plan a future without constant uncertainty.

Reflect on how military leadership shapes your sense of safety and belonging. If your migration story involves war, conflict, or persecution, does the idea of a single Commander in Chief feel reassuring or worrying? How might U.S. military actions abroad affect how people in the U.S. view immigrants from certain regions?

the president being Commander in Chief feels both reassuring and worrying. It is reassuring because civilian control of the military is an important democratic principle. But it is worrying because U.S. military actions abroad can affect how immigrants and foreigners are viewed inside the country. My own migration story as a French student is not shaped by war, but U.S. foreign policy still influences global stability, alliances, and public attitudes. If military action increases fear or nationalism, newcomers from certain regions may be treated with suspicion. I think military leadership must be strong, restrained, accountable, and aware of its effects on civilians and migrants.

Reflect on how presidential signatures can quickly change your daily life. Which kinds of laws—immigration rules, civil rights protections, healthcare funding, or education policy—would matter most to you right now? Would you feel more hopeful or more anxious depending on what the President chooses to sign?

presidential signatures can quickly turn political debates into laws that affect my daily life. Immigration rules, civil rights protections, healthcare funding, labour rights, and education policy would matter most to me right now. A law expanding student protections or university funding would make me hopeful because it could support my studies and job search. A law restricting visas or cutting services would make me anxious because my stability already depends on limited legal and financial conditions. As an international student, law is not abstract; a presidential signature can affect whether I can work, study, and feel welcome.

Reflect on how it feels when important policies can be blocked by one decision. If Congress passes a law that would improve immigrant protections or access to services, a veto could stop it—how would that affect your sense of stability? What other paths—courts, state policy, community organising—might you rely on if federal change is blocked?

the veto power feels like a double-edged tool. If Congress passed a harmful law restricting international students or weakening civil rights, a presidential veto could feel protective. But if Congress passed reforms that would help people like me, such as fairer labour protections or better education funding, a veto could block progress and make my future feel less stable. Because I cannot vote, this is especially frustrating. If federal change were blocked, I would rely more on courts, state protections, university support, and community organizing. For me, the veto is a safeguard only when it protects rights, not when it delays justice.

Reflect on why judge appointments matter to you even if you never go to court personally. Court decisions can shape immigration rules, civil rights protections, and how laws are enforced—so the judges a President appoints can affect your long-term security. Do you trust the courts to protect people like you, or do you worry they will reinforce exclusion—and why?

federal judicial appointments matter because judges interpret rights and protections, I may depend on. Even if I never go to court, judges can decide cases about immigration, due process, equal protection, speech, labour rights, and reproductive freedom. I would trust courts more if they limited government power and protected vulnerable people fairly. But I worry courts can also reinforce exclusion if judges interpret rights narrowly. As a non-citizen, a woman, a student, and a renter, I care about whether the courts protect people like me in practice, not only in theory.

Reflect on which part of the executive branch you encounter most directly. Do you mainly experience government through agencies and paperwork, through public-facing services like schools and health programmes, or through enforcement institutions like immigration authorities and police? How does that shape whether the executive branch feels supportive, bureaucratic, or intimidating?

the part of the executive branch I encounter most directly is the Department of Homeland Security, because immigration-related agencies shape my visa, travel, and legal status. I experience government through paperwork, deadlines, airport checks, university compliance rules, and questions about whether I can work legally. That makes the executive branch feel bureaucratic and sometimes intimidating, not just supportive. If agencies treat international students as contributors, I feel more secure. If they treat immigrants mainly as risks, I feel reduced to paperwork instead of recognized as a person building a future.

Think about how Cabinet priorities can shape your daily life. If the Cabinet emphasises enforcement and restriction, you might feel more vulnerable; if it emphasises inclusion, services, and rights protection, you may feel more secure. Which department’s decisions would matter most to you right now, and why?

the Cabinet matters because Cabinet officials help run departments that shape daily life. The departments that matter most to me are Education, Homeland Security, and Labor. Education affects universities and research opportunities, Homeland Security affects visas and travel, and Labor matters because I am job-seeking in archives, publishing, or cultural institutions. If Cabinet priorities emphasize inclusion, services, and rights protection, my life in Boston feels more stable. If they emphasize restriction and enforcement, I feel more vulnerable. For me, good administration means competence, clarity, and humane treatment

Reflect on which Cabinet-level roles would most shape your opportunities and security. Would you be affected more by agencies connected to enforcement (Homeland Security, Justice, intelligence) or by those connected to everyday life (Labor, Education, Health and Human Services, Housing)? Which officials would you want to be most immigrant-aware—and why?

the two Cabinet-level positions that matter most to me are the Secretary of Education and the Secretary of Homeland Security. The Secretary of Education affects universities, research, and access to academic opportunities, which are the reason I came to the United States. The Secretary of Homeland Security affects my visa, travel, compliance rules, and work possibilities. I would want both officials to be immigrant-aware because education invites me to contribute, while immigration administration decides how securely I can do so. These two roles show how opportunity and restriction exist side by side in my life.

