I hide behind the morning papers. Like my father before me, I create a little teepee of space for myself at the breakfast table. There, between the tip of my nose and the intoxicating ink-scented page, I am a supreme being. I do whatever I want, say whatever pleases me, and nobody, not even my ten-year-old daughter, is allowed into my space, for the simple reason that it is my space, my lair, my palace.

“Dad.”

“Sweetie, Daddy is reading the paper so please don’t bother him.”

“Dad… Is Mahmoud Abbas really the biggest asshole alive?”

Alarmed but not quite ready to surrender shoreline, I offer an abridged version of the anxiety welling up in my breast.

“Sweetie, who told you that? Your teacher, Ms. Halloochis? I told you to stay in French Immersion.”

“Dad!”

OK. It was time to peek out. Just peek out.

“Well?”

“Dad, remember when Mr. Abbas quit, you said he was the biggest asshole…”