It is really quite amazing that all of the folks supporting

Host: The Capitol’s marble steps were slick with rain, glistening under the weak, cold light of evening. Flags snapped in the wind like restless ghosts. Somewhere beyond the iron gates, the city hummed with the noise of power — cars, chants, distant sirens, the endless grinding of democracy trying to move forward while its conscience lagged behind.

Jack stood at the bottom of the steps, his coat collar turned up against the chill. His eyes, grey as wet granite, watched the glow of the dome fade into mist. Jeeny approached from behind, an umbrella trembling slightly in her hand, her boots clicking softly on the stone.

The world smelled of rain and old stone, of a country both ancient and impatient.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that building for ten minutes. Waiting for something to change?”

Jack: (half-smiles) “Just wondering if it ever really does.”

Jeeny: “It does. Just slower than we want.”

Jack: “James Roosevelt once said, ‘It is really quite amazing that all of the folks supporting privatization, from the president on down, keep invoking the name of my grandfather, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.’ I can’t stop thinking about that.”

Jeeny: “Because he was right. They invoke the name but ignore the soul.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant echo of protestors chanting near the reflecting pool. Their voices rose and fell like waves — anger and hope intertwined.

Jack: “What amazes me isn’t that people twist his legacy — it’s how easily they do it. How comfortable we’ve become using history as a brand.”

Jeeny: “That’s what power does, Jack. It repackages truth. Roosevelt built systems to protect people. Now they use his name to dismantle them.”

Jack: “They call it modernization. Efficiency. Freedom of choice.”

Jeeny: “Freedom for whom?”

Jack: (quietly) “Exactly.”

Host: The rain softened, falling now like threads of silver, catching the streetlights in thin vertical streaks. Jeeny moved closer, her umbrella now covering them both.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? The word amazing. It’s not bitter — it’s bewildered. Like he still couldn’t believe people could betray ideals so elegantly.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s not anger — it’s sorrow in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Because betrayal always wears respectability.”

Host: A long silence followed. The faint splash of tires echoed off the nearby buildings. Across the street, the statue of FDR — coat flowing, cane in hand — glistened beneath the rain.

Jack: “You think he’d recognize this country?”

Jeeny: “He’d recognize the struggle. Different battlefield, same enemy — greed dressed as progress.”

Jack: “It’s strange. FDR fought to lift people out of despair, and now his name gets used to sell them comfort while taking their safety nets away.”

Jeeny: “It’s the great inversion — using hope as a marketing strategy.”

Host: Jeeny lowered her umbrella slightly. Her face, touched by the rain, seemed both fierce and fragile — like someone who carried faith not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to tell me stories about the New Deal — the work programs, the optimism. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave people dignity. They called it socialism back then too. But it built bridges, schools, hospitals. Real things. Things that lasted.”

Jack: “Now we build apps and call it progress.”

Jeeny: “Progress without empathy is just machinery.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And machinery doesn’t care who gets crushed in the gears.”

Host: The sound of thunder rolled faintly across the city — a low growl swallowed by distance. The lights from nearby offices reflected off the wet marble, shimmering like a mirage of purpose.

Jeeny: “You think people even remember what Roosevelt stood for?”

Jack: “Some do. Most just remember the name. That’s the tragedy of legacy — it’s easier to worship than to understand.”

Jeeny: “But that’s why his grandson said it. To remind us that remembering isn’t enough.”

Jack: “Yeah. He was calling out the hypocrisy — the way history gets rewritten to fit whatever story we’re selling now.”

Host: Jeeny closed the umbrella and tilted her face upward, letting the rain hit her skin. She didn’t flinch. The moment felt defiant — quiet resistance against the soft decay of integrity.

Jeeny: “You know, I think FDR believed that government could be an instrument of compassion. Not power — compassion. That’s what we’ve lost.”

Jack: “And replaced it with convenience.”

Jeeny: “Convenience is the enemy of compassion.”

Host: Jack stepped closer, his voice low but steady.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever swing back? To something like what he stood for?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. When we get tired of mistaking profit for purpose.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “So… never?”

Jeeny: “No. Eventually. History’s a pendulum, Jack. It always swings back — but not before it breaks a few clocks.”

Host: The rain stopped. The world held still. The sound of dripping gutters echoed like punctuation after truth.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. Everyone quotes Roosevelt when they need to sound noble. But no one quotes him when he talked about justice.”

Jeeny: “Because justice demands sacrifice. And comfort hates sacrifice.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real reason James Roosevelt sounded amazed — not that people invoked his grandfather’s name, but that they thought it could hide what they’d become.”

Jeeny: “Hypocrisy has good PR.”

Host: A faint smile crossed her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked out at the Capitol again — its glowing dome, its promise and its betrayal standing side by side in the rain.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think America’s like an orchestra playing a song it forgot how to feel?”

Jack: “Yeah. The instruments are the same, but the soul’s missing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time for a new conductor.”

Jack: “Or at least someone who remembers the melody.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying with it the low murmur of thunder retreating into the distance. The city glowed, restless and reflective.

Jeeny slipped her arm through Jack’s as they began walking down the slick steps. The sound of their footsteps echoed softly against the stone, small human noises beneath the great indifferent hum of history.

Behind them, FDR’s statue stood silent — rain glistening like tears across his bronze face.

And though neither of them spoke it aloud, both felt the same truth stirring in the damp air —
that amazing isn’t always a compliment.

Sometimes it’s a quiet, grieving astonishment
that people can remember a name,
and still forget what it meant.