The Toronto Star
Toronto loves to call itself a place that prides itself on diversity, inclusion, and equity. But that’s not the Toronto I know. My journey — from law school to a homeless shelter — reveals a different reality. If we care about real equity, it’s a story we need to confront.
Four years ago, I walked into Toronto Metropolitan University’s shiny new law school full of hope. The school wasn’t shy about selling itself as a beacon of change. They told me they were different from the old guard — that diversity wasn’t just a marketing strategy, but a value embedded in their DNA.
I was optimistic.
In February 2020, The Toronto Star ran a front-page story about me, and a TMU administrator praised my resilience, creativity, and determination, saying, “He’s had to learn a lot, he’s had to research, he’s had to talk to people, he’s had to find creative solutions, he’s had to endure and move forward. All of those are the elements we think future graduates of Ryerson Law should have.”
Two months later, Toronto Life published a piece I wrote about how TMU Law was a lifeline for people like me. The publicity of the piece even caught the attention of TMU President Mohamed Lachemi, who wrote to me, “I very much appreciate that with your personal story as the powerful context, the rationale and philosophy behind our school is made crystal clear.”
But when I arrived on campus, I felt that I was on my own.
With tuition and fees at $23,000 — before rent, groceries, textbooks, and the daily costs of surviving in one of Canada’s most expensive cities — I knew I couldn’t afford law school without significant financial support.
I had once believed in TMU’s vision. I won gold at the 2021 National Magazine Awards for my Toronto Life piece. I thought I was stepping into a law school built for people like me. I was wrong and my time in law school didn’t go as planned.
Despite everything, I’ve managed to make an impact. In 2021, the Supreme Court of Canada cited my work in Toronto (City) v. Ontario, a landmark decision on electoral fairness. The irony is undeniable: I’ve influenced decisions at the highest court in the country—yet I struggled to keep a roof over my head while studying law.
That same year, a front-page newspaper article about me led to something unexpected. In it, I mentioned Amadeusz, non-profit supporting young, racialized people navigating the criminal justice system. That mention moved a Canadian hedge fund, to make a six-figure donation – the largest donation Amadeusz had ever received. I was in law school to change lives, and in some ways, I did.
Yet, today, I’m living in a Toronto homeless shelter.
Let me tell you what that’s like.
Toronto’s shelters are overcrowded and understaffed. The people inside face constant harassment, xenophobia, and anti-Black racism. The food is often barely edible, and mental health support is inconsistent at best. Shelters are meant to provide safety for those in crisis, yet for advocates like me they have become traps.
So now, I turn to the social assistance programs designed to help us. But they can only charitably be described as a joke. Ontario Works (OW) offers a meager $733 a month. How can anyone survive on that? How can you pay for food, get to appointments, take care of your health, or, god forbid, pay for a roof over your head? And if you lose your home, like me, that already paltry amount is reduced to $343 a month.
None of this is inevitable. At the height of the pandemic, the federal government offered the Canada Emergency Response Benefit (CERB) — $2,000 a month — because even they recognized that $733 isn’t enough.
Read his full story at
