The very first short story I ever sold was called "Jonny Punkinhead" and it was a metaphor for what happened to children at the Sherman Institute for ... I think they did call it ... "Indian children" in Riverside, CA where my family was from. I used to drive by this school every day. It was a boarding school where kids from all the Indigenous towns were gathered up and sent, exactly like the pictures you have here. I didn't even understand much of what you've covered here, I just knew, myself, even as a little kid, that it was wrong. I knew kids weren't supposed to have to live away from their families, and I knew they weren't supposed to have to wear certain clothes, or be a certain way that was forced on them, like they were criminals. I sold this story pretty much by accident. I don't think if I'd known more or been more obvious about what I was writing about (the little boy in it was "changed" by a mutation virus to have a head like a pumpkin, his family couldn't handle it, so he was sent to the boarding school along with lots of others) I would have even sold that story. Back in the 90s, there was no desire to have any type of story told about nonrich, nonwhite people. In the story, Jonny was Black, not Indigenous. I see now, that the school is still there and kids are still going to it. It's nice to see that you get the racist guys too. They can kiss my a@@.