Reflect on whether the Electoral College makes you feel your community’s voice is amplified or diminished. If you live in a “safe” state where the outcome is predictable, do you feel your vote (or your community’s political influence) matters less than in a swing state? How might this system shape how politicians talk about immigrants depending on which states they need to win?

the Electoral College makes American democracy feel complicated and indirect. Coming from France, I am surprised that a candidate can win the presidency without winning the national popular vote. Since I cannot vote, my own voice is already absent, and the Electoral College adds another layer of distance between my life and political power. If I lived in a safe state, I would feel that my community’s influence mattered less than in a swing state. I also think politicians may talk about immigrants differently depending on which states they need to win. For me, this system shows that American democracy is filtered through institutions, not only majority rule.

Reflect on whether courts feel like protection or risk. If you faced discrimination or an immigration-related legal problem, would you trust the courts to treat you fairly? What barriers—cost, language, fear, lack of legal knowledge—might make access to justice harder for you?

the Supreme Court feels like a powerful but distant institution. I do not encounter it directly in, but its decisions can shape the rights I depend on. Issues like free speech, equal protection and immigration enforcement can all reach the Court. As a humanities student, I see the judiciary not only as a legal system but also as an interpreter of national values. If I faced discrimination or an immigration-related legal problem, I would hope courts treated me fairly, but I would worry about cost, legal language, fear, and lack of knowledge. For someone like me, courts can protect fairness, but access to justice is not equally easy.

Reflect on how court decisions can shape your security and rights even if you never go to court. Do you see the judiciary as a safeguard against discrimination and abuse of power, or as a system that can be slow, expensive, and intimidating for newcomers? What would you need—translation, legal aid, community support—to feel you could access justice if you had to?

the judicial branch matters because rights are only meaningful if courts can interpret and enforce them. I see the judiciary as a possible safeguard against discrimination, unfair immigration enforcement, and abuse of government power. But it can also feel slow, expensive, and intimidating for newcomers. If I had to access justice, I would need clear information, affordable legal aid, university support, and possibly translation or guidance through legal language. Courts can protect people in theory, but in practice those with more money, English fluency, and networks are better able to use them.

Reflect on how it feels that unelected judges can make decisions that affect your rights and daily life. Does that feel like protection from political swings, or does it feel distant and hard to influence? What kinds of Supreme Court issues—immigration, civil liberties, discrimination—would matter most to you?

it feels both reassuring and uncomfortable that the Supreme Court can make decisions affecting my rights. It feels protective because unelected judges can sometimes defend minorities from sudden political swings. But it also feels distant because I cannot vote for the president or senators who influence appointments. The Supreme Court issues that matter most to me are immigration, due process, civil liberties, discrimination, reproductive rights, and executive power. These decisions could affect whether I feel secure studying, working, traveling, speaking freely, and belonging in Boston.

Reflect on how stable your rights feel when major decisions can depend on narrow majorities. Does that make you feel uncertain about the future, or confident that the system is balanced? What kinds of Supreme Court rulings would most affect your sense of safety and belonging?

it makes my rights feel uncertain that major Supreme Court decisions can depend on narrow majorities. I already have limited political voice because I cannot vote, so it is unsettling that a few unelected judges can influence rights affecting my daily life. This makes the system feel fragile, even if it can sometimes protect vulnerable groups. The rulings that would most affect my safety and belonging involve immigration, due process, discrimination, reproductive rights, and free speech. I would feel more confident if the Court consistently protected people with less power.

Reflect on how it feels that one vote can shape national rules on rights, discrimination, or immigration. Does that make the legal system feel fragile or responsive? What would you do—practically—to stay informed or protected when major issues can be decided by such narrow margins?

it feels fragile that one Supreme Court vote can shape national rules on rights, discrimination, or immigration. Because I am a non-citizen, my ability to study, work, travel, and stay in the U.S. already depends on systems I cannot fully control. A narrow decision could either protect vulnerable groups or make their lives harder. Practically, I would stay informed through my university’s international office, reliable news, legal aid resources, and immigrant-rights organizations. I would want to know quickly whether a decision affects my visa status, speech, safety, or future work options.

Reflect on whether lifetime appointments feel reassuring or worrying. Do you see them as protecting rights from political swings, or as keeping the Court out of step with social change? How might long-serving judges affect issues that matter to you, such as immigration rules or civil liberties?

lifetime appointments feel both reassuring and worrying. They are reassuring because justices do not have to follow election pressure, which can protect immigrants, students, women, and minorities when politics becomes hostile. But they are worrying because judges can remain powerful long after society has changed. Long-serving judges can affect issues that matter to me, such as immigration enforcement, digital privacy, reproductive rights, discrimination, and civil liberties. I need the law to be stable, but also responsive to real life. Lifetime service feels safest when judges understand both constitutional principles and vulnerable peoples lived experiences.

Reflect on whether judicial independence feels like protection or distance. Do you trust lifetime tenure to safeguard minority rights, or do you worry it makes the Court unaccountable when decisions harm vulnerable groups? What would make you more confident that an “independent” Court still delivers justice for people like you?

judicial independence feels like protection only if it actually protects people with less power. I understand that Supreme Court justices serve for life so they can make decisions based on law instead of political pressure. That can safeguard minority rights when public opinion becomes hostile. But lifetime tenure can also make the Court feel unaccountable if its decisions harm vulnerable groups. As a non-citizen, I cannot vote for the officials who influence appointments. I would trust an independent Court more if it clearly respected due process, discrimination claims, immigrant rights, and the real consequences of its decisions

Reflect on how you feel about the Supreme Court’s influence over rights that matter to newcomers. Does a powerful, life-tenured judiciary feel like protection from politics—or like distant authority that is hard to understand and influence?

knowing that John Roberts is the Chief Justice reminds me that Court leadership matters, even though each justice has one vote. The Supreme Court’s influence over newcomers’ rights feels both protective and intimidating. A life-tenured judiciary can protect people from sudden political swings, especially on immigration and civil liberties. But the Court also feels distant because I cannot vote for the officials who appoint or confirm justices. The rights that matter most to me are due process, free speech, protection from discrimination, and limits on executive power. If the Court defends those rights, it feels protective; if not, it feels like unreachable authority.

