Stolen Generation Quotes

We black Southerners, through life, love, and labor, are the generators and architects of American music, narrative, language, capital, and morality. That belongs to us. Take away all those stolen West African girls and boys forced to find an oral culture to express, resist, and signify in the South, and we have no rich American idiom.

It (politician) wants to separate them. And to do so it has chosen the worst, blackest pencil of all - the pencil of war, which spells only misery and death.

All of us somehow felt that the next battleground was going to be culture. We all felt somehow that our culture had been stolen from us – by commercial forces, by advertising agencies, by TV broadcasters. It felt like we were no longer singing our songs and telling stories, and generating our culture from the bottom up, but now we were somehow being spoon-fed this commercial culture top down.

In Germany, restitution has rightly been paid, and continues to be paid, to survivors of the Holocaust. In America, it was the slaveholders who got restitution, not the people whose lives and wages were stolen from them for twelve generations.

humans with their brief lives, these beautiful objects could reach across the generations, each with a story to tell if only one could unlock its secrets.

The themes that exercised the minds of survivor movements and their allies within the health and welfare professions generated a political project: how to revolutionise medical and judicial approaches to injured adults and children, how to raise awareness so that other people didn’t have to suffer the same, and how to understand, and then challenge, offenders who so love what they do to children that they can and must shut their minds to the feelings of children who have put their trust in them. P4

So the women would not forgive. Their passion remained intact, carefully guarded and nurtured by the bitter knowledge of all they had lost, of all that had been stolen from them. For generations they vilified the Yankee race so the thief would have a face, a name, a mysterious country into which he had withdrawn and from which he might venture again. They banded together into a militant freemasonry of remembering, and from that citadel held out against any suggestion that what they had suffered and lost might have been in vain. They created the Lost Cause, and consecrated that proud fiction with the blood of real men. To the Lost Cause they dedicated their own blood, their own lives, and to it they offered books, monographs, songs, acres and acres of bad poetry. They fashioned out of grief and loss an imaginary world in which every Southern church had stabled Yankee horses, every nick in Mama's furniture was made by Yankee spurs, every torn painting was the victim of Yankee sabre - a world in which paint did not stick to plaster walls because of the precious salt once hidden there; in which bloodstains could not be washed away and every other house had been a hospital.

These students of mine, like the rest of their generation, were different from mine in one fundamental aspect. My generation complained of a loss, the void in our lives that was created when our past was stolen from us, making us exile in our own country. Yet we had a past to compare with the present; we had memories and images of what had been taken away. But my girls spoke constantly of stolen kisses, films they had never seen and the wind they had never felt on their skin. This generation had no past. Their memory was of a half-articulated desire, something they had never had. It was this lack, their sense of longing for the ordinary, taken-for-granted aspects of life, that gave their words a certain luminous quality akin to poetry.

Forty-seven generations before, the King of the Southerners had stolen a rhinoceros out of the Northern King’s private zoo. (—That’s it? —Wars have started for less. —But that’s stupid. —Precisely.)

There are only so many hours in the day for amateur pursuits—and very few writers are as gifted as Wallace Stevens or T. S. Eliot or Sylvia Plath, able to generate something lasting from stolen moments.

From when she was young, Molly had learned that the fence was an important landmark for the Mardudjara people of the Western Desert who migrated south from the remote regions. They knew that once they reached Billanooka Station, it was simply a matter of following the rabbit-proof fence to their final destination, the Jigalong government depot; the desert outpost of the white man. The fence cut through the country from south to north. It was a typical response by the white people to a problem of their own making. Building a fence to keep the rabbits out proved to be a futile attempt by the government of the day. For the three runaways, the fence was a symbol of love, home and security.

In Germany, restitution has rightly been paid, and continues to be paid, to survivors of the Holocaust. In America, it was the slaveholders who got restitution, not the people whose lives and wages were stolen from them for twelve generations. Those

...when the black populations of the world have a future, so will the Western nations have a future-and not till then. But the terrible probability is that the Western populations, struggling to hold on to what they have stolen from their captives, and unable to look into their mirror will precipitate a chaos throughout the world which, if it does not bring life on this planet to an end, will bring about a racial war such as the world has never seen, and for which generations yet unborn will curse our names forever.

