I grew up in a rural community where life looked much the same from one family to the next. We ate the same foods, went to the same churches, spoke the same way. Difference wasn’t something we encountered much, and if it did appear, it often made people uncomfortable. Looking back, the possibility for racist ideas can quietly take root, since we were all white, English-speaking community. When there is only one culture dominating daily life, anything outside of it becomes suspect.

We may not call it racism outright; it’s not always obvious. Instead, it shows up in small judgments—snarky comments about food that “smells funny,” suspicion toward a new person, whose English sounds different, or sideways looks at clothes that look different than what “we” wear. A different style of hair, or skin tone, and that person is judged as an oddball. In ways both big and small, we divide the world into “us” and “them.” And once we draw those lines, our sense of responsibility follows suit: if something affects “us,” it matters a lot; if it affects “them,” we feel less urgency.

This mindset is painfully obvious when it comes to how we have historically treated Indigenous people in Canada. Many of us want to think we have empathy, but we need to ask—how genuine is it? We wear orange shirts once a year, we share social media posts, we lower our heads during a moment of silence on September 30^th, the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. But what happens when the headlines fade? Do we sit with the hard truth, or do we let it drift away, back into the comfort of our own little world?

Several years ago, we were at a dinner with extended family. One of my boys, who has Indigenous heritage, was also there. Someone was talking about their experience working in northern parts of Canada, stating “it was ok except for the dirty Indians.” Silence. My son then said, “well that’s awkward.” Those are the kinds of references some feel it is acceptable to make.

The truth is stark. For generations, Indigenous children were taken from their homes and placed in residential schools, taken away from families who loved and wanted them. These schools were not places of learning; they were institutions of abuse and control. The goal was to, in the cruel language of the time, “take the native out of them.” Children were forbidden to speak their language, practice their traditions, and, in many cases, keep their given names. They were told to be ashamed of who they were. The damage from this cultural purge and theft still ripples across families and communities today. Far too many children never found their way home.

Many of us have tracked our family tree is some way. Often, various parts of England, Ireland, and other areas of Europe are where our roots lie. When European settles came to Newfoundland, they set out to “take over” the land and its resources. For the Indigenous people of Newfoundland, the Beothuk, this was the beginning of the end. These Beothuk men, women, and children, the first people of Newfoundland, were hunted until there was no one left. Our ancestors, the ones on our family trees, bear that responsibility. That is their legacy.

The National Day for Truth and Reconciliation is meant to confront that truth. It is a recognition of that loss, and an attempt to restore what was stolen. It is about Indigenous people reconnecting with languages, traditions, and identities that were systematically stripped away. But it is also about non-Indigenous Canadians facing the fact that this is not ancient history. Survivors of those schools are alive today. Their children and grandchildren live with the consequences.

Here’s the harder part: reconciliation isn’t just for Indigenous people to work out on their own. It isn’t about us offering sympathy from a distance and then moving on. It requires us—especially those of us who grew up with privilege we didn’t recognize—to examine our comfort zones, our blind spots, and our complicity. It asks us to do more than just nod; it asks us to listen, to learn, and to take action even when it is unsettling.

In small rural towns like the one I know well, the challenge is even greater. When you are used to a single culture, difference can feel like a threat. But that is precisely why the work is so important. If reconciliation is to mean anything, it must move us past “us and them.” It must remind us that Indigenous suffering is not their problem alone—it’s ours too.

Because when something is stolen from our neighbors, when entire generations are told to forget who they are, the loss diminishes all of us. The work of repair belongs to all of us too.