Reflect on how federal-only powers affect your life even if you live far from Washington, D.C. Does foreign policy connect to your migration story—through conflict, alliances, sanctions, or economic conditions? Which federal power feels most relevant to your sense of security and future plans in the United States?

the federal-only power that feels most connected to my life is foreign policy, especially treaties and diplomacy. U.S.–European relations, academic exchange, visa rules, and global stability can all affect my future. Even if I feel supported locally in Massachusetts, decisions made in Washington shape whether international students like me are welcomed or restricted. Immigration is also controlled nationally, so federal power defines the legal limits of my belonging. The federal power most relevant to my security is the national government’s control over foreign relations and immigration-related policy. Local belonging helps emotionally, but federal authority shapes whether my transatlantic future is realistic or fragile.

Reflect on which state power you feel most strongly in your everyday life. Do schools, policing, housing rules, or access to a driver’s licence most affect your ability to settle and belong? How might your experience change if you moved to a different state with different policies?

the state power I feel most strongly is housing policy, especially zoning, tenant protections, and public services. Boston’s cost of living affects my ability to settle, study, work, and belong. State decisions about housing development, transportation, education, policing, and driver’s licenses shape daily life more directly than many federal policies. Housing matters most because without stable rent, my job search and integration become harder. If I moved to another state, I might face weaker renter protections, less public transport, or a less welcoming climate for immigrants. State power feels concrete because it decides whether daily life is manageable.

Reflect on whether state-by-state difference feels like opportunity or uncertainty. If your rights and access to services vary depending on where you live, does that make you feel empowered to choose a state—or anxious that your security depends on geography? What state-level issue (schooling, policing, housing, healthcare) matters most for your ability to build a stable life?

state-by-state differences feel like both opportunity and uncertainty. On the positive side, I can live in Massachusetts, where education, civil rights, and immigrant communities are relatively supported. That makes my life in Boston feel safer than it might in a state with more hostile policies. But this also makes me anxious because my security depends too much on geography. If I needed to move for work after graduation, I might lose access to the same protections. The state-level issue that matters most to me is housing, because without stable housing I cannot focus on my work, or community life. Federalism gives choice, but only if you can afford to choose where to live

Reflect on how the governor’s priorities affect your daily life in the state. Do their views on immigration, policing, education, or social services make you feel supported, ignored, or targeted? Name one state-level issue where the governor’s decisions matter most for your ability to settle and belong.

the governor’s priorities affect my daily life through housing, education, public transport, social services, and immigrant protections. I do not expect the governor to solve my federal visa situation, but state leadership can decide whether Massachusetts feels liveable and humane. If the governor supports affordability and education, I feel more supported; if those issues are ignored, I feel more precarious. I also care about policing and whether immigrants and women are protected from harsh treatment. The issue where the governor’s decisions matter most for my ability to settle is housing. Without affordable rent, everything else becomes unstable.

Reflect on how “where power sits” affects your sense of access and influence. Do you feel the state government is close enough to be reachable, or distant and hard to navigate? If you needed help—school enrolment, housing rules, driver’s licence, legal support—how confident would you feel dealing with state institutions headquartered in the capital?

living in the state capital makes power feel closer, but not easy to access. Boston is where many state institutions are located, so in theory I am near the places where decisions about housing, education, transport, and public services are made. That makes civic life feel visible: I see government buildings, protests, universities, and public debates around me. But as a newcomer, bureaucracy can still be confusing. If I needed help with housing rules, a driver’s licence, and so on, I would not always know where to begin. I would feel more confident if institutions clearly explained procedures for international students and immigrants. Being physically close helps, but real access also requires language, guidance, and trust.

Reflect on how access to voting has historically been limited and gradually expanded. If you cannot vote yet as a newcomer, does this history make you hopeful that inclusion is possible—or does it make you aware of how contested political voice can be? Which barrier to full participation (gender, race, age, wealth, citizenship status) feels most relevant to your own situation, and why?

the history of voting-rights amendments makes me hopeful but also aware that political voice has always been contested. The Nineteenth Amendment especially matters to me because, as a woman, I know women had to fight to be recognized as political actors. The Twenty-Sixth Amendment also shows that age was once a barrier to full participation. But the barrier most relevant to me is citizenship status because I cannot vote even though I live under U.S. laws and contribute to my community. This history makes inclusion seem possible, but not automatic. Democracy feels unfinished.

