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. Continue reading →