The New Yorker:

Justin Trudeau, in his final week as Prime Minister, tells Donald Trump to shove it.

By Bill McKibben

When I was a boy, the company that my father worked for transferred him from Los Angeles to Toronto, so I lived in Canada for most of my elementary-school years, attending the Northlea public school, where I remember boys and girls entering through separate doors after taking off our hats in deference to the Queen. (As a clueless émigré, I was sent to the principal’s office on my first day for not showing this particular form of respect.) This was the mid-nineteen-sixties, when Canada was coming out of that provincialism and into its own. The dashing Pierre Elliott Trudeau ruled Ottawa as an echo of J.F.K., and one of the first songs I learned in school celebrated the country’s 1967 centennial. (“It’s the hundredth anniversary of Confederation / Ev’rybody sing together!”) My family had returned to the States by the time I was ten, but I’ve always been grateful for those years in a nation with a tighter sense of community than my own, exemplified by its national broadcaster, the CBC, and by its national health-care system.

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