Richard Bilkszto: A Dedication

Two years after his death, Richard Bilkszto’s story remains a sobering reminder that deserves reflection from all of us

Two years ago on July 13th, Richard Bilkszto tragically died by suicide. This week, we commemorate his death by continuing to tell his story.

I never met Richard Bilkszto. He lived in Ontario, and I’m based in Alberta. Still, when I saw a post on social media about an opening on the board of directors for Friends of Richard Bilkszto, I didn’t hesitate to apply. I submitted my application, went through an interview, and joined the board in May 2025.

The events that led to Richard’s death in July 2023 are the kind that leave us shaken, bewildered, and grieving. They prompt official inquiries, investigations, and sometimes lawsuits. Many of us responded with sympathy, some with quiet relief that such a fate hadn’t befallen us.

But here’s the truth: Richard’s fate is not some distant tragedy—it’s deeply personal. It is ours. It is mine.

Richard was a gay man, a lifelong educator and administrator who served with distinction in both Canada and the United States. He was 60 years old when he died. His ordeal began during a diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) training session, where he challenged the claim that Canada was more racist than the United States. For this, he became the target of what has come to be recognized as a “cancellation event.”

These events follow a now-familiar pattern. In subsequent training sessions, the same facilitator publicly chastised Richard, using his earlier objection as a “teachable moment.” His decades of service were reduced to a caricature—his professional reputation eclipsed by ideological retribution.

Eventually, Richard was subjected to bullying and ostracism. The Toronto District School Board (TDSB), where he had long worked with dedication, revoked contracts and disinvited him from events—acts that can only be described as institutional betrayal. In response, Richard filed a harassment complaint and was awarded seven weeks of lost pay by the Ontario Workplace Safety and Insurance Board, which found that the facilitator had acted in a bullying and abusive manner.

By April 2023, Richard had filed a lawsuit against the TDSB for defamation and breach of contract. Friends say he seemed optimistic about the legal proceedings. But in July, Richard took his own life.

As heartbreaking as his death was, it was also tragically predictable. Cancellation follows a grim formula: public denunciation, decontextualization, and the slow erasure of a person’s full humanity. Achievements are discarded. Complexity is flattened. A person becomes nothing more than a target, defined by a single disputed moment.

For Richard—a man who devoted his life to fostering inclusion and defending the marginalized—this reversal must have been particularly devastating. He who once stood against discrimination now faced a cruel and dehumanizing form of it, aimed squarely at him.

This, too, is what ideology can do. Even in the name of justice, when ideology becomes rigid and reductive, it becomes oppressive. The version of anti-racism practiced in the DEI session Richard attended left no room for nuance, dissent, or dialogue. And Richard, by every account, was a man of nuance and dialogue.

As I said, Richard’s story is my own. In 2022, I was cancelled—branded a racist and Islamophobe for an academic book review I had written over a decade earlier. I, too, was targeted, betrayed by institutions, and cast out. I lost my career and reputation. Like Richard, I turned to the courts. Like him, I understand the despair. I’m a gay man, just seven years younger than Richard. The parallels are haunting.

Some have said Richard was weak, that his so-called "white fragility" prevented him from accepting criticism. This is a cruel distortion. Richard showed tremendous intellectual and moral courage. I believe he was a hero—a tragic hero, yes, but one who stood firm in the face of injustice.

My path toward healing has led me to write a book about cancel culture: its mechanics, its harm, and its antidotes. I hope it will help individuals and institutions understand the dangers of ideological rigidity and the human cost of moral panic. In our darkest moments—my partner, my family, and I have had many—I often think of Richard. His story is a source of strength, and a solemn reminder of what’s at stake.

When I write the dedication for my book, Richard Bilkszto’s name will appear. It belongs there. His courage deserves to be remembered. And those who drove him to despair—the enforcers of orthodoxy and the cowards of cancellation—will be forgotten.

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