Reflect on how it feels that major civic rights and duties are reserved for citizens even though laws affect you every day. Does this motivate you to pursue citizenship, or does it make you feel excluded from democratic voice? What forms of participation feel realistically available to you before citizenship (community groups, contacting officials, local advocacy)?

the fact that only U.S. citizens can vote in federal elections, run for federal office, and serve on a jury makes me feel socially present but politically incomplete. I study, pay rent, use public transport, and participate in academic and cultural life, but I do not have those formal civic rights or duties. This makes citizenship feel less symbolic and more like access to voice and responsibility. Before citizenship, realistic participation for me would include community groups, campus advocacy, volunteering, and contacting officials. Still, those forms do not fully replace voting or jury service.

Reflect on which of these rights you would actually feel safe using in daily life. Would you speak openly about politics, practise religion publicly, or join a protest without fear of consequences? What factors—your legal status, workplace vulnerability, community support, or experiences from your home country—shape how “real” these rights feel to you?

the rights of everyone living in the United States matter deeply because I depend on them without being a citizen. I would feel safest using free speech in academic settings, because my humanities work depends on discussion and criticism. I would be more cautious about joining protests because my legal status could make me worry about consequences. Freedom of religion matters too, especially because I am secular and want to belong without religious pressure. Due process and protection from unfair treatment are especially important because immigration systems can be intimidating. These rights feel real only when people can use them without fear.

Reflect on how you would feel saying the pledge in a school or public setting. Would it feel like a meaningful act of belonging, a pressure to assimilate, or something you would prefer to opt out of—and why? How do your experiences with nationalism, patriotism, or state authority shape your reaction?

saying the Pledge of Allegiance in a school or public setting would feel meaningful but also complicated. I respect civic rituals because they can create unity, and I understand that the flag represents the United States and its ideals. But I would not want the pledge to feel like pressure to assimilate or accept blind patriotism. My experiences with French republican symbols make me comfortable with civic ideals, but also with criticizing the state. For me, loyalty would mean commitment to liberty and justice, not pretending the country is perfect. I would show respect by taking the ideals seriously enough to question whether they are lived equally.

Reflect on which promise would feel easiest and which would feel hardest for you to make. Would giving up loyalty to another country feel like a clean legal step, or a painful emotional break because of family, identity, or history? How do your experiences—especially with your home country’s politics, conflict, or oppression—shape what “loyalty” and “service” mean to you?

the easiest promise in the Oath of Allegiance would be to support and defend the Constitution because I value rights, law, and democratic principles. The hardest promise would be giving up political loyalty to France, because my identity is transatlantic. I came from Lyon to Boston to study, build a career, and connect cultures, not erase where I come from. Giving up loyalty would feel more like an emotional challenge than a clean legal step. My experiences with French secular republicanism shape loyalty for me as commitment to democratic ideals, not blind obedience. If I became a U.S. citizen, I would want it to feel like adding a political home.

Reflect on which pathway feels most relevant—and how accessible it feels to you. Does naturalisation seem like a realistic goal or a long, uncertain process shaped by cost, time, and legal status? If you have children (or might), how does the 14th Amendment and the idea of birthright citizenship affect how you imagine your family’s future in the United States?

naturalization is the pathway that feels most relevant, but it also feels distant and uncertain. Being born in the U.S. does not apply to me, though birthright citizenship could matter if I had children here. As an international student, my future depends on work opportunities, visa categories, eligibility, time, money, and legal requirements. Naturalization would mean stability and political voice, but it is not something I can assume just because I feel connected to Boston. The process feels long and bureaucratic. If I had children born in the U.S., the Fourteenth Amendment would make their future feel more secure than mine.

Reflect on which forms of participation feel realistically available to you right now. If you cannot vote yet, would you feel comfortable contacting officials, joining groups, or speaking publicly—or would fear, language barriers, time, or legal uncertainty hold you back? Identify one form of participation you would try first, and one that feels too risky (for now), and explain why.

civic participation matters because voting is not available to me. The forms realistically available are volunteering, campus advocacy, attending public meetings, joining community groups, signing petitions, and contacting elected officials. I would try volunteering or campus advocacy first because those feel useful and relatively safe. Speaking very publicly about immigration policy might feel riskier because of my visa status and uncertainty about consequences. Language is not my biggest barrier, but time, legal vulnerability, and not being a voter could limit my confidence. Civic participation lets me contribute, even though it does not fully replace formal political power.

Reflect on what “service” feels like for someone building a new life. If you are not yet a citizen, do you still feel you serve the country through work, taxes, caregiving, or community volunteering? Which form of service would feel most meaningful to you—and which might feel complicated because of your legal status, background, or past experiences with the state?

volunteering feels like the most meaningful way I can serve while building a new life. I cannot serve as a voter or officeholder because I am not a citizen, and military service would feel complicated because of legal status and personal beliefs. But I can contribute through education, culture, and local support. I could volunteer in libraries, museums, archives, tutoring programs, or organizations that help immigrants and students. I also serve indirectly through work, taxes, and community involvement. For me, service is practical and relational: it is how a newcomer becomes part of everyday community life.

Reflect on how it feels to be required to pay taxes even if you cannot vote in federal elections. Does paying taxes make you feel you’ve “earned” a stake in the society, or does it highlight a gap between contribution and political voice? What would you want to see—in services, fairness, or representation—in return for that civic duty?

paying federal taxes without being able to vote highlights both contribution and exclusion. If I work legally and pay taxes, I help fund public services, courts, infrastructure, education, and government programs. That gives me a real stake in American society. But I cannot vote for the lawmakers who decide how that money is spent, which feels strange in a country where “taxation without representation” is such an important historical idea. I understand that citizens and temporary residents do not have the same political rights, but contribution should still come with fairness. In return, I would expect functioning institutions, public services, and respect for immigrants who study, work, and contribute legally.

