The Valley Viewpoint

Every so often a proposal emerges from New York City politics that makes the rest of New York shake its head.

The latest comes from New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani, who has floated the idea of slashing New York’s estate tax exemption from roughly $7 million down to just $750,000.

Supporters frame it as a tax on the wealthy.

But here’s the inconvenient reality.

Even though the conversation is being driven out of New York City, estate tax policy is set by Albany, meaning any change would apply to every corner of New York State — not just Manhattan brownstones or Brooklyn townhouses.

That includes families right here in the Hudson Valley.

And that’s where the math begins to fall apart.

In today’s New York, $750,000 is not “the rich.” In many communities it’s simply the value of a home purchased decades ago. Add in a retirement account and perhaps a modest life-insurance policy meant to help children after a parent passes away, and suddenly an ordinary family estate crosses the line.

Under a proposal like this, the state would be waiting with a tax bill.

That’s not targeting billionaires.

That’s targeting people who worked their entire lives and hoped to leave something behind for their kids.

This is the danger when policies are crafted through the lens of New York City politics. What might sound like a tax on Manhattan wealth can quickly become a tax on middle-class stability everywhere else in the state.

The Hudson Valley isn’t filled with hedge-fund managers and luxury penthouses. It’s filled with teachers, police officers, small business owners, and retirees who spent decades paying taxes and maintaining homes.

To call that “wealth” worthy of a punitive estate tax is more than a policy argument.

It’s a misunderstanding of how most New Yorkers actually live.

There is also a larger truth Albany should keep in mind.

New York already loses residents every year to states with lower taxes and fewer regulations. Each new proposal that treats ordinary family assets as a revenue source only accelerates that trend.

The middle class in New York is already under pressure.

Redefining them as “rich” might make for good political slogans in New York City.

But across the rest of the state, it simply sounds like one more reason people are packing up and leaving.

In New York, we give judges enormous authority. They preside over disputes, determine guilt and innocence, and make decisions that can profoundly affect people’s lives. The public accepts that authority because we assume the person wearing the robe will exercise it with restraint, fairness, and a sense of responsibility.

But sometimes the robe gets used as a weapon.

That’s essentially what happened in Ulster County, where Town of Ulster Judge Susan Kesick was publicly censured by the New York State Commission on Judicial Conduct after an incident involving a dispute with a court clerk escalated far beyond what anyone would expect inside a courthouse.

According to the Commission’s findings, Kesick called police to the courthouse in an attempt to have a court clerk removed from the building during a workplace dispute. The situation didn’t end there. Investigators found that she later attempted to have the clerk fired, turning what should have been an administrative personnel issue into a misuse of judicial authority.

The Commission concluded that her behavior contributed to a hostile workplace environment and improperly invoked the power of the bench to resolve a personal conflict.

The penalty: public censure.

That means Judge Kesick remains on the bench, but the misconduct is now part of the public record — a formal rebuke issued by the state body responsible for policing judicial behavior.

Still, the larger issue goes well beyond one courthouse or one judge.

Town and village courts across New York are the front door of the justice system. For many residents, the only judge they will ever see in person sits in one of these local courts. When a judge in that system appears to use the power of the robe to intimidate or retaliate against staff, it damages confidence in the institution itself.

Judges, like anyone else, can have disagreements with coworkers. Courtrooms are stressful environments. Personalities clash.

But judges hold the unique authority of the state.

Calling the police because of a workplace dispute with a clerk isn’t exercising judicial leadership — it’s an abuse of the leverage that comes with the position.

The robe is supposed to represent calm judgment, not personal grievance.

And that distinction matters.

Public confidence in institutions is already fragile. From Albany to Washington, people increasingly believe that those in positions of authority operate under a different set of rules than everyone else.

When a judge uses the power of the bench to escalate a personal dispute, it feeds exactly that perception.

Justice requires power. But it also requires humility.

Because the moment the bench begins to look like a bully’s pulpit, the public starts to question whether justice is still the goal — or whether authority has simply become another tool for settling personal scores.

And that’s a problem no censure alone can fix.

Every so often, local politics offers a reminder that the loudest voices are not always the most accurate ones.

This week, that reminder came courtesy of a social media exchange following a meeting of the Dutchess County Legislature.

Heidi Tucci — a Democrat currently running for a seat in the Dutchess County Legislature — took to Facebook to criticize certain legislators, posting what she claimed was an “absent list” from the March 9 legislative meeting. Among the names she publicly called out was Legislator John Metzger.

There was only one problem.

