Voices of First-Gen Founders and Entrepreneurs
At the MIT New Colossus project, we are deeply committed to bringing to light the remarkable stories of first-generation immigrant trailblazers in the USA. Through our research and conversations at MIT, we synthesize insights and perspectives of pioneers who have embodied extraordinary tenacity and resilience that propelled their entrepreneurial or academic success. Our mission is to empower aspiring immigrant entrepreneurs and founders, guiding them to address the most prevailing challenges in their own endeavors.
Our mission is to empower aspiring immigrant entrepreneurs and founders through our community of role models and partners, guiding them to address the most prevailing challenges in their own endeavors.
The name of the project is inspired by the poem The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus written at the base of the Statue of Liberty at the entrance of the New York City harbor.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!