I drew a few kindergarten classes while I was substitute teaching. One of these was at the first of the semester, when the kids were limited to half a day for the very good reason that they had not adapted to being away from their parents, and the process had to be introduced slowly. Even half a day was traumatic enough for many of them, the little guys would just burst out crying at times.
Farther back, I can still remember my first day of kindergarten, in the impossibly remote year of 1954. I was confused at the strange adults and did not understand why my mother had sent me away on the bus with kids I did not know. There were windows between the classroom and the adjacent corridors. About 2 hours into the class I saw my mother walk by. She was there to finish up some paperwork, but I naturally thought I was being rescued and it was time to go. I yelled, “there’s my mom!” and tore out after her with my teacher in pursuit. Instead of being glad to see me, my mom was horrified and told me I had to stay a little longer. I was bewildered and started crying.
I can’t even imagine what it is like for the little ones in Trump’s detention camps.