According to Metzger — and according to the video of the meeting itself — he wasn’t absent at all.

He was sitting in his seat.

Metzger responded directly, noting that while he was “flattered” Tucci appeared to be taking attendance at the legislature, he was in fact present the entire evening doing exactly what voters elected him to do: representing his constituents.

It was a response that carried just the right amount of dry sarcasm.

But Metzger also pointed out something Tucci’s post conveniently missed. If accuracy was truly the goal, another name might belong on the absentee list — Legislator Eric Alexander. Metzger even noted Alexander’s party affiliation, suggesting that perhaps party politics played a role in who was publicly criticized and who was quietly overlooked.

And that gets to the larger issue.

When someone running for public office decides to play social media referee, accuracy should probably come before accusation. Public trust in local government isn’t strengthened by political gotcha posts that turn out to be wrong.

This is becoming a familiar pattern in our region’s increasingly performative political culture. Social media activists — and increasingly, political candidates — rush to post accusations before checking the facts, hoping outrage travels faster than verification.

Too often, it does.

But governing — even at the county level — isn’t a Facebook comment section. Legislators spend hours in meetings dealing with the actual business of the county: budgets, emergency services, community programs, and the routine resolutions that keep government functioning.

At this particular meeting, the legislature handled proclamations recognizing Women’s History Month, resolutions supporting local organizations, and funding authorizations connected to the county’s 911 emergency response system.

Important work.

Real work.

Work that deserves more attention than a hastily assembled attendance accusation.

Unfortunately, the modern political environment rewards outrage more than accuracy. A quick screenshot and a pointed caption can spread across social media long before anyone bothers to check whether the claim is even true.

In this case, it appears the accusation simply didn’t match reality.

And that’s the risk when politics turns into performance: the facts eventually catch up.

For the voters of Dutchess County, the lesson is a simple one.

Before sharing the outrage, it might be worth checking who was actually in the room.

Every spring in Albany, there’s a ritual that plays out with remarkable consistency.

Lawmakers warn that the state budget is tight. They speak solemnly about “difficult choices.” They debate spending priorities, taxes, and affordability.

And then—almost on cue—someone proposes giving the legislature a raise.

This year is no different.

As part of negotiations over New York’s 2026 state budget, lawmakers are considering a proposal to raise their own salaries from $142,000 to about $180,000 a year. That’s roughly a 26 percent pay increase, pushing New York legislators even further ahead as the highest-paid state lawmakers in America.

Let that sink in for a moment.

While families across the Hudson Valley are juggling rising property taxes, higher utility bills, grocery costs that seem to climb every week, and a housing market that has become nearly impossible for young families to enter, Albany has apparently found a solution to the one affordability problem that keeps legislators awake at night:

Their own paychecks.

Now, the arguments in favor of the raise are predictable.

Supporters say the job is now “full-time.” They say ethics rules limit outside income. They say higher salaries make public service accessible to more people.

Perhaps.

But here’s the inconvenient detail that rarely makes it into the talking points: New York lawmakers just gave themselves a major raise in 2023, when their salaries jumped from $110,000 to $142,000.

That increase was sold to the public as part of a reform package. Higher pay, we were told, would come with higher standards. Greater accountability. Better governance.

Yet only a few years later, Albany is back at the table asking for more.

The timing could not be worse.

Across the Hudson Valley—from Poughkeepsie to Pleasant Valley, Beacon to Fishkill—families are doing what families have always done when money gets tight: cutting back, making choices, stretching every dollar.

They’re not voting themselves 26 percent raises.

They’re figuring out how to afford heating oil, childcare, groceries, and the property tax bill that shows up with relentless regularity.

Meanwhile in Albany, legislative pay raises often find their way into the state budget—an enormous document negotiated behind closed doors and voted on with little time for the public, or even many lawmakers themselves, to fully digest.

It’s the kind of maneuver that reinforces a perception many voters already have: that the rules seem to work one way for government insiders and another way for everyone else.

Public service was never supposed to be a path to personal financial security. It was supposed to be a commitment to serve the people who sent you there.

And right now, many of those people are wondering why the urgency Albany shows for improving its own financial situation rarely seems to extend to the taxpayers who make those paychecks possible.

If legislators believe they deserve a raise, they should debate it openly, vote on it clearly, and explain it directly to the voters.

But slipping it quietly into a multi-billion-dollar budget while New Yorkers struggle with the cost of living?

That’s not leadership.

That’s Albany being Albany.

And voters across the Hudson Valley are growing tired of the tradition.