You should have seen the other ones who were locked up for running away," she said. "They all got seven days punishment with just bread and water. Mr Johnson shaved their heads bald and made them parade around the compound so that everyone could see them. They got the strap too.

Sexual violence against Black women has been ongoing ever since Africans were stolen from the motherland centuries ago. After generations of fighting to have a voice that is heard above the din of racism, classism, and sexism, we still have to go in ending the violence, which is still too familiar in the lives of many women.

Days after the elections of 2016, asha sent me a link to a talk by astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson. We have to have hope, she says to me across 3,000 miles, she in Brooklyn, me in Los Angeles. We listen together as Dr. deGrasse Tyson explains that the very atoms and molecules in our bodies are traceable to the crucibles in the centers of stars that once upon a time exploded into gas clouds. And those gas clouds formed other stars and those stars possessed the divine-right mix of properties needed to create not only planets, including our own, but also people, including us, me and her. He is saying that not only are we in the universe, but that the universe is in us. He is saying that we, human beings, are literally made out of stardust. And I know when I hear Dr. deGrasse Tyson say this that he is telling the truth because I have seen it since I was a child, the magic, the stardust we are, in the lives of the people I come from. I watched it in the labor of my mother, a Jehovah's Witness and a woman who worked two and sometimes three jobs at a time, keeping other people's children, working the reception desks at gyms, telemarketing, doing anything and everything for 16 hours a day the whole of my childhood in the Van Nuys barrio where we lived. My mother, cocoa brown and smooth, disowned by her family for the children she had as a very young and unmarried woman. My mother, never giving up despite never making a living wage. I saw it in the thin, brown face of my father, a boy out of Cajun country, a wounded healer, whose addictions were borne of a world that did not love him and told him so not once but constantly. My father, who always came back, who never stopped trying to be a version of himself there were no mirrors for. And I knew it because I am the thirteenth-generation progeny of a people who survived the hulls of slave ships, survived the chains, the whips, the months laying in their own shit and piss. The human beings legislated as not human beings who watched their names, their languages, their Goddesses and Gods, the arc of their dances and beats of their songs, the majesty of their dreams, their very families snatched up and stolen, disassembled and discarded, and despite this built language and honored God and created movement and upheld love. What could they be but stardust, these people who refused to die, who refused to accept the idea that their lives did not matter, that their children's lives did not matter?

As the car disappeared down the road, old Granny Frinda lay crumpled on the red dirt calling for her granddaughters and cursing the people responsible for their abduction. In their grief the women asked why their children should be taken from them. Their anguished cries echoed across the flats, carried by the wind. But no one listened to them, no one heard them.

[Bloodraven] fingered the cloth, marveling at the tightness of the weave. The things that the men of the lowlands were capable of never ceased to amaze him. Those few stolen items that trickled up to the northern tribes were bartered at high prices, for even the mountain humans who worked in fear of their lives for the tribes, did not create such clever things. But then again, perhaps they were capable, but chose not to share with the race that had hunted and oppressed them for generations. Understandable. If he were in the same position he’d have offered nothing more than the simplest tasks demanded of him. Not for the first time he considered the tribal chieftains of old fools for choosing to make war with the humans instead of ally with them.

The questions must be, what were the effects on the people as their lands were stolen and desecrated, relationships destroyed, children taken and violated, lore and ceremonies devalued and dishonoured? What long-term impacts have these separate yet inter-related tragedies had on the survivors? Answers to these questions will provide answers to present distressful circumstances.

