The Immigrant Multiplier in Historical and Contemporary Contexts

I've been thinking a lot lately about the immigrant multiplier, a term used to refer to the number of other people that ultimately enter the country with, or because of, a single migrant. Many of the discussions revolve around trying to produce accurate figures for chain migration (through family reunification,) to understand not simply the number of people admitted each year for legal permanent resident status, but also the net immigration gain.

As comprehensive reform once again enters the political discourse, estimating the actual multiplier is bound to play a role. As an example of the power of the chain migration, many commentators point to the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act [among other factors] as causing many of the extreme backlogs in family preference categories today, as IRCA's amnesty provisions created a large number of new residents and citizens who could then petition for their family members to enter.

So what is the actual multiplier? In his theoretical account of the immigration reforms of 1965, David Reimers has shown that one student (on nonimmigrant status,) can enter the country, and within ten years, bring over 18 others. This multiplier of 18 is certainly the high point, and more empircally based studies have found the actual number to be far less. Jasso and Rosenzweig,* for instance, estimate the multiplier at only 1.2 other people per migrant, out of a cohort of 1971 labor migrants. The most up-to-date figures come from Bin Yu, using a wider sample size, and a slightly different methodology, which combines reunfication (i.e. those coming through chain migration,) and reproduction (2nd generation, etc..) Yu's figure is still far lower than Reimers, at only 4.3.

So how does this factor into my dissertation on the development of immigration policy in the 1950s and 1960s? The evidence that I have found in the archives so far indicates that policymakers in the 1950s and early 1960s based their estimates for divising immigration reform on studies of the first postwar piece of immigration legislation, the Displaced Persons Act (DP Act,) which worked to bring in those people affected by WWII and the Holocaust. Over and again in the debates over reform, legislators and bureaucrats referred to a multiplier of 2.4 family members per immigrant (though the term immigrant multiplier had not yet been coin.) This figure of 2.4 had significant weight when it came to proposals to widen immigrant admissions, as liberals and restrictionists fought over a slew of reform proposals. It also played into the creation of immigration/refugee bureaucracy, as policymaker decided where to open consulates, refugee centers, etc.

I am still trying to figure out how exactly to fit this information into my narrative of the rise a new preference system that heavily favored family reunification over all other categories (especially labor market needs,) but it strikes me that 2.4 is a rather small figure, which could help to account for some of the "unintended consequences" of the 1965 Immigration Act. It also makes me think that legislators were actually much more concerned with net migration than scholars have acknowledged.

Found in the Archives...

Congressional Record, Sept. 15, 1961, pgs. 19650-19651

Pastore: “The senior Senator from Rhode Island will never be satisfied until there is a real liberalization of the immigration laws. But it can be safely said here today that this is a very real step forward in bringing about the liberalization of the naturalization laws. I do not agree with every feature of the bill.”
Eastland: "Has the Senator ever agreed with every feature of every bill?"
Pastore: “There have been times. I have agreed with the Ten Commandments. But I know the Senator is jesting.”
Eastland: But the Ten Commandments have never been before the Senate in Bill Form.”

Dog Skeletons, Bigfoot, and American Intellectual History

This evening I finished reading a book by an anthropologist named Grover Krantz (1931-2002). The book, Only a Dog, is somewhat of a rare volume. I only learned of it from an intern at the National Anthropological Archives, where I am currently working on my dissertation. Krantz is most well-known for being one of the only professional scientists who supported the belief in the existence of Bigfoot or Sasquatch, a mysterious, human-like creature in the Pacific Northwest. Upon his death, Krantz donated his own body, and the body of his beloved Irish Wolfhound, Clyde, to science. Much of the book takes place in Berkeley in the 1960s, when Krantz worked at what is now the Hearst Museum of Anthropology. The book's honesty impressed me, as Krantz's story of his wonderful relationship with his dog is punctuated by struggles with alcohol. The vast majority of the book, however, fancifully centers on the enormous size of the dog. Perhaps due to the fact that I'm a graduate student at Berkeley or the fact that I miss my own dog, I was interested enough to read the book. The little, seemingly frivolous volume forced me to spend a little time contemplating how we view public intellectuals historically.

