Comedian Hannibal Buress once said people learn things at different times.
He talked about hearing Jimi Hendrix for the first time because Hulk Hogan used his music in World Championship Wrestling (WCW), which is comforting, because it suggests there are no wrong times to learn something—only increasingly more embarrassing ones.
I bring this up because I had what can only be described as a delayed educational episode about our country, our history and the legacy of a great man (mistaken for another).
I was raised in Minnesota. Even though my family calls Manitou Rapids home, I grew up outside the Twin Cities. For half of my life, Canadian history was beyond my reach.
After I’d been recruited out of the Twin Cities, public speaking across the region began. I loved it. Great people. Great conversations. And just enough travel to avoid the need for the airport (or understanding of its layout—I promise this will matter).
One day, my boss walked into my office.
He said, “We’re flying from Winnipeg to Toronto for a speaking engagement.”
Simple enough.
We grabbed Starbucks from the old Copper River Inn lobby, drove to Winnipeg, boarded our plane, and made small talk as we flew east. I mentioned I’d been reading about former Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson, and it was great he had an airport named after him considering all his contributions to Canada.
My boss said, “Actually, we’re not flying into Pearson. We’re flying into Billy Bishop.”
Now, in hindsight, this is where a normal brain would register the airport name and move on.
Mine did not.
I paused.
Blink.
“What?”
“Billy Bishop,” he said. “Then we’ll go to baggage claim.”
Right. Of course. Baggage claim. The most important detail before we head downtown. But I was stuck like a velociraptor in a tar pit.
“Billy Bishop has an airport named after him?” I asked, already impressed and (this is key) already wrong.
“Yes,” he said. “Very much so.”
At this point, my book (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven by Slipknot’s Corey Taylor) became decorative. I was locked in and stuck on this point.
As we got closer to Toronto, I leaned over again.
“I had no idea he was even Canadian.”
Pause.
“What?” my boss said, puzzled.
“You know, Billy Bishop.”
A longer pause this time.
“Yep,” my boss said carefully. “And a veteran.”
“He was a veteran too?!”
My boss said, “Being a war hero, it’s not surprising he has an airport named after him.”
Now we were escalating.
“He was a war hero, too?”
My boss laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that doubles as a systems check, like he was quietly asking himself: “Did something happen to Rob at cruising altitude?”
We landed. We walked. We collected luggage.
And I continued my one-man documentary.
“Billy Bishop was Canadian, a pilot, a war hero and he has an airport named after him…” I said, shaking my head. All I could do was reflect and repeat, “I had no idea. He really did a lot with his life.”
Which, to be fair, is true.
Just not for the person I had in mind.
We checked into a hotel near the Royal Ontario Museum and headed out to the old Wayne Gretzky’s Restaurant to meet coworkers.
My boss gave me a look that said, “Welcome to Toronto. Please eat something and stop saying ‘Billy Bishop’ like it’s breaking news.”
At the bar, I sat with a coworker and brought it up again.
Because of course I did.
At this point, I was essentially a volunteer spokesperson for Billy Bishop Awareness.
“I just learned all this about him,” I said. “I can’t believe I didn’t know.”
Mid-sentence, I decided to confirm whether he was still alive. Unlikely, yes—but after everything I’d learned that day, I wasn’t ruling anything out. Maybe he was also an astronaut. Or a chef. The man clearly had range.
I pulled out my phone.
Searched.
Found an article.
Saw a photo.
Paused—and the whole room went black and white.
That… was not the person I had been picturing.
And then, like a slow-motion train wreck narrated by my own internal voice, it hit me.
I wasn’t thinking of Billy Bishop.
I was thinking of Billy Barty.
Yes. That Billy Barty.
The little person with an amazing acting range.
The older wizard from the movie Willow. Not Canadian. Not a pilot. Not a war hero.
Not honoured with an airport—unless there’s a very niche terminal I’m unaware of.
Just an actor. A talented one—but not, to my knowledge, responsible for aerial combat or national infrastructure.
I sat there, staring at my phone, as the realization unfolded in stages: confusion, denial, recognition, and finally, laughter—the kind where you can’t explain what’s funny because the explanation makes it worse.
Across the table, my boss watched the moment of clarity arrive and (credit where it’s due) did not interrupt, just nodded and smiled. This was my educational journey.
For accuracy’s sake, Billy Bishop was all of those things:
Canadian. Pilot. War hero. Veteran. Entirely deserving of an airport.
Just… not also a three-foot-nine actor nor the founder of the Little People of America.
I have a deep-rooted love and adoration for our home, our country.
However, after growing up to the south, learning about this country—our home—has been a bit of a crash course.
A labour of love.
And occasionally, a lesson in verifying which Billy you’re talking about before giving a speech about accomplishments and legacy.
Because sometimes, on the road to understanding your home, you don’t just take a wrong turn.
You confidently build a whole story around the wrong person and bring others along for the ride at 30,000 feet.
Robert Horton is an educator, author, orator, and linguist. He is a member of Rainy River First Nations.