... by destroying a culture’s art, you destroy the people. (...) If you erase every reminder of their history, their symbology, everything everything that made them special and distinct in this world, then you can make those people forget who they really are. And that’s what conquerors truly want. (...) Because only after that can the conquerors get down to the business of really taking over. Of substituting their own history, their own symbols, their own meaning, on another. Of casting the conquered as outsiders in their own land. (...) Sure there are other things that go—language, clothes, food. But people have to eat. They have to clothe themselves. They need to talk. Those things can take generations to eradicate. Art on the other hand is wrongly seen as a luxury, easily stolen without consequence. But those baubles you’re talking about are far more valuable than money. And don’t you believe for a second that the people buying and selling them don’t understand that better than anyone else.

it was slavery that allowed American democracy to exist in the first place. It was slavery that gifted much of the South with a working class that lived outside of all protections and could be driven, beaten, and traded into generational perpetuity. Profits pulled from these workers, repression of the normal angst of labor, and the ability to employ this labor on abundant land stolen from Native Americans formed a foundation for democratic equality among a people who came to see skin color and hair textures as defining features.

Money depends on the scarcity of what props it up for its value, but isn’t that also an illusion? Rare and precious metals like diamonds are controlled by blood merchants who modulate their flow to keep the value at an acceptable level. And if gold is so rare, how are there enough gold bars to build a home for a family of two in Fort Knox alone? It doesn’t help that all things are constantly devalued. Before Gutenberg made type movable, only the wealthiest could afford books, and a Bible with tooled leather cover, gold-edged pages, and jewel-encrusted bindings was a symbol of not just piety but status, wealth, and taste. Within a few generations, the rabble were able to follow along in the hymnals from the cheap seats, forcing the wealthy to find another symbol to lord over the hoi polloi. ’Twas ever thus. The battle between the rich man and the poor man is fought on many battlefields, not all of them immediately obvious. Today the wealthy dress in sweatsuits and the homeless have iPhones. People with no discernible income buy flawless knockoff watches with one-letter misspellings to thwart copyright. And then wealthy people buy the same “Rulex” so their six-figure real watches won’t get stolen when they are out at dinner.

I am the thirteenth-generation progeny of a people who survived the hulls of slave ships, survived the chains, the whips, the months laying in their own shit and piss. The human beings legislated as not human beings who watched their names, their languages, their Goddesses and Gods, the arc of their dances and beats of their songs, the majesty of their dreams, their very families snatched up and stolen, disassembled and discarded, and despite this built language and honored God and created movement and upheld love. What could they be but stardust, these people who refused to die, who refused to accept the idea that their lives did not matter, that their children’s lives did not matter?

As Yarrow slept and the moon rose high in the sky, a breeze rustled through stalks of onyx-hued basil and deep gray sage, tall as sunflowers. Starlight fell in slants across petals of black violets. A night-dark strawberry rolled across the ground. A plum-colored tomato fell from its stem. Borage and pansies and nasturtium in varying shades of black and gray turned the darkness into its own kind of rainbow. Beneath the soil lurked something even darker. Generations of pain saturated the earth, fed each stem and fruit and flower. In the soft, thick leaves of sage: loss. In the blackened basil: broken hearts. Tucked inside the husks of charcoal corn: anger and betrayal. Trapped within the bell of burgundy calla lilies: stolen innocence.

The humans. He found them beautiful, too. These people seemed to be attracted to him, too. They peered at him intently. They leaned in close enough for him to see the tears caught in their eyelashes or hear the intake of their breath. He was held in the palm of this hand. He was kissed chastely by those lips. This cheek leaned against him appreciatively. That heart beat against him. He was watched, he was embraced, he was carried, he was bartered, he was strung around necks and wrists, he was worn, he was put in drawers, he was hidden in boxes, he was dropped in growing pools of warm blood, he was gifted, he was stolen, he was wanted, he was wanted, he was wanted. Eventually, he understood that people weren’t seeing him. They were seeing the objects he was looking out of: sweetmetals. To them, he was the painting in a marble hall, the locket against a breastbone, the hound sculpture hugged by generations of children, the broken clock displayed on the mantel. He was the ring on the finger and he was the tool that carved it, but more than that, he was what was inside the sweetmetal, too; he was the love, he was the hate, he was the life, he was the death, he was everything that made a sweetmetal a sweetmetal.

hopeful the works will be recovered. “People think that 25 years on might be a reason to give up hope, but it’s not,’’ said Amore. “When masterpieces are stolen, they’re typically recovered either right away or a generation later. We’re at that generation-later phase.’’ That’s a comfort to Hawley. “Maybe it’s a fool’s paradise, but I just don’t believe that we won’t get them back,’’ she said. “He has the data. I’m living on hope.