Reflect on how you feel about the idea of compulsory registration and potential military service. If your past includes conflict, forced conscription, or trauma, does this requirement feel alarming or familiar? If you migrated for opportunity and safety, does registration feel like a reasonable obligation of living in the U.S., or like a high price for belonging?

Selective Service makes me think about how national belonging can involve obligations, not only rights. As a woman, I am not directly included in the same way, but I still notice how military duty is gendered and connected to ideas of citizenship. Coming from France, I understand that states can ask citizens or residents to accept responsibilities for national defence. But for immigrants or temporary residents, this can feel especially intense because they may not yet feel fully included politically. It raises a difficult question: should people be expected to serve or register for a country before they have full voice in it? For me, obligation feels more legitimate when it is matched by protection, representation, and respect.

Reflect on whether you recognise your own migration motivations in this older narrative. Do ideas like freedom, opportunity, or escape from persecution feel similar to your story—or do you feel the comparison hides important differences (race, legal status, economic inequality, discrimination)? What does it mean to you that the U.S. often celebrates earlier migrants while debating the legitimacy of newcomers today?

I recognize my own migration story in the idea of opportunity, but only partly. I came to Boston for education, archival resources, academic culture, and the possibility of a transatlantic career. But colonial migration was very different because European settlers often gained opportunity through Indigenous displacement and unequal power. That comparison hides major differences in race, legal status, power, and historical harm. It also troubles me that the U.S. often celebrates earlier migrants while debating whether newcomers today belong. My migration involves visas, tuition, rent, and job searching, not conquest, so I think migration stories should be told responsibly.

Reflect on how this fact changes the idea of “who belongs” in the United States. How does it affect your understanding of national identity to know that the country’s history begins with Indigenous peoples and their sovereignty? What responsibilities, if any, do you feel newcomers might have to learn about and acknowledge Indigenous histories in the place where they settle?

knowing that Native Americans lived in America before Europeans changes how I understand belonging. The phrase “nation of immigrants” can feel welcoming to me, but it is incomplete because Indigenous peoples were here first and had their own sovereignty, cultures, and territories. As a newcomer, I have a responsibility to learn the Indigenous history of the place where I live. In Massachusetts, that means recognizing that the land has older histories and claims before my own arrival. This does not mean I cannot belong, but it makes belonging more complex. I can be grateful to study in Boston while acknowledging colonization and displacement.

Reflect on how learning this history affects the way you understand race and power in the U.S. If you are a person of colour, does it change how you anticipate being perceived or treated? If you are not, how does it shape your awareness of privilege, responsibility, and the social context you are entering?

learning about Africans taken and sold as slaves changes how I understand race and power in the U.S. The country speaks often about liberty and equality, but slavery was central to its economy and social order. As a French person, I know Europe was also part of slavery and colonialism, so I cannot treat this as only an American problem. If I am perceived as a white, educated European immigrant, I need to recognize my relative privilege. This history shapes how race, labour, policing, wealth, and citizenship still work today. It makes me more aware of responsibility and the social context I am entering.

Reflect on what “independence” means in your own life story. Do you see this revolution mainly as a fight for political rights, or do you notice who was excluded from those rights at the time (enslaved people, women, Indigenous peoples)? How does that tension shape your view of American ideals today?

the American Revolution makes me think about independence as both political freedom and an unfinished promise. In my own life, independence means studying abroad, finishing my thesis, and building a career beyond the limits I felt in France. But historically, American independence did not include everyone equally. Enslaved people, Indigenous peoples, women, and many poor people were excluded from full rights. That tension shapes my view of American ideals: I find them powerful, but incomplete. The Revolution created a language of self-government, but equality still had to be fought for later.

Reflect on which grievance feels most relatable or most alien to you. Have you experienced a government that taxed or controlled people without giving them voice, or are you more struck by the idea that political protest could lead to national change? How does this history shape what you expect from democracy—and what you fear when democracy feels fragile?

“taxation without representation” feels surprisingly relatable, even though my situation is not the same as the colonists’. I chose to come to the U.S. as a student and understand that citizenship has special rights. Still, if I work legally and pay taxes or fees while having no vote, I feel the gap between contribution and representation. The grievance most relatable to me is being affected by decisions without formal political voice. The idea that protest could lead to national change also makes me expect democracy to include accountability. When democracy feels fragile, I fear people like me will be governed without being heard.

Reflect on what it means that a single author’s words became a national statement of ideals. Do the Declaration’s language about equality and rights feel inspiring to you, or do you notice the gap between ideals and historical reality? How might those ideals shape your expectations of how the U.S. should treat newcomers today?

Jefferson’s authorship of the Declaration makes me think about how one person’s words can become national ideals. The language of equality and rights is inspiring because it gives people a standard by which to challenge injustice. But I also notice the gap between those ideals and Jefferson’s own life as someone who enslaved people. As a humanities student, I cannot separate a text from its historical context. These ideals shape my expectations that the U.S. should treat newcomers with dignity and fairness. I would not dismiss the founding ideals, but I would ask who was excluded and how those ideals can become real.

