Long Run

6 days from today I will run the inaugural Gulf Coast-Louisiana Northshore Half Marathon. It should be a great race, along the lake, a sunny and cool October morning on the Northshore. I've been training consistently, watching the aches and pains, stretching, taking days off when needed. Saturday I ticked off 6 quarter-mile repeats at a 7:30 pace and was breathing normally throughout the entire workout. Yesterday morning I ran 11miles that felt like 5 or 6: I never got to that point in the run where I'm typically muttering things like christ-just-make-it-go-away-make-this-stop-why-the-hell-do-I-put-myself-through-this-every-weekend or don't-look-at-me-lady-what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at-haven't-you-ever-seen-someone-take-her-shirt-off-in-the-middle-of-the-park? or dear-god-is-that-a-client-cannot-let-them-see-me-stumbling-around-the-edge-of-the-track-trying-not-to-hurl , or anything even close to that. I listened to Ben Folds and even sang along a bit during my favorite tunes. And last Wednesday night, after a terribly exhausting day of work, I did a 5-mile tempo run down the streetcar line that left me feeling like an 8-year old, but in a good way. I feel ready for the race, in good shape for it; I may even be in the best shape of my adult life.

And I am scared shitless.

Okay, so that's a bit of hyperbole, but the emotion is real and really negative. At the end of a long training phase, right before a race, I like to do a few visualizations; I think they help me feel mentally prepared and push a little excitement and energy into those final workouts. But I have found, when imagining myself lining up in Fontainebleu State Park for this race, a strange tightness forms in the center of my chest, and I get a little woozy. My left hip starts to ache and suddenly I'm aware of the kink in my right hamstring. I try to picture myself crossing the finish line and instead of jubilation and relief, I see pain, frustration, disappointment.

This is not good.

It's no mystery to me that this all stems from my Mardi Gras marathon experience last Spring: I sustained an injury that I initially thought to be sciatica but turned out to be a stress fracture in my hip that took 10 weeks to heal. I was surprised by how deeply that experience affected me; running isn't even close to being my job, as my daughter once assumed, so why should a hiatus feel so devastating? In the intial stages of healing, I harbored the deep, paralyzing fear that I would have to stop running entirely--like, forever--and that thought produced a wellspring of emotion so powerful and dark that I was forced to examine where it was coming from. What sort of crazy attachment was provoking such emotion?

Driving down St. Charles Avenue one evening at dusk, as I watched the runners trot up and down the streetcar line, I began to cry so uncontrollably that I had to pull over. My leg throbbed; I saw a PT who taught me some active stretches, told me to stop sleeping on my side, and was careful to make no assurances that I would return to running. I went home and curled up in bed. I took walks that felt like torture, both physically and mentally. For the first time ever, I walked the Crescent City Classic, and had to down a couple of jello shots along the way to keep from becoming visibly despondent. Something had been stolen from me, something really valuable, and I was convinced I would never get it back. I tried talking about it and found that my fears were met with either bland reassurance ("you'll run again, give it time") or benign dismissal ("you could always take up swimming/cycling/tennis"). Every time I got on the stationary bike at the gym I wanted to throw my magazine across the room, preferably right into the bulging calves of the runner pounding out intervals on the treadmill in front of me.

One day, just before Jazz Fest, I realized my hip had stopped throbbing. I went for my walk in the park and decided to try a light jog; I was surprised and thrilled to find that it didn't hurt. I jogged one half mile, then walked the rest of the way. I did this again a couple of days later, and again and again and again, adding a bit more running each time. Over the summer I thought I broke my fear of racing by participating in the NOTC Free for All Summer Series, a series of 2-milers in the blistering heat; I performed well at each of them and so signed up for some fall races. I did the Crescent Connection Road Race in September and though it is a killer, I was the 20th woman to finish and nearly won my age group. I should have conquered this fear by now, but still it lingers, clouding my vision, warping my ability to judge my readiness for this race on Sunday.

The subject of identity is one I broach almost every day; the people with whom I work often come to me with these questions or struggles, and my job is to help them form a picture of themselves that feels real and meaningful. And though identity is not entirely about the things we do, it is partially that. What's the first thing we typically ask someone we've just met? Isn't it about what they do for a living? And when asked to describe ourselves, don't we typically start with the things we like to do? What's more, don't we tend to omit the things we used to do--the activities that used to define us--but don't engage in anymore? For example: I spent most of my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood engaged in playing, writing, and studying music. Every day, for significant portions of the day, I engaged in musical activities; thus, I called myself a musician. But grad school killed that joy for me and the regularity with which I engaged in musical activities declined and so I no longer describe myself as a musician; that part of my identity has been retired (though not permanently, I hope).