The abolition occurred just as it became clear that much of the wealth that had been seemingly created in the Roaring Nineties was nothing more than a phantasm, that much of the wealth was “stolen” property, acquired through misleading accounting and tax scams, in an economy where corporate governance had failed, and failed badly. But for the lucky few who had cashed in, there was the basis to found a new set of dynasties. At least the railroad barons of the nineteenth century, who used political influence to attain their riches, left behind a legacy of railroads, of hard capital, which bound the country together and energized its growth. What was the legacy of so many of the dot-com millionaires and billionaires, the executives of Enron, Global Crossing, WorldCom, and Adelphi, other than the horror stories which would regale future generations?

... by destroying a culture’s art, you destroy the people. (...) If you erase every reminder of their history, their symbology, everything everything that made them special and distinct in this world, then you can make those people forget who they really are. And that’s what conquerors truly want. (...) Because only after that can the conquerors get down to the business of really taking over. Of substituting their own history, their own symbols, their own meaning, on another. Of casting the conquered as outsiders in their own land. (...) Sure there are other things that go—language, clothes, food. But people have to eat. They have to clothe themselves. They need to talk. Those things can take generations to eradicate. Art on the other hand is wrongly seen as a luxury, easily stolen without consequence. But those baubles you’re talking about are far more valuable than money. And don’t you believe for a second that the people buying and selling them don’t understand that better than anyone else.

... by destroying a culture’s art, you destroy the people. (...) If you erase every reminder of their history, their symbology, everything that made them special and distinct in this world, then you can make those people forget who they really are. And that’s what conquerors truly want. (...) Because only after that can the conquerors get down to the business of really taking over. Of substituting their own history, their own symbols, their own meaning, on another. Of casting the conquered as outsiders in their own land. (...) Sure there are other things that go—language, clothes, food. But people have to eat. They have to clothe themselves. They need to talk. Those things can take generations to eradicate. Art on the other hand is wrongly seen as a luxury, easily stolen without consequence. But those baubles you’re talking about are far more valuable than money. And don’t you believe for a second that the people buying and selling them don’t understand that better than anyone else.

The pulse of history beats in every family. All of our lives are engraved with epics of love and death. What my family gained and lost in the twentieth century, though extreme, was not unique. War has touched all of us. Fate and chance and character make and break every generation. The Shoah was not the only genocide. America is not the first land of opportunity nor will it be the last. Warring peoples have fought over the Holy Land for thousands of years, all of them claiming to have God on their side. In a family history written by Palestinian Arabs, Chaim and Sonia and their fellow Zionists would be oppressors; the Koran, not the Torah, would be the holy book; Jerusalem would be a besieged, stolen city. Open the book of your family and you will be amazed, as I was, at what you find.

Money that was earned is way less slippery than money that was stolen, won, or inherited.

The cases were as easy to prove as they were tragic to charge. In the rush to clean up the streets, we were criminalizing a public health crisis. And without a focus on treatment and prevention, the crack epidemic spread like a deadly virus, burning through city after city until it had stolen a generation of people.

But someone wanted that land too, so the bedrolls were packed again, thinner this time. In the span of a single generation my ancestors were “removed” three times—Wisconsin to Kansas, points in between, and then to Oklahoma. I wonder if they looked back for a last glimpse of the lakes, glimmering like a mirage. Did they touch the trees in remembrance as they became fewer and fewer, until there was only grass? Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren’t looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground.