This post first appeared in 2019. Today it surfaced again in my “Memories” feed, and reading it now stirred the same complicated feelings it did then—feelings that many of my fellow Xavier High School alumni will recognize.

Several years ago, the head of the New York Jesuit Province released the names of Jesuits who had been credibly accused of sexually abusing minors over the previous fifty years. Like many who had been educated by the Jesuits, I read that announcement with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and sadness.

In response, I wrote to the Province. What troubled me most was a line in the letter from John Cecero, the Jesuit Provincial at the time. In explaining how abuse had been handled decades earlier, he wrote that “we did not know any best practices to handle these violations many decades ago and regrettably made mistakes along the way.”

That sentence stopped me cold.

What exactly is the “best practice” for the rape of a child? Wouldn’t the best practice simply have been to report the crime and protect the victims?

The phrase felt painfully similar to something another Jesuit Provincial once wrote during the abuse crisis in Alaska, when lawsuits were brought by Native villagers who had suffered decades of abuse by Jesuit missionaries. That Provincial spoke about the humiliation he felt as his Province faced legal action, comparing it to the humiliation Christ experienced in the Garden of Gethsemane.

The comparison was staggering. Christ’s suffering at Gethsemane had nothing to do with abusing children. To equate the humiliation of church leadership facing accountability with the suffering of Christ struck me then—and still strikes me now—as profoundly misguided.

For me, healing will only begin when those in Jesuit leadership positions fully acknowledge the truth many people already suspect: that some leaders knew what was happening, that the culture surrounding the priesthood often ignored or minimized the problem, and that silence became the “best practice” that was followed.

Years ago I also wrote to Tom Smolich about abuse cases uncovered in California. To my surprise, he responded. But the reply felt less like accountability and more like a polite apology wrapped in theological language, suggesting that perhaps God had “opened this door for a reason.”

I shared that correspondence with a Jesuit priest whom I deeply respected. His response surprised me even more—he told me he didn’t understand my anger or why I had written the letter at all. Sadly, that conversation marked the last time we spoke.

Publishing the names of accused priests may bring some measure of closure for certain people. I sincerely hope it does. But for many of us, the feelings are more complicated.

I remain deeply grateful to my family for the sacrifices they made to send me to Jesuit schools. In an article I once wrote for the Xavier alumni magazine, I reflected on several Jesuits who profoundly shaped my life and the life of my uncle, also a Xavier man.

Among them was Vin Duminuco—a priest whose influence I remember with gratitude.

Which is why it pains me to know that he is buried in the Jesuit cemetery at Auriesville Shrine beside Roy Drake, a priest later confirmed to have abused children. For those of us who respected men like Father Duminuco, that juxtaposition feels deeply unjust.

My anger has never been directed at the Jesuits who truly lived their vows with integrity. It is directed at those in leadership who knew abuse was occurring and whose response was silence—and at times, legal maneuvering.

One of the most troubling examples emerged during the Alaska litigation, when the Jesuits argued in court that universities and schools run by Jesuits were not actually owned or operated by the order. Critics later dubbed it the “Gonzaga Argument,” after Gonzaga University. The legal logic was widely mocked as being like claiming that Pontiac is not part of General Motors.

To many of us, it looked less like accountability and more like an attempt to shield assets.

When I reread these words today, years later, I realize the conflict hasn’t disappeared. I still feel gratitude for the education I received, and I still carry anger over the institutional failures that allowed abuse to continue for so long.

I hope the publication of those names brings peace to those whose faith was shaken by these revelations.

For me, it still raises difficult questions.

Because healing will only truly begin when those who held authority fully acknowledge what happened—not as a failure of “best practices,” but as a moral failure that silence allowed to continue.

Last week, New York State Senator Rob Rolison convened a Crime Victims Roundtable — a gathering intended to bring together district attorneys, law enforcement officials, and victim advocates to discuss something that should never be partisan: the safety and support of crime victims.

In principle, that kind of conversation is exactly what communities like ours in the Hudson Valley need. Crime victims often feel like an afterthought in policy debates, overshadowed by legal technicalities, political agendas, or bureaucratic process.

Giving them a seat at the table matters.

But in public life, who sits at that table also matters.

Among those invited to participate was Yvonne Flowers, the incumbent mayor of the City of Poughkeepsie. Senator Rolison publicly thanked her for attending and posed for photos with her that were later shared on social media.

Under ordinary circumstances, there would be nothing unusual about a mayor participating in a public safety discussion.

But these circumstances are not ordinary.