Running has been an active fixture of my identity for a long time now. Even before I took it seriously, it was something I held on to as a stable and continuous facet of my existence, something I could point to and say: yes, I do this thing. When you willingly get up before dawn to engage in an activity a few days a week for years on end, you earn the right to claim the activity as your own. When I became a parent it was especially important to me that I hold on to this thing. In those not-infrequent moments of existential ambiguity, where my mind starts to wander into the bright, empty spaces, when I look at Sydney and start to wonder about the point of having children and raising children and giving it all up just so that those children can grow up to have children and raise children and give it all up all over again--in those moments, part of what pulls me towards a more reasonable place is the reminder that I have things that belong to me, things I create for myself, palaces I've built. Running is one of those things. It is precious. It is something I am building.

It also keeps me healthy (well, except for the hip fractures). I struggled with nearly debilitating joint pain throughout my childhood and adolescence; doctors could never figure it out but both my grandmother and my mother suffer with it. I missed days of school, I cried through many nights, and nothing ever helped. Nothing except running; since I started running regularly, in early adulthood, the pain has ceased. It has simply gone away. My moods are more stable and I rarely have trouble sleeping. I've always been a physically active person but all of these improvements are attributable to running.

So what if I have to give it up? What if, 7 or 8 miles into this race, something *pops* and I have to limp to the finish? Will that be an indicator that the end has begun? Or will it be just another setback?

There's no way to predict, of course, so I will just get up on Sunday morning and drive to the Northshore and line up with the rest and give it a go. I'll try not to think about that last time, or all the times ahead of me. I'll remember that conversation I had with my daughter a few weeks ago, when we went running together and she stopped about three-quarters of a mile from our house and claimed she was too tired to make it home and I told her that being a runner means finding strength when you think you don't have any left. I'll remember how she brushed the hair from her face and picked her arms up by her side in the way I'd shown her and put one little foot in front of the other, all the way home. She thought she was done, back there, but proved to herself she had the strength left to continue, and that was a very important lesson for her to learn.

A very important lesson, indeed.

To Sydney, On Your 5th Birthday

Sydney,

You are 5 years old today. It's hard to believe that it's only been 5 years since I first held you, first stroked your dark, curly hair, first shared you with another person. Then again, it seems like you've always been with us.

What a year this has been. I've said that every September for the past 5 years, I know, but the last 365 days have been filled to bursting with every sort of milestone and celebration. Last year I wrote about my feelings about your upcoming graduation from Abeona House, and your move to Big School; I simply could not imagine how we would all handle such a major change. But you, you amazing and brave and powerful little girl, handled the transition with complete grace. On the last Friday in May you walked down the ramp at Abeona House, giggling with your friend Amaya, and took the certificate Ms. Emmy handed you; 3 days later I left you in a crowd of strangers at a summer camp across the river. You looked so tiny sitting there amid all the bigger kids, with your princess backpack and princess sneakers, but when the time came you kissed me goodbye and took a seat on the floor with your group, arms crossed over the tops of your knees. I stepped outside and watched through the window as you sat quietly, taking it all in. Watching you there made me feel relieved and proud, of course, but it also made me acutely aware of your inner life: what was going on in your little mind? What mysteries were swirling around in there? For the first time ever I experienced you as separate from me. There are things about you I will never know, thoughts I will never be privy to, feelings that will remain hidden.

But here is what I do know: you are fierce, you are fiercely loving, you are a social creature but tend to be shy and reserved around people you don't know well. You are left-handed, and this causes me a ridiculous amount of anxiety with regard to the logistics of teaching you how to tie your shoes. You are keenly aware of rules and like to know whether or not you are following them. You love to draw and paint, to do puzzles, to read, to sing, and create menus and serve meals to me from your play kitchen in the little house outside.

You are very girly; every day you must wear a dress. I know my wardrobe disappoints you.

You are starting to read and write. You started a "dream book" recently, wherein you record the important ones, or the ones you manage to remember; I help you occasionally with the words but you like to sound out and spell the words as much as you can. Your first story is called "The Scary" and reads: "I was in my bedroom. I fell in a tunnel. I was scared. I met a princess. She told me the way out."