There is also the Territory of historical self-righteousness: if we had lived south of the Ohio in 1830, we would not have owned slaves; if we had lived on the frontier, we would have killed no Indians, violated no treaties, stolen no land. The probability is overwhelming that if we had belonged to the generations we deplore, we too would have behaved deplorably.

Finally, a period of healing began for those who had lost so much. Veterans everywhere, no matter the color of their uniform or skin, licked their wounds and headed for home. Prisoners of Japanese internment camps and Jewish concentration camps alike lamented their stolen lives. And broken families around the globe mourned the loss of a generation of young men: boys who became men through valor but whose hair would never go gray; soldiers who would never bask in the glory of a victory parade, never smell the warm, milky breath of their newborn babies; sailors who would never turn their sweethearts into brides.

It’s easy to convince yourself that the past has no bearing on how we live today. But the Abolition of Slavery Act was introduced in the British Empire in 1833, less than two hundred years ago. Given that the British began trading in African slaves in 1562, slavery as a British institution existed for much longer than it has currently been abolished – over 270 years. Generation after generation of black lives stolen, families torn apart, communities split. Thousands of people being born into slavery and dying enslaved, never knowing what it might mean to be free. Entire lives sustaining constant brutality and violence, living in never-ending fear. Generation after generation of white wealth amassed from the profits of slavery, compounded, seeping into the fabric of British society.

The sooner they destroyed the new wormhole generator, the sooner it would be ensured that they would not have to experience the outcomes from the creeping changes to the landscape and the air.

Many people saw Sanders’s run for the presidency in 2016 as a joke. But his crazy socialist ideas of free college, free health care for all, higher minimum wage, income redistribution, and tearing the heart out of capitalism almost gave him the Democrat Party’s nomination. It’s hard to run against “free everything.” Even if that is a pipe dream, it’s appealing to those who don’t get or choose not to realize that nothing is free. He won twenty-three primaries, 13.2 million votes, and 1,865 delegates. Though he ultimately lost to Hillary, in what was really a stolen and rigged primary, his success gave birth to a new generation of socialists who now threaten to take over the Democrat Party—and the country, if they ever find their way to power.

in honor of Aponte and his companions was placed there in the 1940s, though it was stolen in more recent times. Among Black communities in Havana, his memory was kept alive from generation to generation. Afro-Cuban historian José Luciano Franco recalled that in the 1960s, stories of Aponte’s accomplishments—including his participation in the American Revolution—were well known in popular neighborhoods.

Colonization, slavery, the U.S. reservation system, Canada’s Residential Schools, Australia’s Stolen Generation—these were so destructive across so many generations because they intentionally destroyed the family and cultural bonds that keep a people connected.

In March of 2021, Brett Blomme, a Milwaukee judge and former president of an LGBTQ organization that sponsored Drag Queen Story Hour (DQSH) events, was arrested on child pornography charges.47 In 2019, the Houston Public Library was forced to apologize “after a man charged for sexually assaulting a child was allowed to entertain children at Drag Queen storytime.

Given that a great deal of the shift in kids’ literature is driven by publicly funded institutions like schools and libraries, one librarian suggested, “Patrons need to use the online purchase suggestion forms that most libraries have and start asking for titles!

There are a number of resources in the homeschooling community (lists from AmblesideOnline, Read-Aloud Revival, or The Good and the Beautiful) or from literacy experts in books like Read-Aloud Revival or The Enchanted Hour.

Lui started a nonprofit organization called Unify Carmel, which was among the first groups in the country to bring up to their school boards that shockingly explicit books were in their school libraries. After discovering the books, Lui says, “We read the sexually explicit and gender-propaganda books during open comments at a school board meeting.

Kaplan “was further surprised to discover that a list of 154 influential people of color did not include Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., John Lewis, or Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall, though it included many violent revolutionaries. There was even a flattering description of Pol Pot, the communist leader of Cambodia’s Khmer Rouge, who was responsible for the murder of a quarter of the Cambodian population during the 1970s.