Mayor Flowers’ brother, Frank Flowers, is currently facing four criminal charges across two states, including a felony strangulation charge filed in December 2025 related to alleged domestic violence.

Let’s be clear about something important: no one is responsible for the actions of a relative. Family members are not legally accountable for the alleged crimes of siblings or cousins.

But public leadership isn’t judged solely by legal responsibility. It is also judged by how leaders respond publicly when serious issues arise close to home.

During a recorded City of Poughkeepsie Common Council meeting on January 6, Mayor Flowers referred to the allegations involving her brother as “a situation” and “a family matter.”

Those words matter.

To someone who has endured domestic violence, the idea that such crimes might be framed as a “family matter” echoes a phrase that has historically been used to minimize abuse, discourage reporting, or keep violence behind closed doors.

Domestic violence is not a private dispute.

It is a crime.

And when an event is specifically designed to elevate and support victims, the optics surrounding that event become important.

No one is suggesting that Mayor Flowers should be excluded from civic life because of the legal troubles of a family member. That would be unfair.

But when leaders participate in forums centered on victim advocacy, the public expects clarity and consistency in how those crimes are discussed.

Victims should never have to wonder whether the people speaking about their protection would respond the same way if the accused happened to be someone close to them.

That is the question many in the community are now quietly asking.

Senator Rolison’s roundtable was meant to highlight the voices of victims. Instead, it has sparked a conversation about judgment, optics, and the responsibility that comes with public leadership.

Because for victims of domestic violence, the message from every public official must be unmistakable:

It is not a “situation.”

It is not a “family matter.”

It is a crime.

And victims deserve leaders who make that clear — every time.

There is a moment in politics when rhetoric collides with reality.

Last week in Washington, that moment arrived.

For years now, politicians across the political spectrum have loudly demanded the release of the Epstein files. The argument has been simple and powerful: if powerful people were involved in wrongdoing, the public deserves to know. Names should be released. Records should be opened. No one should be protected by position or influence.

It is a message that resonates with voters because it speaks to a basic principle: transparency and accountability.

But something interesting happened when that same principle was turned inward — toward Congress itself.

Suddenly, transparency wasn’t quite so popular.

The House of Representatives voted 357–65 to effectively block a resolution introduced by Representative Nancy Mace that would have required the release of congressional sexual harassment records. Rather than allow the measure to proceed, the House voted to send it to the Ethics Committee, where it will now be debated in committee — a process that often slows momentum and quietly buries uncomfortable proposals.

The vote was striking not because of its outcome, but because of its unity.

In a political era defined by division, 175 Republicans and 182 Democrats voted together to stop the release of those records. Only 65 members of Congress voted to move forward with transparency.

Apparently, when the subject is protecting the institution of Congress, bipartisan cooperation is still alive and well.

The backdrop to the vote is something taxpayers should know about. According to Representative Thomas Massie, roughly $17 million in taxpayer money has been used over the years to settle sexual harassment claims involving members of Congress.

Pause on that for a moment.

When misconduct happens in the private sector, settlements are typically paid by companies or individuals. When misconduct happens in Congress, the settlement funds often come from taxpayer dollars.

The public pays the bill.

But the public is not allowed to see the records.

Not allowed to know the names.

Not allowed to understand the circumstances behind those settlements.

We simply fund them and move on.

The issue gained new urgency following reports involving Representative Tony Gonzales, who allegedly sent sexual messages to a congressional staffer, Regina Santos-Aviles, who later died by suicide. The House Ethics Committee has opened a formal investigation into Gonzales’ conduct, and two days after the vote he announced he will not seek reelection.

The tragedy surrounding that case underscores why many believe sunlight matters.

Congress defended its decision by arguing that releasing records could retraumatize victims. Protecting victims is a legitimate concern, and one that deserves serious consideration. But transparency does not require exposing victims’ identities. Names can be redacted. Details can be protected.

What the public is asking for is something simpler: accountability for those in power and transparency regarding how taxpayer money has been used.

And that is where this story stops being just another Washington debate.

Because the dynamic feels familiar much closer to home.

Here in the Hudson Valley, residents have seen the same political instinct play out time and again. When uncomfortable questions arise, the response is often procedural: refer the issue to committee, conduct further study, or pass a resolution that generates headlines but produces little actual change.

Just recently in Dutchess County, legislators debated and passed a resolution opposing the construction of an ICE detention facility located in another county. The measure produced speeches, press coverage, and political positioning.

But the facility in question isn’t in Dutchess County.

It isn’t controlled by Dutchess County.