Reflect on how national founding dates shape identity and belonging. Does celebrating 4 July feel like something you could join as a newcomer, or does it feel like an “insider” tradition you would observe from the outside at first? What would make a national holiday feel welcoming—or alienating—to someone arriving in the U.S.?

July 4 feels like both a celebration and a question. As a newcomer, I can understand why Americans celebrate freedom, self-government, and national identity on that day. Those ideals are powerful, and they partly explain why people still come to the U.S. seeking opportunity. But I also know that independence did not include everyone equally. Enslaved people were not free, Indigenous peoples were threatened by expansion, and women lacked political rights. So, I would experience July 4 with respect and critical awareness. It is meaningful not because America was perfect at its founding, but because its language of independence created ideals that later generations could use to demand broader justice.

Reflect on what kinds of “turning points” shape a nation’s story—and whose turning points get remembered. Do these celebrated events make you feel connected to the American narrative, or do they feel distant compared to your own history of conflict, protest, or migration? Which event would you highlight if you were trying to explain the Revolution’s meaning to someone from your background?

I would highlight the Battle of Yorktown because French forces helped the Americans defeat Britain. That makes me feel personally connected to the American Revolution as a French student living in Boston. Yorktown was a turning point, but it also shows that national stories are shaped by international alliances and strategic interests. France supported the American cause partly because of ideals, but also because it opposed Britain. This makes the Revolution feel more realistic than romantic. If I explained the Revolution to someone from my background, I would use Yorktown to show that freedom, diplomacy, and power were connected.

Reflect on how “original” stories can shape who feels like a real insider. Do you feel the emphasis on founding states and colonial history creates a narrow idea of American identity, or can you see space for newcomers to belong within a nation built through successive waves of migration? What would help you feel that the national story includes you, too?

the original thirteen states make me think about how “original” stories can define who feels like an insider. Massachusetts matters to me because I live there now, but the founding states also remind me that the U.S. began as a regional and unequal project. The emphasis on colonial history can create a narrow idea of American identity if it leaves out Indigenous peoples, enslaved people, women, and later immigrants. Still, I can see space for newcomers if the national story is told as changing over time. I would feel more included if American history included students, immigrants, workers, and marginalized groups alongside the founders.

Reflect on what it means to move into a society governed by a written constitution. Does the idea of fixed rules and protected rights feel reassuring, or do you worry about how differently those rules can be experienced depending on race, class, language, or legal status? What constitutional promise feels most important to your ability to build a life in the U.S.?

the Constitution written in 1787 feels reassuring because it gives the U.S. a stable written framework. But I also worry about how differently its protections can be experienced depending on race, class, language, and legal status. Many groups were excluded when it was written, and rights had to be expanded later through amendments, protest, courts, and social movements. The constitutional promise most important to my life is due process, because I need government rules to be applied fairly as a non-citizen. Free speech and equal protection also matter to my ability to study and belong. The Constitution offers stability, but inclusion is still contested.

Reflect on why a new political system needed to be “sold” to the public through persuasive writing. Do you think people today still need that kind of explanation to trust government institutions? If you are new to U.S. politics, what kind of plain-language “Federalist Papers” would you want—on rights, federalism, or how immigration policy is made?

the Federalist Papers make me think about why a new political system needed to be explained and defended through persuasive writing. People today still need that kind of explanation because government institutions can feel distant, especially to newcomers. If I were new to U.S. politics, I would want a plain-language version explaining federalism, rights, immigration policy, courts, and how agencies make decisions. That would help me understand who has power and where to seek help. Clear explanation would make institutions feel less intimidating and more democratic. For me, trust grows when government is understandable.

Reflect on what it means that a constitution needs interpretation and public persuasion, not just a written text. Does that make the system feel more democratic because citizens must be convinced, or more fragile because meaning can be contested? What part of U.S. civic life would you most need explained in order to feel confident and included?

the Federalist Papers show that a constitution needs interpretation, persuasion, and public debate, not just a written text. That makes the system feel more democratic because citizens had to be convinced, but also fragile because meaning can be contested. As a student, I appreciate that political design had to be explained in public. But I also notice that these debates excluded enslaved people, women, Indigenous peoples, and many poor people. The part of U.S. civic life I would most need explained is how rights apply to non-citizens and how federal and state power interact. Understanding that would help me feel more included.

Reflect on why Franklin’s “self-made” image is so central to American cultural mythology. Does his mix of invention, civic improvement (like libraries), and public service feel inspiring—or does it set an unrealistic standard for newcomers? Which part of his legacy would you value most as someone trying to build a life: education access, community infrastructure, or international diplomacy?

Franklin’s self-made image feels inspiring but also intimidating. His mix of invention, education, civic improvement, and public service suggests that people can build themselves and contribute to society. That speaks to me because I came to Boston to grow through study, archives, writing, and professional experience. But it can set an unrealistic standard for newcomers with visa limits, debt, rent, and a competitive job market. The part of his legacy I value most is education access and community infrastructure, especially libraries. Libraries feel like democratic spaces where knowledge is less dependent on wealth.

Reflect on how “founding heroes” shape national identity and expectations of loyalty. Does Washington’s image feel like a unifying symbol you can relate to, or like a distant story that doesn’t reflect your community’s experience? What would it take for you to feel included in the nation’s shared symbols and narratives?