You have a gigantic personality. Everyone who knows you knows that booty dance you do when you get really worked up, your infectious laughter, your VOLUME. They also probably know your sweetness, your sensitivity, the way your little hand rests on the back of the younger child you're guiding across the playground. They've undoubtedly seen what Dad calls your "troll face," which we see a couple of times a day, sometimes more if you're tired or if Evan is getting on your nerves more than usual.

There was a lot of Katrina talk over the last few months, as we approached the 5-year anniversary, and you've seemed more and more curious about--and proud of--the story of your birth. We talk about how Dad and I left New Orleans that Sunday morning, and you seem particularly interested in the fact that we didn't bring any of your baby stuff, except for the car seat. I explain to you that bringing the seat was a last minute impulse, and seemed at the time to be a ridiculous waste of precious car space, and I watch you struggle to understand why we didn't know what was coming. We talk about living in Houston with Aunt Syd and Uncle Parry, how I found a new doctor and we got all set to have you there, how PaPa even made you a basinette while we all waited for you to be born. You have a hard time understanding that Miranda and Josephine, who live with Nana and PaPa, were actually our cats before the storm, how they moved with me and Dad from New Orleans but had to go back with your grandparents when they left Houston a couple of weeks later. We talk about the other hurricane, the one that came to Houston and forced us to leave a few days after you were supposed to be born but hadn't yet arrived, how we drove for 3 days until we reached Grandma's house in Orlando. You like hearing how you were born the day after we arrived, at the same hospital in which your beloved cousin Ethan was born. As you get older I see you developing an awareness of the special nature of your story, which is fun to watch. How many people can claim such an interesting beginning?

You draw me lots of pictures and somewhere on almost every one of them are the words "I Love You." I hope you hear this often enough.

Thank you for choosing us, for challenging me to be a better person, for bringing us such incredible joy. Even our difficult days are so important, so precious. I hope you will read this 15 or 20 years from now and know, deep in your bones, the wonderful gift you are and how much you are loved.

Happy Birthday to my big girl.

Love,
Mom

Itsy-Bitsy

From Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek":

Thomas Merton wrote, "There is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues." There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It is so self-conscious, so apparently moral, simply to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won't have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus.

Ezekiel excoriates false prophets as those who have "not gone up into the gaps." The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzilingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once-blind man unbound...Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock--more than a maple--a universe. This is how you spend the afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.

Two People Agree

Last week, a childhood friend of mine who writes a wonderful blog posted something about an article she'd read about therapy; the next day I found a copy of this same article in my box at work and figured I needed to read it. The article, called "My Life in Therapy," chronicles the experiences of a chronically depressed woman who seeks the services of many, many psychoanalysts over the course of her life. I read it with great interest and increasing distress: her experiences were just so awful, so invalidating, so...so...common.

The author states from the outset that:

To this day, I’m not sure that I am in possession of substantially greater self-knowledge than someone who has never been inside a therapist’s office. What I do know, aside from the fact that the unconscious plays strange tricks and that the past stalks the present in ways we can’t begin to imagine, is a certain language, a certain style of thinking that, in its capacity for reframing your life story, becomes — how should I put this? — addictive.

This is probably my greatest professional concern: that I will not actually help anyone, but only serve to perpetuate the therapeutic tropes that run rampant in our culture. Come see me, go watch Dr. Phil, go read a book by Dr. Laura--whatever, it's all the same.

She goes on to write about an experience she had with one of her analysts wherein she found herself profoundly bothered by the rules and regulations of the relationship, but simultaneously found it necessary to keep her mouth shut:

Needless to say, I didn’t air any of these thoughts and instead went into my skittish, slightly apologetic, pre-emptively self-deprecating patient mode — intent on sounding like someone who was aware of the pathological currents that ran beneath a life that might be viewed as functional, even successful, if looked at from afar.