And the resolution did not change the outcome of the project.

As I wrote previously in Valley Viewpoint under the headline “Governance or Grandstanding?”, voters are beginning to notice when political energy goes toward symbolic gestures instead of meaningful governance.

The frustration isn’t ideological. It’s practical.

People here in the Hudson Valley understand that politics is complicated. They know governing requires compromise and patience. But they also recognize when transparency seems selective.

Demand transparency when investigating others.

Call for caution and confidentiality when examining your own institution.

Whether it happens in Washington, Albany, or right here in county government, the pattern looks the same.

And every time it happens, public trust erodes a little more.

Around here, people tend to view things through a much simpler lens.

If public money is involved, the public deserves to know how it was spent.

If elected officials are accused of misconduct, accountability should not depend on which party they belong to or whether disclosure might be uncomfortable.

Transparency should not be situational.

It should be a principle.

Because whether we are talking about Congress in Washington or a legislative chamber on Market Street in Poughkeepsie, the standard should remain the same.

If the public paid the bill, the public deserves the truth.

A few days ago I wrote about a question that has quietly been hanging over politics here at home in the Hudson Valley:

Is our government governing… or is it grandstanding?

That column focused on a recent vote in the Dutchess County Legislature that, on its surface, had very little to do with governing Dutchess County at all.

The resolution in question opposed the construction of a federal immigration detention facility operated by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

But here’s the detail that raised more than a few eyebrows:

The proposed facility is not in Dutchess County.

It’s in another county entirely, under federal jurisdiction, and outside the authority of the Dutchess County Legislature.

So what exactly was accomplished by the vote?

It didn’t stop construction.

It didn’t change federal immigration policy.

It didn’t affect the Dutchess County budget.

And it didn’t solve a single local problem.

What it did do was create a political statement.

Supporters framed the resolution as a moral position on immigration policy. Critics questioned whether the legislature should be devoting time to symbolic declarations about federal issues happening somewhere else while residents here at home are dealing with tax pressures, infrastructure needs, housing costs, and economic development challenges.

In other words, the real debate wasn’t immigration policy.

It was about the role of local government.

Should a county legislature focus on the work directly in front of it — roads, budgets, public safety, and strengthening the local economy?

Or should it increasingly become a platform for national political messaging?

Because once local governing bodies begin stepping into symbolic national debates, the line between governing and campaigning becomes very thin.

And then, almost on cue, Washington provided the national version of the same phenomenon.

This week the House of Representatives voted on a resolution reaffirming that Iran is the world’s leading state sponsor of terrorism — something that has been official U.S. policy since 1984. The measure passed overwhelmingly, but headlines quickly focused on the minority of members, including Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Ilhan Omar, and Rashida Tlaib, who voted against the symbolic reaffirmation.

Again, the underlying policy didn’t change.

Iran has been designated a state sponsor of terrorism for more than forty years. The vote didn’t alter that designation, didn’t change foreign policy, and didn’t materially shift America’s posture in the region.

But it did create another political moment.

And that’s the thread tying these stories together.

From the chambers of the Dutchess County Legislature to the floor of Congress, we’re seeing more and more votes that seem designed less to solve problems and more to signal positions.

Resolutions about issues outside a body’s authority.

Votes that produce headlines but little practical impact.

Statements crafted for political audiences rather than local constituents.

Meanwhile, voters are watching all of it.

And if you talk to people across the Hudson Valley — in diners, town halls, small businesses, and neighborhood meetings — you’ll hear a common refrain:

They’re tired of it.

Tired of symbolic votes.

Tired of political theater.

Tired of leaders who seem more focused on messaging than on managing.

People want government that works.

They want problems solved.

They want officials focused on the communities they were elected to serve.

That doesn’t mean principles don’t matter. They do.

But effective government — whether in Washington or right here in the Hudson Valley — is measured not by the number of resolutions passed, but by the results delivered.

Which brings us back to the same question I asked in my earlier column:

When a county legislature is voting about a federal detention facility in another county…

and Congress is reaffirming policies that already exist…

are we witnessing governance — or simply another round of political grandstanding?

Judging by what voters are saying these days, the appetite for the latter is running very thin.