Washington’s image feels more like a distant national symbol than a story that naturally reflects my community’s experience. I understand why founding heroes can unify people and create expectations of loyalty. But as a French newcomer, I do not automatically feel attached to those symbols, and I know founding stories can hide slavery and Indigenous displacement. To feel included, I would need national narratives to include immigrants, women, enslaved people, Native peoples, workers, and students too. I can respect Washington as part of civic memory. But I would feel included only if national identity allowed critical belonging, not blind loyalty.

Reflect on the tension between Jefferson’s ideals and the realities of American history. Do his writings on equality and religious freedom feel meaningful to you as a newcomer, or do you focus more on how power and exclusion also shaped the early republic? Which Jefferson legacy—education, religious freedom, expansion, or founding documents—matters most to your own sense of rights and belonging?

Jefferson’s writings on equality and religious freedom feel meaningful because I am secular and value separation between religion and public life. His ideals give me language for rights, intellectual freedom, and civic equality. But I also focus on how power and exclusion shaped the early republic, especially slavery and expansion. The Jefferson legacy that matters most to me is education because I came to Boston for graduate study and want to work in archives, libraries, or public history. Religious freedom also matters because I want to belong without becoming religious. For me, Jefferson is useful but morally complicated.

Reflect on what it means that a single political framework can outlast generations and shape daily life for newcomers. Does the Constitution feel like a stable foundation that protects you, or like an old document that different groups interpret in ways that can either include or exclude you? What part of constitutional government would you most want to understand in order to feel secure in the U.S.?

Madison’s constitutional framework feels both stable and open to competing interpretations. I depend on principles like due process, free speech, and equal protection, even though I cannot vote. That makes the Constitution feel protective. But as an F1 student, I know legal protection does not equal full belonging. The part of constitutional government I most want to understand is how rights apply to non-citizens and how federal immigration power is limited. If I understand those boundaries, I can feel less vulnerable. The Constitution protects me only if institutions interpret it in ways that include people like me.

Reflect on why financial institutions and economic policy mattered so much to the early republic—and still matter now. If you are trying to build stability (work, credit, housing), do you see a strong federal role in the economy as helpful or threatening? How might your own economic position shape whether you view Hamilton’s legacy as opportunity, control, or inequality?

Hamilton’s focus on financial institutions makes me think about whether economic policy helps people build stability. My life in Boston is shaped by rent, tuition, debt, transit costs, health insurance, and a competitive job market. A strong federal role in the economy feels helpful when it supports education, labour rights, housing, infrastructure, and crisis relief. But it feels threatening if it mainly protects banks, investors, or people who already have capital. Because I hope to work in meaningful but often underpaid cultural fields, I see Hamilton’s legacy as both opportunity and inequality. My economic position makes stability feel political.

Reflect on how territorial expansion shaped who could belong and who was displaced. Does learning about the Louisiana Purchase change how you think about the U.S. as a “nation of immigrants” versus a settler-colonial state built through land acquisition? How might this history affect how you talk about migration, borders, and belonging today?

the Louisiana Purchase changes how I think about the U.S. as both a nation of immigrants and a settler-colonial state. Since the territory was bought from France, the history feels close to my own background. It reminds me that territorial expansion shaped who could belong and who was displaced. I came through education and visas, not conquest, but I still enter a country shaped by land acquisition and Indigenous loss. This history makes me careful when I talk about migration, borders, and opportunity. For some people expansion meant possibility; for others, it meant dispossession.

Reflect on what these wars suggest about how the U.S. became the country you are moving into. Do you see a pattern of internal conflict over rights and belonging (Civil War), expansion and border change (Mexican–American War), or growing global influence (Spanish–American War)? Which pattern feels most relevant to your own migration story and your expectations of life in the U.S.?

the pattern most relevant to my migration story is the U.S. becoming a global power, though internal conflicts over rights also matter. I came to Boston partly because of American universities, archives, cultural institutions, and soft power. That opportunity exists because the U.S. became globally influential. But wars in the 1800s also show patterns of civil conflict, border expansion, and intervention. This makes me cautious about the American Dream because national growth often involved violence. I benefit from U.S. prestige, but I do not want to ignore the conflicts behind it.

Reflect on how a “civil” war—war within one country—shapes national identity and long-term divisions. Does learning about the Civil War change how you understand present-day debates about race, regional identity, and federal power? If your own background includes internal conflict, how does that affect how you relate to this part of U.S. history?

learning about the Civil War changes how I understand present-day debates about race, regional identity, and federal power. From abroad, the U.S. can look unified, but the Civil War shows how deeply divided the country has been over slavery and belonging. Coming from France, I am used to a more centralized national story, even though France has its own conflicts. The Civil War helps explain why debates about states’ rights, policing, monuments, and racial justice still matter. It also shows that a country can share institutions while disagreeing about who belongs. As a newcomer, I am entering an unfinished argument about freedom and equality.

Reflect on what counts as a “turning point” in a struggle for rights. Does the Emancipation Proclamation feel like a moment of moral progress, a strategic wartime move, or both? How does this history shape your understanding of freedom and equality as promises that can be proclaimed—but still take generations to secure in everyday life?

the Emancipation Proclamation feels like both moral progress and a strategic wartime move. That combination matters because rights often advance through imperfect political conditions. It shows that freedom can be proclaimed before it is fully secured in daily life. As someone on a visa, I understand the difference between legal status and real security, even though my situation is not comparable to slavery. Being allowed to study here does not automatically mean feeling stable or fully included. The Proclamation teaches me that turning points matter, but enforcement and long-term struggle matter too.