I guess you could look at this a couple of ways: as the unending spiral of an incurable neurotic--as most analysts would likely see it--or as the understandable need to portray oneself in a certain way so as not to be labeled prematurely. In my experience, the latter seems disturbingly reasonable: there are a whole lot of pathologizing clinicians out there, people who will diagnose every assertive woman with Borderline Personality Disorder, who start talking about "resistance" when patients start questioning the point of therapy. And speaking of questioning:

All of which raises the question: What exactly is the point? How can you be expected to know when being in therapy is the right choice, to know which treatments are actually helpful and which serve merely to give the false sense of reassurance that comes with being proactive, with doing all that we can? Does anyone, for example, really know what “character change” looks like?...Even to this day, I’m not sure I know anyone whose character has been genuinely transformed because of therapy. If anything, most people seem to emerge as more backed-up versions of themselves.

I felt truly heartened when I read this passage. In fact, this is the point in therapy when I frequently feel the most hopeful: when a client begins to question the usefulness of the whole endeavor. The whole idea of "character change" repulses me, frankly, and I use the moment of questioning as an opportunity to tell people precisely that. The job of the therapist, in my opinion at least, is not to change the character of a person, but to help that person become more fully themselves. Sure, it can be and often is about changing problem behaviors or habits, but the self of the person should remain not only intact but more solid, more whole, more robust. I have come to understand that people arrive at my office with the expectation that I will reveal to them all that is flawed within themselves, then give them the necessary tools to remedy the problems. This makes me immensely frustrated with the whole business of therapy, which is truly responsible for the idea that most people are flawed.

One of the most striking passages in the article dealt with the issue of the therapeutic relationship:

And for all the emphasis on therapy’s being a place of intimate disclosure — for all the times, in between shows of hostility, that I haltingly stated my feelings of great affection or even love for my therapists — none of them ever opened up about their feelings for me other than to convey a vague liking or appreciation for some facet of my personality.

I have to admit a certain fascination with this topic. Therapist transparency is a hotly contested topic, with some clinicians--mostly those of the psychoanalytic persuasion, but some plain old psychotherapists as well--maintaining that transparency or self-disclosure on the part of the therapist only serves the therapist's own needs and inevitably muddies the therapeutic waters, while others--myself, and most therapists of the existential persuasion--believe that transparency is essential to an authentic and intimate relationship. Let me be clear: I believe in strong and healthy boundaries, and while I keep photos of my kids on my office desk and respond geniunely to personal inquiries, while I invite frank discussions about the nature of the therapeutic relationship and frequently express my care and concern for the people I see--despite this belief in authenticity, I am also aware of the threat of self-indulgence, the TMI factor, the thin line that sometimes exists between transparency and non-productive self-disclosure. And I harbor the not-so-secret-anymore suspicion that those clinicians who denounce transparency are somehow uncomfortable with the between-ness of the therapeutic relationship; that they can't quite negotiate the kind of working relationship that's based on true human contact, not arbitrary heirarchies.

I was wary by this point of the alacrity with which I attached to shrinks, each and every one of them, as if I suspended my usual vigilant powers of critical judgment in their presence merely because they wore the badge of their profession. The truth of the matter was that in more than 40 years of therapy...I never developed a set of criteria by which to assess the skill of a given therapist, the way you would assess a dentist or a plumber. Other than a presentable degree of intelligence and an office that didn’t set off aesthetic alarms...I wasn’t sure what made for a good one.

And this, of course, is a major freaking problem. I have no problem stating for the record that there are a great number of very bad therapists out there--I've seen a couple of them myself--and the potential for these people to inflict serious harm makes me gasp for breath. The beauty and gift of the therapeutic relationship is, alas, it's Achilles heel: the subjectivity of the intimate relationship makes it difficult for many people to separate "their own issues" from true and real problems with the practitioner. But here's some real and objective truth:

A good therapist will encourage questioning--at the very least they will not try to make you believe that your questioning suggests a fundamental resistance towards self-reflection. Good therapists will project warmth; they will project caring; they will set a tone of safety and acceptance. A good therapist will have strong boundaries, but won't shame you for making personal inquiries. A good therapist will help you discover yourself and learn skills to help you function better, if that is what you are seeking. A good therapist will admit mistakes.
**************************************************************************
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this article, and I wish the author well on her journey to find the "right" therapist. Of all the things that struck me in reading this, perhaps nothing resonated so completely as this line, attributed to the psychoanalyst Adam Phillips:

"Psychoanalysis is about what two people can say to each other if they agree not to have sex."

I don't know why I love this, but I do. I really do.

