The North and South Saskatchewan Rivers flow from the icefields of the Rocky Mountains, meandering through the prairies, merging at Saskatchewan River Forks to become the Saskatchewan and eventually emptying into Lake Winnipeg. Along its way, it passes through Northern Manitoba, and divides two communities: the Town of The Pas on the south side, where I grew up, and the Opaskwayak Cree Nation on the north side, known to me at the time as ‘The Reserve’. Although the river was only a few hundred yards wide and these communities were accessible to each other, that divide, in terms of knowing one another, might as well have been measured in miles.

This story is my journey to symbolically cross that river’s divide, to understand racism, especially my own. How easy and filled with wonder my life was in so many ways, in that town I’ll love forever. I lived on one side of that river where businesses, government offices, the hospital and the schools were located. I am the white-skinned descendant of British ancestors and attended school, church, and community events freely and openly in that beautiful little town. I never earned any of the privileges I was given nor did I know that the land where I lived had originally been occupied by the Cree people of The Pas Reserve, forced to move across the river to satisfy a white agenda. As a youngster I knew the Indian and Métis people lived ‘across’, but I never went to the reserve, except with my father.

Over that same bridge, and fifteen miles north, was a special place where we had a cabin, another home, in the summertime. Another privilege. And in summers, I crossed that bridge often, heading to Clearwater Lake and its shimmering emerald green water.

I don’t remember when I recognized the divide between my community and the Cree people, because it was always there. It was a fact of life and I knew where I belonged. And yet, there was something in me, something else—a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and respect, combined with judgment and superiority. There was an unsettledness in me about that divide that never went away.

You will read here of mistakes I have made, that created in me a struggle for truth, as well as, the noble scaffold of self-sacrifice and guilt I built, especially around my early career choice ‘to help the Indians’. But this book is less about what happened to me, than what woke me up. To cross over that river in a good way now, I know what is required of me:

• the bridge beckons me to dig deeper into my heart and soul where devaluing another human being rests and my racism began;
• the bridge invites me to acknowledge that racism does not exist only in one town, one city, one institution, or one horrific event. If that were so, a “cure” for racism might be easier to find;
• the bridge summons me to be open, to never stop learning from Indigenous and non-Indigenous Elders;
• the bridge tells me to look at and consider both sides of the river—where I have come from and where I am going—to begin my story of reconciliation;
• the bridge suggests a balance of grief and joy, compassion and pain, blame and responsibility;
• the bridge insists that both sides are in me; and most importantly,
• the bridge urges me to see compassion and love in all that I write here.

There is no formula, no prescription pad of instructions, only an invitation to walk alongside me. If by chance there is something that influences you the reader, it is your knowing, not mine, that will guide you. I bless you on your journey and thank you for taking your time and energy to read these words.