Krantz's book ends with an emotional description of the decline and death of his beloved dog, Clyde. The book details the emotional emptiness Krantz felt after Clyde's death. Krantz struggles though the dark weeks and months that followed. He broods through life, ending relationships, talking aimlessly to himself, and returning to booze. Eventually, Krantz returns to the site of Clyde's burial and he begins to disinter the grave of his beloved pet. Krantz recognized the value of Clyde's enormous skeleton and he hoped to add it to his growing collection of animal remains for study and teaching purposes. The process of digging up his deceased pet proved so emotional for Krantz that he forced himself back into his house before consuming a full gallon of wine, mustering up the courage to continue the work. Krantz's emotional difficulty in the task of digging up his former pet is understandable, he explains that prior to his acquisition of the dog, his life was virtually directionless. After ten years with his companion, he was an established scholar and less of a slave to alcohol.

Upon his death, Krantz donated his own remains to the Smithsonian Institution, with the condition that the remains of his dog be placed with his own in the museum. Today, Krantz's remains can be seen at the end of the Smithsonian's Written in Bone exhibit. In his book, Krantz details his amusement in seeing the reactions of passers by in observing his dog's enormous size, so I like to think Krantz would have appreciated the reaction of most visitors to his remains, which are articulated along with Clyde's skeleton; befuddlement, amusement, and interest. I am only so bold as to assume this because I recently spent some time observing visitor reactions to his remains at the Smithsonian.

Krantz's career in anthropology began in the 1960s and he therefore falls outside of the purview of my dissertation, which concludes at the end of the Second World War. What interests me about Krantz is the manner in which he is perceived by those interested in the history of anthropology. Krantz made several important contributions to the study of ancient man and played a role in the court proceedings surrounding Kennewick Man. Krantz also wrote extensively about the concepts of race and human evolution. He also built extensive personal collections of human and animal remains that would add to the collections of other public institutions upon his death. If pressed, my guess is that most contemporary physical anthropologists would recognize some of Krantz's intellectual contributions to their field, yet they would also probably chide his belief in the existence of Bigfoot above all else.

Contemporary physical anthropologists may not be alone in this assessment. When historians finally attempt to take Krantz into account in their own narratives (I've yet to see a treatment of his career by a historian of anthropology) my guess is that they, too, will focus mainly on his interest in Bigfoot Studies. Krantz's role as a public intellectual, frequently appearing on TV, popular magazines and in newspapers, typically surrounded this belief in the existence of Bigfoot. His embrace of the role of as "Scientist for Sasquatch," will no doubt shape his public memory.

As a student of intellectual history, I struggle with the tendency to place various intellectuals into boxes, or at least the desire to fit the ideas of specific intellectuals onto flash cards. As historians we often fail to draw more complete portraits of individuals unless we provide them with more extensive treatment in the form of intellectual biography. More often, intellectuals are represented in our works as representative of key ideas being espoused at particular moments, as pieces of evidence to prove our thesis. It is tempting to include details about the life history of intellectuals into our work, as though every scrap of information about their childhood informs their later intellectual contributions. Instead, perhaps it is best to aim for a broader understanding of the intellectuals we study, while informing our readers of our close reading of personal intellectual developments. No doubt, this is easier said than done.

A reminder that a controversial intellectual like Krantz was more than a Bigfoot theorist, or an expert witness in a heated trial, or an articulated skeleton at the end of an exhibition - is probably a good thing. My hope is that this more rounded portrait isn't lost on historians who hope to fit Kantz into their stories. Krantz's personal life was deeply afflicted his relationship to drink, and it was something as seemingly as trivial as a dog saved his entire life and career.