From hockey phenom to corrections trailblazer: The story of John Mentis
Content warning: This article discusses John Mentis’s lived experiences, which include references to experiencing racism and discrimination. Reader discretion is advised.
When John Mentis was gearing up to leave his hometown of Truro, Nova Scotia in 1956, his father offered him a piece of advice that would follow him for the rest of his life.
At just 18, John was already a hockey phenom, a power forward, strong enough to protect himself and his teammates, and skilled enough to catch the attention of teams more than a thousand kilometres west of his home. He was on the brink of achieving a professional hockey dream few from his community even had a chance to pursue, but his father understood the challenges ahead.
Not the challenges on the ice, John had those under control, but the realities that came with being a Black athlete in Canada in the 1950s.
In 1968, John Mentis became one of the first Black male federal correctional officers in Canada.
“My father was a good hockey player and the first thing my father told me when I left home, he said, ‘John, try and find yourself a half-decent job, because you won’t make it in hockey.’ And I’ve lived with that my whole life,” said John.
It’s a piece of advice the now 87-year-old still reflects on as one of the most important he ever received. In an unexpected way, those words would guide him toward a three-decade-long career in federal and provincial corrections, one that would see him become one of the first Black male federal correctional officers in Canada.
The game of hockey was in John’s blood. Born into a family of athletes, all three of his brothers played the game. When the ice melted, it was baseball season, but for the rest of the year, life revolved around hockey.
After his mother passed away when he was young, his grandmother became a key influence in his life, helping shape the strength and work ethic that John carries with him to this day. She worked at one of Truro’s most popular restaurants, a place where she, and other Black Canadians at the time, weren’t allowed to eat.
John’s father was also a major influence. A successful hockey player in his day, he too had aspirations of playing professionally, so it came as no surprise when John earned his shot at the big leagues.
“I was just getting ready, me and one of my buddies, to sign up for the Air Force and then I got a call from Quebec that I had a chance to go to a training camp with the Boston Bruins,” John said.
He signed a trial contract for $200, and off he went.
On the Bruins team that year were leading scorer Bronco Horvath, future Hall of Famer Johnny Bucyk, and, making his historic NHL debut half-way through the season, Willie O’Ree, the first Black player in league history.
John remembers meeting and sharing the ice with O’Ree for the first time, and the impact it had on him. But what stayed with him even more were the barriers he watched O’Ree push through just to be there, the same barriers his father had cautioned him about.
“I went to training camp with Willie O’Ree and saw what they had done to him, and then I saw what they’ve done to the Carnegies. That’s when I concentrated on finding a half-decent job for my life,” John said.
With his professional hockey ambitions on hold, John spent the remainder of his junior career playing across Quebec, both on the ice and on the baseball diamond.
One summer, after hockey season had ended, a former teammate learned that John was just as talented at the plate as he was on the ice.
He was soon recruited to play baseball in the town of Waterloo, Quebec, on one condition: they would help find him a job.
After a string of jobs, from working in a fibreglass shop to a stint with the Coca-Cola company in Cowansville, John spotted an advertisement in the Granby paper announcing that a new prison would be opening nearby. He didn’t know it then but answering that ad would launch him into a new career, one in which he would quietly make history.
In 1966, John headed to the St. Vincent de Paul Institution, a now-closed federal prison in Laval, to begin his training. The facility was multi-level, meaning officers were responsible for supervising a wide range of inmates.
“It was the best place to start,” John remembers. “Everything was security, and you learned very quickly how to work.”
John stood out, not just because of his athletic build, but because he didn’t look like most of the other guards working there at the time. He remembered one instance when an inmate mistakenly assumed he was one of them, wearing a stolen uniform.
“I thought that was pretty funny,” he said.
While incidents like that were rare, discrimination did happen.
“I think about my third night. I was working there on the 12-hour shift. I go do my rounds and somebody calls out, ‘What are you doing here, N-word?’”
John pictured alongside fellow graduates at the Regional Staff College in Laval in 1968
“That’s a word I never accepted in my life, but I didn’t know where it was coming from. I tried to find out but didn’t let it bother me and just kept doing my job…hoping the next time I would see where it was coming from and could do something about it.”
John was used to standing up for himself, whether on the ice, the ball diamond, or the cell block. This was not because he went looking for confrontation, but because life had required it of him.
By the end of his four-month training at St. Vincent de Paul, John had graduated. It was then he received unexpected news from his instructor: he was the first Black male guard to do so.
The news surprised him.
“I thought there was somebody before me. But it felt good, you know. I had to go through with the job, so it just gave me more push to do it.”
With his training complete, John eventually made his way to the newly opened prison in Cowansville to work as a guard. When a position opened as head of recreation, he didn’t hesitate to apply.
The change of pace suited him. He quickly took to teaching inmates the fundamentals of the sports he had loved and mastered throughout his life.
John worked in recreation at Cowansville for about three and a half years before switching to the provincial system, where he would spend another decade as head of sports. For the most part, he had no further issues with the inmates.
The same could not be said about one staff member.
He remembers being face-to-face with his supervisor at the time.
“It was just me and him in the office, and we were talking about something when it started getting rough. So, he said, ‘You’re going to see what we do with N-word,’ and I spit right in his face.”
“He didn’t move, because I was ready to…I didn’t take that from nobody,” John said.
After the incident, the institution took the side of the supervisor. John was transferred shortly after to a different institution in Rimouski.
John Mentis began his correctional career at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul Penitentiary, the country’s second federal penitentiary.
He would eventually receive some measure of justice. John was transferred back to Cowansville, and the aggressor was moved out. He never crossed paths with him again, and never experienced further discrimination at work.
After three decades of service, including three and a half years in the federal system, and 26 and a half years in the provincial system, John retired. From athlete and mentor to a trailblazer for Black Canadians in corrections, John had done it all.
Today, the 87-year-old Granby resident spends his summers golfing and his winters watching hockey, especially the Bruins, while quietly thanking his dad for the advice that helped shape an extraordinary life.