"It's not fair!" That was one of my first sentences, according to my mother. Oh, the burn of righteous infantile indignation! Though my protests were often self-serving, my mother urged me to see beyond my self. She taught me the place names and stories of the Chilcotin, the Lillooet, the Shuswap, and the Okanagan. Those stories grounded me in the neighboring towns in British Columbia where my father practiced medicine as a service to others. Both of them showed me how to use my skills for the greater good. The last time I saw him, my father dug a splinter out of my thumb. His hand was steady; his physician's touch still sure. My mother supervised, full of loving attention and advice. Now that they are on the other side of a closed border in locked facilities, I summon them for strength here in Seattle. My mother reminds me to be kind. My father tells me to work hard. The legacy and the lessons of my parents led me to United Indians of All Tribes Foundation. I joined the team as a grant writer in late January. The mission and the vision resonated. I wanted to help hold a space for Indigenous cultural practice and programs, and I vowed to be a conduit for funds to follow the needs of the community. I spent the last three months listening and learning and then writing with as much power as possible. There is so much more to be done. I'm hoping you, friends and family, will join me in trying to right some historical wrongs.