Another time, as I was returning from classes at Osgoode Hall law school, there were a lot of people and police milling about outside our apartment. My father had tried to gas himself, but someone had discovered him before it was too late. One thing that really upset me that day was the doctor who was on the scene. He refused to treat my dad until I paid him five dollars, which was not easy for us to come up with at the time.
A rare picture of me with my dad, Big Alex. As usual, we were dressed to the nines.
So my dad had tried several times to take his life before he was finally successful and hung himself with a belt. I recall going to identify his body, and there was a deep black cut and bruise across his throat. It was chilling.
The fact both my parents died so young was troubling for me for some time because I worried I would die young, too. But I spent about thirty years on this Earth with them and, fortunately, I have lots of good memories.
I eventually learned I had a half-brother, Ridley “Bunny” Wright, born to my mother before she married my dad. He was about two years older than me. In our early years, we had little contact. My mother told me the barest details about the situation. She never talked about the circumstances of Ridley’s birth. Ridley stayed with an aunt in Toronto because my dad refused to accept him and would never let him live under our roof. My mother brought Ridley to New York, and he was working and living with her when I joined her there. He moved out shortly after I arrived. I used to get very angry and frustrated with him. What upset me most is that he would come home with his paycheque and brag about all the girls and money he had, and then he’d give me a measly ten cents.
He came back to Toronto in due course, married, and adopted a son, Larry. I went to his house for dinner a few times. I had better contact with my kid brother, Hughie — although it was a distant relationship with little warmth. I used to envy the families who could have everyone together for Christmas and Easter, while mine was scattered here, there, and everywhere. That used to really bother me. It was all a hell of a mess. But I came out of it.
Among some of my long-standing friends in this life would be Alfonso Allen and his wife, Ona. This friendship dates to my early days in Hamilton. Along with Alfonso and Ona I socialized with Alfonso’s brother Cleve and Enid Allen and Ray and Vivienne Lewis. One of the first places I lived when I first moved to Hamilton after the war was with Alfonso’s mother, Rachel, and her husband, John C. Holland, the dynamic preacher at Stewart Memorial Church.
This was a fortuitous connection for me because, along with providing for a lifelong friendship, it also helped establish a good social and spiritual network, and it put me back in touch with Yvonne, who was involved with the church.
Ona was originally from the community of North Buxton, near Chatham in southwestern Ontario. The village is an important location and symbol for the black community in much of Canada because it was for many blacks the last stop on the Underground Railroad and a haven for fugitives of pre-Civil War slavery in the U.S. In fact, as chairman of the Ontario Heritage Trust, I will be visiting the community in the summer of 2006 to commemorate the existence of Uncle Tom’s cabin.
Through the 1950s and my early career in law, I was active in the church and it gave me the opportunity to sing in the choir and participate in other singing activities organized through the church. Eventually that singing and church activity started to ease as my political career began to take off, but the friendships endured, as did my support for the church.
In the meantime, I was able to move ahead with my own life, personally and professionally. When I returned to Hamilton, I enrolled at Central Collegiate to finish high school. Many of us had been away from school for a long time, thanks to the war. We were placed in the “rehab” school on the third floor to top up our education. It was there, quite fortuitously, I met John Millar (whom I affectionately called Jack, or Jackie), who would turn out to be the most incredible and supportive friend for life and, in time, a partner in law. Along with Jack, I became good friends with Gary Lautens, a fellow student at the time who went on to become a popular columnist for the Toronto Star.
Central Collegiate was a classic school in the city centre, which might explain why it attracted a lot of war veterans like me. While I intended to go to university, it was not automatic that I would get in. Fortunately, I was successful in my classes, and in 1946 I was off to post-secondary education. McMaster in the city’s west end was my university of choice, as well as Jack’s, and my veteran’s allowance made it possible for me to attend.
McMaster University in 1946 was another scholastic institution then experiencing the effects of returning veterans. Most were extremely conscientious and, because of their recent war experience, they were more attuned than many regular students to political and world events, which made for a vibrant intellectual atmosphere. Along with classroom sessions, there were organizations such as the politics club, which focused on issues that were important to the post-war world. It was a fascinating environment to immerse myself in.
My high school upgrading marks report, June 1946.
My high school upgrading marks report, August 1946.
Jack and I both studied history and political economics, which provided us with a perspective on post-war problems that was useful in our later careers. Frankly, I ended up taking political economics because I thought it would be easy. Both of us graduated in 1949, and the McMaster Marmor yearbook noted Jack had entered McMaster “with the intention of future study in the field of law,” so it wasn’t surprising when he enrolled at Osgoode Hall that same year.
At Mac, I ended up on the university football team. Now, a cynic might say I was recruited because, with my height and size, I could be a potent receiver, tight end, or even a lineman. Wrong on all counts. In football, I’ve always been enamoured with running backs, so at Mac I was a spinning fullback. It’s a great position, and I imagined I could make great things happen lugging the ball for the burgundy crew. There was just one minor problem. Well, actually, major. You see, I hated taking a hit — which, in a great understatement, is a serious drawback for a fullback. Not only was I averse to getting drilled, it turned out my running style ensured I would be nailed harder and more often than other ball carriers.
The venerable Fred “Smut” Veale was our coach. He would harp at me over and over in practices and during games that when I was running I had to stay low to the ground and keep my head down. But I kept running upright, straight up and down, almost standing up, and by doing that, and being so tall, I used to get pounded. He’d say, “Get low, get low,” but I never could make the adjustment. Not surprisingly, it was hard to miss this six-foot-three giant coming through the line standing straight up. And Smut was right. By staying low you are better able to keep your balance when you get hit because you have a lower centre of gravity. Instead, I was like a tackling dummy, emphasis on the dummy.
I think if I were playing today, with the game having changed as much as it has, I would be a wide receiver or tight end. Maybe tight end in particular, because I also weighed close to 250 pounds back then. Looking back, I imagine I would have preferred a receiver position, since you wouldn’t have as much contact, but back then, the whole game was run, run, run. Then I got married and decided I couldn’t play anymore, so I told the coach my wife wanted me to study and that was part of the truth. But it was the fear of contact that actually prompted that decision. When you play competitive sports, you have to have a killer instinct, and I didn’t have that. You can’t be afraid of hitting hard, and I was afraid to get hurt.
The year I played was 1947, and our team went without a win, 0–1 in exhibition play and 0–6–0 in the regular season, finishing fourth. Under Smut, McMaster had won the