Driving to New Orleans

The first time I drove to New Orleans, it was on a whim. My soon-to-be best friend approached me and my then-boyfriend after class on a Wednesday afternoon and asked if we were interested in heading to New Orleans the next day for this thing called Jazz Fest; she didn't have a car and I did and I said sure, why the hell not? The next day we headed out after class, the 3 of us piled into my Dodge Omni for the 10-hour drive, chugging up I-75 to I-10, across the dead miles of the Panhandle, through the midnight fog along Mobile Bay. We reached a friend of a friend's house sometime after 2 a.m., and one of us--I don't remember who--had the gall to actually ring the doorbell. We crashed there for 2 days, ate some crazy brownies, wandered brazenly through streets we knew not at all, where the drinking age was 18 and we were one year older. I remember Joshua Redman in the Jazz tent, as The Boyfriend worked his way through a pile of tiny lobsters, the likes of which I'd never seen. I remember BB King in the rain, slipping in mud towards the port-o-lets, tracking down friends in the French Quarter--no easy feat in the days before cell phones. It was 1994. I was enthralled.

The next time I drove to New Orleans, 2 years later, it was a planned affair. The Boyfriend and I had spent the year--my second year of college, his last--planning and saving for a spectacular road trip that would take us from South Florida to the Pacific Northwest and back, with an extended stay in the Big Easy. We found a tiny international hostel just off Canal Street, definitely the coolest place I have ever stayed, and spent a week or so wandering the city. My memories of that week are spotty, mixed in with others from that summer of crazy mis-adventure, but what I remember most are sounds and smells, the way the magnolias cast shadows on the cracked sidewalks, the ever-changing smell of the Mississippi river, the steamboats singing, the powdered-sugar smiles we wore when the Japanese tourists snapped our picture at Cafe du Monde. There was a tiny alligator in the pond at the back of the hostel; every morning I'd sit on the back steps, roll a cigarette, and listen to the streetcar clanging a few blocks away. There was music in the streets and the people were rude as hell and I loved them for that--for not pretending to give a shit about me.

It's funny: the night I met Cade, I knew he was the person I would spend the rest of my life with. I felt no urgency, nor did I worry or fret when I didn't see or hear from him for 2 months after. I knew he would be back; I felt connected to him and that connection led to certainty. In the same way, when I left New Orleans for New Mexico in the summer of 1996, it was with the certainty that I would be back some day, and not just for a vacation. I had met my future home.

5 years later, I drove to New Orleans with everything I owned stuffed into my Toyota Tercel. My friend--the one who talked me into coming for Jazz Fest the first time--had landed a job at a yacht company in the East and another friend of ours from college was moving down from the Northeast and I had been looking for a reason to get the hell out of Florida. The house was one half of a shotgun double on State Street Drive. We went to Venezia that night and the next morning I got up and ran a few miles, trying to find Audubon Park and failing miserably. Somewhere around the 3rd mile I knew I was home. I can't explain it, though I've tried so many times in the 9 years since. The best explanation I can come up with is that I didn't get lost that morning; I didn't find my way to the park but I knew exactly where I was the entire time, and I am not one blessed with a keen sense of direction. And when I got home and got dressed and we headed to the Quarter for breakfast and HOT DAMN, it was Southern Decadence, well, that just sealed the deal: I was never leaving. I was home.

Last week we took a trip to Orlando to visit my family. As we drove across Mobile Bay I remembered, as I always do on that bridge, the first night I drove to New Orleans, when we crossed through the midnight fog, my friends dozing in their seats while I hunched over the steering wheel to get a better view. I had no way to know it then, but on the other side of that fog was a tranformative experience, and I'm not talking about a one-time thing.

Living in New Orleans is a tranformative experience. In many ways I feel like my life really started when I moved here. I was happy before, and I had accomplished much, but what I experienced that first morning on State Street Drive was a sense of being fully alive. And that's what keeps me here, that's probably what keeps a lot of people here, that feeling. Sometimes, when I spend a period of time in a place like Orlando, where the grocery stores are amazing and everything works and is clean and the kindergarten teachers come for home visits before school starts and you can drive 15 minutes and get out of your car and walk directly onto a beautiful, unblemished beach--sometimes I start to think about how hard things are here in New Orleans, I start to think about what life might be like if we lived in a place like Orlando. But that is utter nonsense, it's a moot point, because here's the thing: I would get lost a lot. I would feel homesick, and cut off from my real life. Fridays would be insufferable, as everyone around me would actually be working. One Tuesday out of every year I would have a severe existential crisis. I would have to stuff this exuberance away, this belief--no, conviction--that life should be lived every single goddamned day.