Reflect on what kind of leadership you expect in moments of national crisis. Do you value Lincoln most as a unifier who preserved the nation, or as a moral symbol linked to emancipation and equality? How might your own experiences with political leaders—trustworthy or oppressive—influence how you read Lincoln’s legacy?

I value Lincoln most as a moral symbol linked to emancipation and equality, but I also understand why Americans remember him as a unifier. In a national crisis, I would want leadership that preserves institutions without ignoring injustice. Unity alone is not enough if it asks vulnerable people to wait for rights. My progressive values make me drawn to leaders who connect stability with moral change. At the same time, I am cautious about turning political leaders into saints. Lincoln’s legacy reminds me that leadership can open a door, but equality depends on what institutions and citizens do afterward.

Reflect on what it means when freedom is proclaimed as a legal principle but depends on enforcement and power to become real. Does this make you think differently about rights in the U.S.—as promises that may require institutions, politics, and struggle to fulfil? If you have come from a country where laws existed “on paper” but not in reality, how does this story resonate with your own experience?

the Emancipation Proclamation makes me think about how freedom can be declared legally but still depend on enforcement and power. It changed the meaning of the Civil War, but freedom still required Union victory, the Thirteenth Amendment, and long struggles afterward. This makes me see rights in the U.S. as promises that need institutions, politics, and pressure to become real. In my own life, having permission to study here does not automatically mean stability or equal opportunity. I still deal with visa rules, debt, high living costs, and job competition. Rights matter most when they become real in daily life.

Reflect on what it means that freedom became real through a sequence of events—war (1861–1865), a wartime proclamation (1863), and a constitutional amendment (1865). Does that timeline make you see rights as something that can be declared quickly but secured slowly? How does this shape your trust in laws and institutions in the U.S. today?

the sequence of the Civil War, the Emancipation Proclamation, and the Thirteenth Amendment shows that rights can be declared quickly but secured slowly. This makes me respect U.S. institutions because constitutional change can make rights permanent. But it also makes me cautious because justice often comes only after enormous suffering. As someone who depends on laws and paperwork, I know legal rules matter, but they do not automatically create fairness. I would trust institutions more when they combine legal principles with real access, enforcement, and protection for vulnerable people. Freedom is a process, not one moment.

Reflect on how the 14th Amendment (1868) shapes your sense of possibility in the U.S. If you have (or might have) children born in the U.S., does this constitutional guarantee make you feel more secure—or does it highlight tensions about who is socially accepted as “American”? What would citizenship mean in your daily life beyond the legal definition?

the Fourteenth Amendment makes citizenship feel both hopeful and tense. If I ever had children born in the U.S., birthright citizenship would offer them security I do not have as an F1 student. But it would also raise questions about social acceptance: would they be seen as fully American or as children of foreigners? Beyond legal status, citizenship would mean voting, serving on a jury, planning a future without visa anxiety, and feeling that institutions recognize my stake in society. The amendment makes belonging possible, but it also shows how contested “American” can be.

Reflect on what it means that voting rights were expanded through constitutional change but still faced resistance in everyday life. Does this history make you more hopeful about gradual progress, or more aware of how rights can exist “on paper” while being limited in practice? If you cannot vote yet, how does this story shape what you expect from U.S. democracy?

the expansion of voting rights after the Civil War makes me hopeful but realistic. It shows that constitutional change can expand democracy, but also that rights can exist on paper while being limited in practice. As a non-citizen, I know what it means to live under laws without voting. This history shapes my expectation that U.S. democracy is powerful but incomplete. Voting rights require access, safety, enforcement, and recognition, not only formal legal language. It makes me believe inclusion must be defended politically and socially across generations.

Reflect on how these women show different routes into political change—organising, argument-writing, public speaking, coalition-building, and direct action. Which kind of leadership feels closest to your own strengths or lived experience? How might gender expectations in the U.S. shape your opportunities and constraints as a newcomer?

the kind of leadership closest to my strengths is argument-writing and community-building rather than direct action. I am a humanities student, so I believe in language, archives, publishing, and public memory as tools for change. I feel drawn to women who organized, built networks, gave speeches, and made ideas public. Gender expectations in the U.S. could affect me because cultural and educational work often depends on women’s labour without always paying or promoting women fairly. Since I worry about gender pay fairness and professional insecurity, women’s rights history feels personal. It shows me that visibility, confidence, and collective organizing matter.

Reflect on which of these wars most shapes how Americans might perceive people from your region (sympathy, suspicion, stereotypes, “security” debates). Which conflict feels closest to your own family history—and how might that affect your comfort with U.S. foreign policy and military power?

World War II most shapes how Americans might perceive people from my region because I am French and European. Americans often associate Europe with alliance, liberation, democracy, and shared Western values, which can make my presence more easily accepted than immigrants from regions linked to recent security fears. That privilege matters. World War II is also closest to my family’s broader European memory, especially the defeat of fascism and liberation of France. This can make me more comfortable with parts of U.S. foreign policy history, but not uncritical. War can bring liberation for some and trauma for many, so my view of American military power is grateful but cautious.