Late one evening in the summer of 1993, I was on a bus with my then-girlfriend. I was accompanying her home to the northwest area of Montreal. I didn’t feel right letting her go alone because I didn’t like the thought of a young woman being on a bus by herself well after nightfall. Little did I know that it wasn’t her that I would end up worrying about.

My recollection of the events are sketchy but the gist of the story is certain. A small group of young white guys got on the bus at one point and began making derogatory comments about a young black guy that was sitting near us. He was clearly minding his own business. I didn’t hear what they said but I knew it wasn’t good, considering the way they kept looking at him. My girlfriend knew it too.

Soon the black kid dinged the bus bell and was set to get off. The group then motioned to leave as well. My girlfriend told me she thought they were going to jump him. In my naivety, I asked if she was sure. ‘Pretty sure,’ she said. I said, ‘okay, we’re getting off too.’

I had no idea what I was going to accomplish by getting involved. I also didn’t know if my girlfriend or I might get hurt. Neither of those things occurred to me at the time. I knew I had to do something to prevent this innocent young man from getting hurt, or worse.

At the time of the incident, I was 26-years old. I’m six-foot-five and back then I weighed about 250 pounds. So, I was a big dude. Plus, I had a reasonable amount of karate training. And, I was suffering from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, was often tired and frustrated with my health situation, and felt like I had nothing to lose. If I wasn’t already irritable enough, this situation quickly made me far more irritable.

I remember us walking between the kid and the group. I kept my eyes on them, trying to make it clear what I was thinking: ‘You touch him, you’ve touched me.’ A simple equation.

They kept looking over at me and my girlfriend. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I think they knew what was up. Each was smaller than me and maybe that helped them make their decision. Either that or they were looking for an uncomplicated fight: them against him, with no bystanders or eyewitnesses.

The group soon departed and after a few blocks so did we, once we were confident that they weren’t coming back. By then the black guy was out of sight. We hoped he’d made it home safely. We agreed that was probably the case.

Not long afterward, my girlfriend told me that she saw him on the bus again. He recognized her as he walked by. He smiled and said hi. She said it was clear that he was saying, ‘thanks for being on my side.’

I’ve gone over this incident in my mind a lot in recent days, in the wake of the George Floyd murder by a Minneapolis police officer, and the ensuing impressive crowds at anti-black racism protests worldwide. It all came back to me after I pressed myself to think of what, if anything, I’ve ever done to combat racism.

At my age and with my considerable life experience, and with 15 years of journalism experience, I know it’s not enough to say ‘I’m not racist’ or ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’ I understand that it’s crucial to do something, the right thing, to actively combat racism and racial injustice.

It’s crucial because I’ve lived my whole life not having to worry about suffering the effects of racial injustice. I don’t know what it’s like to live in a housing project or on the poor side of town. I have no clue what it’s like to be stopped by a police officer simply for being out past dark. I don’t have any understanding at all of what systemic discrimination feels like.

What’s more, I can’t fathom what it means when you kneel in peaceful protest and lose your job because you took a stand … even though you were good at your job, even though you never raised a hand in violence, even though you simply felt you just had to do it. #colinkaepernick

Instead, I’ve known an abundance of white privilege, from my middle-class west Hamilton upbringing, to my university days in Montreal, to my journalism years in Toronto, to my current truck driving career. Never once in all these years have I been subject to prejudice or discrimination based on the colour of my skin.

I don’t feel guilty because of my fortune and the misfortune of too many others. Guilt would be useless. Instead, I feel a responsibility to ensure, to the best of my abilities, wherever and whenever I’m needed, to do something to stop racism dead in its tracks.

I’ve felt that responsibility for years, even though it wasn’t until now that I really thought it through. I look back at what I did that evening in 1993 as a small act of decency. I had the ability to do something and I did it. I never sought recognition and I still don’t. Hopefully, it helped. Hopefully, next time, I’ll have it in me to do the right thing again. Hopefully there will be no next time.