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Almost a century ago, each of my four grandparents traveled north in search of a better life. My father's parents, African Americans just two generations out of slavery, migrated from the farmlands of Valdosta, Ga., to the auto plants of Detroit. My mother's family, Caribbean immigrants, journeyed from the Bahama Islands to Ellis Island, then on to Philadelphia.

Recently, as I marched alongside thousands of immigrants and their supporters in New York City, I thought often of my grandparents' parallel journeys, each motivated by the American promise of opportunity.

Some are arguing that it is against black people's interest to offer undocumented immigrants a pathway to legal employment and citizenship. Their concern is understandable, but misplaced. Immigrants and African Americans have always shared a common destiny in our country, and have a common interest in advancing opportunity for everyone.

According to recent polls, African Americans are more likely than non-Hispanic whites to say that immigrants hurt the economy by driving down wages, but more likely to say that the United States should make it easier for undocumented immigrants to become citizens. That's not surprising. We know what it means to do low-paying, menial labor under oppressive conditions. We know what it means to be targeted by law enforcement. And we know what it means to be made a second-class member of society because of what you look like or where you come from.

Why should African Americans support the inclusion of immigrants in our society when we have not yet been fully included in the American Dream ourselves? Because demanding opportunity and human rights for all is central to who we are. And because we share with immigrants a common interest in realizing those goals.

My family's story illustrates those shared values and interests. My grandparents' kids (also known as my mom and dad) became public school teachers who focused on the achievement of disadvantaged students - African Americans, immigrants, and poor whites. And they each joined the civil rights movement. My mom used her spare time to organize housekeepers and nannies - African American women, as well as Latin American and Caribbean immigrants - to insist on decent wages and conditions. Her activism warmed the heart of my Bahamian grandmother, who had been a domestic worker most of her life.

More recently, I've seen that common call for opportunity happening in my own community. Although I live in an integrated neighborhood in Brooklyn, the children at my daughter's public school are virtually all African Americans and immigrants. As in many parts of the country, these are the families with the greatest interest in an adequately funded public school system that works for everyone. They are working together to make that happen, demanding high standards and equal treatment for our students, teachers, and schools.

And when New York police officers tortured Haitian immigrant Abner Louima and killed West African immigrant Amadou Diallo in a hail of 41 bullets, African Americans and immigrants stood together to demand justice. Their shared interests, like their shared outrage, were undeniable.

To be sure, there are times when African Americans and immigrants compete for the same jobs, support different candidates, and disagree about neighborhood priorities. But those differences are part of the American experience. They don't change the fact that, at the end of the day, we're all in it together.