Bravo to Ontario Premier Doug Ford, standing up for Canada.

The Ontario government’s advertisement which aired in the U.S., especially during the initial games of the World Series, was brilliant. It spoke directly to American citizens and was quintessentially Canadian: nothing but polite. It was effective, too. It did catch U.S. President Donald Trump’s ire, but given it was too close to home, using wise words by well-respected former president Ronald Reagan to raise serious concerns about tariffs. Ford’s aplomb contrasts starkly with Prime Minister Mark Carney, who can be generously described these days as “elbows down.”

Despite all the budget hubbub, Carney’s tactics with the U.S. appear protracted and ineffective, with “backing down” becoming his hallmark. The European Union has a deal. Mexico has at least a partial deal. We do not. Some have blamed Ford for the suspension of talks, but U.S. officials confirmed the ad alone was not the cause, further indicating progress was slow. This undermines Carney’s claim that a deal had been imminent. The situation also perfectly suits Trump as we face a constant drip of job-loss announcements going south.

Carney’s apology to Trump is also at odds with fiery rhetoric he employed during the election. In a broadly aired story last March, including on BBC, he stated, “My government will keep tariffs on until the Americans show us respect.” That did not transpire. He also disparaged, “the person who worships at the altar of Donald Trump will kneel before him, not stand up to him.”

I sometimes wonder if humanity is just a series of badly edited takes. Some people march, some legislate, some argue online like prophets with Wi-Fi. Me? I prefer the slow way. The kind that happens over burnt coffee, years of awkward silences and the steady work of trying not to mistake love for agreement.

My mother once bought me a book of quotes for 25 cents at a garage sale. On page 32, Desmond Tutu whispers, “My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.”

That line should have been printed on every family dinner table, especially ours.

I think of Richard whenever I read it. Richard with the kind eyes and doomsday opinions. He still calls his mother every Sunday, remembers birthdays I forget and once drove through a blizzard to fix my broken mailbox because “it looked sad.” But for years, he carried stories about people who looked like me — old myths that clung to his good heart like cobwebs that refused to burn.