A mom in Staten Island, a fairly conservative part of New York City, told me her second grader’s class read a book about whether an avocado is a fruit or a vegetable and told the kids they can be anything they want to be as well. While in the past this kind of conversation may lead to a child imagining themselves as an astronaut or a firefighter, in our current era, this led directly to what gender the child identifies with and how he or she wishes to be perceived by the class. Thus, a seven-year-old is being conditioned to the idea that his or her birth gender might be temporary and can be switched up at any time.

When parents heard indoctrination during the kids’ Zoom classes, they’d heard it before. They knew it from work, from endless human-resources antiracism and gender-bias sessions. They didn’t know the kids were getting it too, and didn’t like it.

From social media trends and influences to celebrities to mental-health professionals, the message is clear: everything wrong in the world is the fault of racism or some other strain of bigotry.

basically

Would you rather have a doctor who spent three hours a week on politics, or three hours a week on actual medicine?

Entreri had killed many foes, both in battle and in secret. He had lived as a hired assassin. Always had he justified his work by telling himself that he had never killed anyone who hadn’t deserved it-the world was a brutal place, after all. He still believed that to some extent….except when it came to the work he did with this particular weapon. He hadn’t just killed people with it; he had obligated their souls and stolen whatever afterlife might have awaited them. How many victims deserved that?

our duty to our children is to raise them into capable adults. It’s our responsibility to teach them about living in the world without stripping them of their innocence.

The woke see children as child soldiers in their cultural revolutions, isolating them from their parents and radicalizing them.

Israel, and you who call yourself Israel, the Church that calls itself Israel, and the revolt that calls itself Israel, and every nation chosen to be a nation – none of these lands is yours, all of you are thieves of holiness, all of you at war with Mercy. Who will say it? Will America say, We have stolen it, or France step down? Will Russia confess, or Poland say, We have sinned? All bloated on their scraps of destiny, all swaggering in the immunity of superstition. Ishmael, who was saved in the wilderness, and given shade in the desert, and a deadly treasure under you: has Mercy made you wise? Will Ishmael declare, We are in debt forever? Therefore the lands belong to none of you, the borders do not hold, the Law will never serve the lawless. To every people the land is given on condition. Perceived or not, there is a covenant, beyond the constitution, beyond sovereign guarantee, beyond the nation’s sweetest dreams of itself. The Covenant is broken, the condition is dishonoured, have you not noticed that the world has been taken away? You have no place, you will wander through yourselves from generation to generation without a thread. Therefore you rule over chaos, you hoist your flags with no authority, and the heart that is still alive hates you, and the remnant of Mercy is ashamed to look at you. You decompose behind your flimsy armour, your stench alarms you, your panic strikes at love. The land is not yours, the land has been taken back, your shrines fall through empty air, your tablets are quickly revised, and you bow down in hell beside your hired torturers, and still you count your battalions and crank out your marching songs. Your righteous enemy is listening. He hears your anthem full of blood and vanity, and your children singing to themselves. He has overturned the vehicle of nationhood, he has spilled the precious cargo, and every nation he has taken back. Because you are swollen with your little time. Because you do not wrestle with your angel. Because you dare to live without God. Because your cowardice has led you to believe that the victor does not limp.

I have often said that the Jewish community is very good at commemorating our dead, those who have been stolen from us through anti-Jewish violence. But we are not as good at understanding the impact thousands of years of anti-Jewish genocidal violence has on us emotionally and how this is passed on throughout the generations.

Black people are told that the racists will soon die off and we will be left with a society blissfully free of racial prejudice. This is magical thinking. Generations of people have died waiting on the racists to die out. Black people are told that the racial progress America has made and continues to make is undeniable, and we should take heart in that fact. It has been four hundred years since “20 and odd” enslaved Africans stolen from what would now be Angola disembarked the privateer White Lion at Point-Comfort, Virginia, in 1619.10 The vast majority of that time has seen the active, vicious oppression of Black people in this country: 250 years of slavery, 100 years of Jim Crow, and now 50-plus years of mass incarceration.

The Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, issued a formal apology to the indigenous people of Australia today in 2008, it was for the forced removal of their children, often referred to as the Stolen Generations, which did not stop until the 1960s

they leave behind the places where their dead are buried – their mothers and fathers. The dead are bound to that place, and have returned to the land there. Because of this, Natives who are forced out of their homelands no longer have connections to their ancestors, and thus, to the spirit world. Their medicines no longer work. Their prayers are no longer heard. “Eventually, the younger generations forget the names of sacred places. And as the names and history and wisdom are forgotten, the peoples’ spiritual power diminishes. The culture collapses. How they perceive this change affects their whole way of life.

I love that our sudden access to the entire history of human knowledge has afforded us the information we need to self-diagnose our heretofore ignored mental health; among so many other things hidden from us. We also see history laid bare before us, sans embellishing by the brutal and subhuman “victors” of bloody invasions that wrongly usurped land and resources that would have been voluntarily shared, had they any sort of backbone or ounce of morality at ALL. Now we suffer and toil on said stolen land at useless busy work, slave labor jobs that only exist to build wealth for shareholders and further poison the land they claim as their own while draining the remaining “good years” from us like opening a vein. Reject the system, and escape the grid, the more of us that exit the machine the faster it rusts and grinds to its inevitable halt… and the earth and all its inhabitants can finally heal.

It is in these moments that I wonder--despite my love of and commitment to science--if I have chosen the right track. Should I be following the long-established path carved out for me by my family, a path stolen from so many Jewish women and men by the Nazis during the past, horrible war? Do I owe it to them to carry on the Franklin traditions in their name?

Once parents became concerned about CRT in the classroom, the idea that parents should get involved in their kids’ education was seen as a “right-wing” idea.

Parents should demand to see the curriculum, attend class as an observer, and ask their state legislators to pass mandatory curriculum transparency legislation, which requires school districts to post all teaching materials online for parents to review. And trust your instincts:

If measured by the standards of natural law and justice, all politicians, of all parties and virtually without any exception, are guilty, whether directly or indirectly, of murder, homicide, trespass, invasion, expropriation, theft, fraud, and the fencing of stolen goods on a massive and ongoing scale. And every new generation of politicians and parties appears to be worse, and piles even more atrocities and perversions on top of the already existing mountain, so that one feels almost nostalgic about the past. They all should be hung, or put in jail to rot, or set to making compensation.

Some were afraid for their jobs, that someone would call their boss and inform on them for supporting something that was the standard in other countries around the world, but many others were simply afraid of reputational damage.

There is only one correct answer to any given question. Any stepping outside the lines, any questioning of official positions, gets you kicked off the team. Curiosity is discouraged. It is leftism on steroids, and it is taking over everything.

Wokeness shuns patriotism, teaching that our American experiment is not worth celebrating, that only our individual races and past cultures matter.

A table in Raymond Baker’s 2005 book Capitalism’s Achilles Heel outlines just how far the United States has fallen. By then, it showed, U.S. banks were free to receive the proceeds from a long list of crimes committed outside the country, including alien smuggling, racketeering, peonage, and slavery.4 Profiting from these crimes is legal, just so long as the crime itself happens offshore. A few of these loopholes have now been closed, and U.S. law addresses some of the others, though often only in tangential, incomplete ways. But it remains true that a U.S. bank can knowingly receive the proceeds of a wide range of foreign crimes, such as handling stolen property generated offshore.