It's both wonderful, and terrible, to live in a place you love with every fiber of your being. It's wonderful for obvious reasons; it's terrible because, damn, what happens if someday you have to live somewhere else?

To Evan, On Your 2nd Birthday.

My sweet, sweet boy--I have struggled for days with the content of this letter, not because there's nothing to say but because there is so much, because every time I think of you I go into emotional overload and the part of my brain responsible for logic and rational thought and organization just kind of shuts down. I've found some quiet time here in Florida, while you and Sydney play outside on the swingset at Grandma's house, to try my best to put into words how much joy and laughter you've brought into our lives, what an amazing little person you are, how much we love you.

So much has happened this last year. You started to walk, then talk a little; you discovered trucks and diggers; you developed the ability to play with your sister (much to her delight, and chagrin). The Saints had their miracle season and you were there every step of the way; now, if you see a Fleur de Lis, you point and shout "De Lee! Saints! Who Dat!!" and if you hear the "Stand up, Get Crunk" song, you drop whatever you're doing and dance with the whole of your tiny little body. You had a wonderful year with Ms. Gwen at Abeona House, and have cemented your reputation as a pint-sized Lothario--you adore the little girls in your class, and are unfailingly gentle, smiley, and attentive. If this keeps up, Mommy is going to have to beat the girls off with a stick one day (and believe me, she will).

You have beautiful golden ringlets that Mommy just can't bring herself to get cut, even though she doesn't like long hair on boys. You have big blue eyes and those big, full Roux lips. You are very, very social--you love to mimic what the bigger kids are doing and you love to repeat everything you hear. Despite your gregarious nature, you love to play on your own and could play alone for hours if we let you. Of course, no one ever wants to let you play by yourself, because you are just so much fun to be with.

When you were first born, you did not like to sleep in your crib, so you and Mommy spent the first few months of your life on the couch downstairs, where you slept nestled in the crook of my arm. We'd sleep for a few hours, you'd wake up to eat and cuddle, then we'd snuggle in for a few more hours. The world was quiet and it was just us two, in our sleepy cocoon, and I'm not sure I've ever been happier. I loved those precious early days, and I've loved watching you grow into such a loving, joyful, smart, sincere, and funny little boy.

We love you so much, Evan, and cherish every moment of this life with you.

Love,

Mommy, Daddy and Sydney

Why I Should Not Allow My Father to Transport Me To, or From, the Airport.

Dad: "So, honey, how are things going in New Or-leens these days?"
Me: "Fine! Great."
D: "All those houses getting put back up and everything?"
M: "Yep."
D: "Good. I'm so sick and tired of all these people whining and complaining about how the city needs this that and the other-"
M: "Well, the oil spill feels like the beginning of the end for the area, to be honest."
D: "What? You gotta be kidding me!"
M: "It's pretty bad, Dad."
D: "And here's where everyone needs to get their facts straight, honey. Did you even know that this same sort of thing happened in Mexico about ten years ago--you probably don't even know, because nobody ever wants to get their facts straight--and they got it all cleaned up, like it never even happened. Besides, there's no oil on the beaches, people are just getting all hysterical. Those liberals make everyone all worked up about stuff that isn't even happening."
M: "There's oil on the beaches, Dad. And in the swamps and in Lake Pontchartrain. You should come down and see it."
D: "You know what really gets me mad? That everyone* overreacts to this supposed 'disaster' and they shut down the oil wells and the drilling and that just makes me crazy. When are people going to wake up and realize that we cannot survive without oil? When are the people in New Or-leens going to wake up and realize that their whole economy is going to go down the tubes with the drilling stopped?" (snickering) "It's just unbelievable, man."
M: "I don't think the people of New Orleans passed the moratorium on drilling, Dad."
D: "Well, it's just a good thing you've got Danny Jindal for your governor."
M: "Bobby Jindal."
D: "Bobby Jindal is a good man, a man of the people, a good, conservative Christian man. If they would have let him do what he wanted to do when this whole thing started, you wouldn't have the mess you have right now. Uh-huh."
M: "Jindal is not a hero, Dad, trust me."
D: "Well, you probably don't have your facts straight. That's the problem these days. Nobody wants to hear the truth, nobody has the facts straight."

* In Dad-speak, "everyone" is code for "Barack Obama."