Part 1: Nothing Made Sense Part 2: When Grassroots Became a Groundswell
Clayton was 28 when he drove a pickup truck and trailer of supplies to Ottawa from London, Ontario as part of the Freedom Convoy. Fond of jokes, quick to notice absurdities, he laughs often. But he was a different person when he returned home six weeks later.
"Into the second week is when I really started forming relationships and friendships," he says. Some with people “substantially older than me." He expects those bonds to endure until his last breath:
One of the most memorable and life-changing was with an East Indian, a Sikh. He spent hours and hours, days with me in the truck. I got to learn a lot about his culture and the way things work. And how much the media has driven the divide between us since 9-11.
And ever since I spent time with him, I've vowed it on my life to never, ever - to even the slightest degree - make any kind of racist joke or comment. In any shape or form. No matter how harmless. That relationship changed my life.
At one point during the protest, Sikhs handed out samosas to all comers from a tent Clayton had erected directly in front of his truck.
A year later, when he was being urged to plead guilty to charges laid against him in Ottawa (in exchange for a conditional discharge that would involve no criminal record), a phone call with Hark steadied him:
He convinced me. Well, I wanted to fight it anyway, but I spent an hour and a half on the phone with him and he said, 'Just fight 'em. There's people out there that look up to what you've done, and it would be discouraging if you folded.'
So last minute, I decided I wasn't going to take the plea deal.
next installment: Let Me Play Hockey