Ramsay had dubbed it Operation Dynamo, partly after the machine which hummed away in his cave providing him with electricity. But it was a well-chosen name, because somehow the nation would have to generate unprecedented energy if they were going to escape. He could look down from the Igloo that morning at Dover Harbour, packed with former cross-Channel ferries, begged, borrowed and stolen from other departments and commands, and mainly manned by civilian crews. There were navy destroyers, cargo ships, minesweepers and MTBs, plus a shabbier collection of Dutch and Belgian coasters and British fishing boats, plus ammunition and stores ships tied up ready for unloading, and four powerful tugs, Simla, Gondia, Roman and Lady Brassey fussing around the harbour mouth, ready to guide the big ships on their way.  Operation Dynamo was given the go-ahead a few minutes before 7pm, though Ramsay had been anticipating the order for some hours.

The Nyungar men glanced once again at Dayup, who was just as stunned and confused as they were. He put his hands out in front of him and shook his head in despair and frustration. He truly wished that he understood the language. He turned to his kinsmen and told them, "I don't know what he is talking about." "I take it that we are all agreed and that I have your consent, " said Captain Fremantle, nodding to the Nyungar men who stood motionless, staring blankly at him.

As the night progressed, the story of Bobbie Jo Stinnett’s murder and the recovery of her stolen child took on gargantuan proportions as talking heads hosted experts in every crime field imaginable on air, trying to understand the nature of the murder, how it could have happened in the heartland of America, and who was this woman who allegedly had committed such an unthinkable crime. Not even an undersea earthquake of biblical proportions, which would occurr in the coming days, was enough to reduce coverage of the Lisa Montgomery story. Because of the size of the quake, reverberations on the surface of the water generated a tsunami that killed a reported 150,000 people, making it one of the deadliest disasters in history.

Molly and Gracie sat silently on the horse, tears streaming down their cheeks as Constable Riggs turned the big bay stallion and led the way back to the depot. A high pitched wail broke out. The cries of agonised mothers and the women, and the deep sobs of grandfathers, uncles and cousins filled the air. Molly and Gracie looked back just once before they disappeared through the river gums. Behind them, those remaining in the camp found strong sharp objects and gashed themselves and inflicted wounds to their heads and bodies as an expression of their sorrow. The two frightened and miserable girls began to cry, silently at first, then uncontrollably; their grief made worse by the lamentations of their loved ones and the visions of them sitting on the ground in their camp letting their tears mix with the red blood that flowed from the cuts on their heads. This reaction to their children's abduction showed that the family were now in mourning. They were grieving for their abducted children and their relief would come only when the tears ceased to fall, and that will be a long time yet.

But what none of these girls realised was that their fate had already been decided by their new guardians, the Commissioners of the Native Affairs Department. Sadly, in only a couple of weeks from then, Nora and Eva would find that instead of returning north as they hoped, they would be sent further south to work as domestics on dairy farms. This would also be their introduction to exploitation and deception; a hard step along the path of life that would have so many twists and turns. As for returning home to their loved ones, well, that would not happen for many, many years.

But you'd better make your beds first," she said. This was easy, you just straightened the blanket over the mattress. There were no sheets on the beds. They were stored away to be issued only on special occasions to impress special visitors.

The "boob" was a place of detention once described as a small, detached concrete room with a sandy floor, with only a gleam of light and little ventilation coming through a narrow, barred opening in the north wall. Every inmate of the settlement dreaded being incarcerated in this place. Some children were forced to spend up to fourteen days in that horrible place.

You girls can't talk blackfulla language here, you know," came a warning from the other side of the dorm. "You gotta forget it and talk English all the time.

After roll call and lights out, Molly listened to the slide of the bolt and the rattle of the padlock, then silence. It was at that moment this free-spirited girl knew that she and her sisters must escape from this place.

We gunna walk alongside it all the way to Jigalong," Molly said confidently. It would stand out like a beacon that would lead them out of the rugged wilderness, across a strange country to their homeland.

Only twelve months before this, Mr A.J. Keeling, the Superintendent at the Government Depot at Jigalong, wrote in his report that, "these children lean more towards the black than white and on second thoughts, think nothing would be gained in removing them". (Department of Native Affairs file no. 173/30.) Someone read it. No one responded.

Singular acts of compassion can have profound consequences across generations. You never know whom you might inspire or where the inspiration might lead.