There’s an old rule in public life that never seems to go out of style: the moment you start believing your own press is the moment your judgment begins to slip.
We’re watching that play out in the national headlines right now with Kristi Noem — but if we’re honest, the phenomenon isn’t confined to Washington or national politics.
I’ve seen versions of the same thing much closer to home.
Over the years, working with nonprofit organizations across the Hudson Valley, I’ve had the privilege of meeting some truly dedicated leaders. Many of them carry enormous responsibilities — managing donor relationships, guiding complex missions, and trying to do meaningful work in communities that depend on them.
But occasionally, something shifts.
A glowing feature article.
An award dinner.
A few flattering profiles.
A board that stops asking hard questions.
And slowly, the press coverage becomes less of a spotlight and more of a mirror.
When that happens, the narrative surrounding a leader can start to replace the discipline that leadership requires. Criticism becomes unwelcome. Skepticism gets labeled as negativity. The leader begins to see themselves less as a steward of an organization and more as the embodiment of the organization itself.
That’s a dangerous place for anyone in public life.
Because leadership — whether in government, business, or the nonprofit world — is supposed to be grounded in humility. It requires a constant awareness that the mission matters more than the individual. That the organization must always be bigger than the person standing at the podium.
The moment that balance flips, the work suffers.
This is not a partisan observation, and it’s not limited to any single field. It’s simply a pattern that repeats itself again and again: the more praise someone receives, the more discipline they must exercise not to believe it.
The strongest leaders I’ve encountered — both nationally and here in the Hudson Valley — tend to share a common trait. They treat praise cautiously. They welcome dissent. They keep people around them who are willing to say the uncomfortable thing when it needs to be said.
They understand that press coverage is not a verdict.
It’s just a headline.
And the truth about leadership is almost always written somewhere else — in the quiet decisions, the difficult conversations, and the willingness to remember that no matter how many headlines your name appears in, the work was never about you in the first place.

There was a time — not all that long ago — when business communication followed a simple rule: say what you mean, mean what you say, and make sure the person on the other end understands it. Somewhere along the way, that basic principle seems to have gotten lost.

Today we live in a world of endless emails, Slack messages, Teams chats, texts, and “quick follow-ups.” The speed of communication has increased exponentially. The clarity of communication, however, has not kept pace.

In fact, the faster we communicate, the less we seem to think about what we are actually saying.

The result is something most people in business recognize immediately: long email threads that generate more confusion than resolution, messages that raise more questions than they answer, and instructions that somehow manage to be both detailed and completely unclear at the same time.

All of which raises a simple question.

Where did common sense go?

Good communication has never been complicated. It starts with a very basic discipline — one that too many people skip.

Before you press send, ask yourself one simple question:

Is this communication clear to me, the sender?

That may sound obvious, but in practice it’s remarkable how often people send messages they themselves have not fully thought through.

Sometimes it’s because they’re rushing.

Sometimes it’s because they assume the reader already knows what they mean.

Sometimes it’s because they’re thinking out loud and using email as a brainstorming tool.

But the receiver of that message doesn’t live inside the sender’s head. They only see the words on the screen. If those words are vague, incomplete, or poorly structured, the burden of interpretation shifts to the reader.

And interpretation is where problems begin.

A message that is unclear to the reader almost always leads to one of three outcomes: confusion, delay, or mistakes. Someone has to write back asking for clarification. Work slows down. Tasks get done incorrectly. A simple matter that could have been resolved in one message becomes a chain of ten.

Multiply that by dozens of employees and hundreds of messages, and the cost to an organization becomes real.

Ironically, the solution is not more communication.

It’s better communication.

Clear communication respects the reader’s time. It anticipates the questions someone might ask and answers them before they have to ask. It provides context, direction, and a clear understanding of what is expected next.

And it begins with that simple moment of reflection before pressing send.

Read the message as if you were the person receiving it.

Would you know what to do?

Would you know when to do it?

Would you understand why it matters?

If the answer to any of those questions is no, the message isn’t finished yet.

In many ways, business communication has become a victim of its own convenience. Because it is so easy to send a message, people often send them before their thoughts are fully formed.

But clarity requires discipline. It requires the sender to slow down for a moment and organize what they are trying to say.

Common sense, in other words.

The organizations that function well are usually the ones where this discipline exists. Leaders communicate clearly. Expectations are stated plainly. Instructions are understandable. Questions are anticipated.

Things move faster not because people are sending more messages, but because the messages they send actually mean something.

Maybe the rule of thumb should be simple:

Before you press send, make sure the message is clear to the one person responsible for it — you.

Because if the sender doesn’t fully understand what they’re communicating, there’s very little chance the receiver will either.

Sometimes the legal system reaches a result so disconnected from common sense that it forces ordinary people to ask a very simple question:

What exactly is the system trying to protect?

This week’s court decision involving the takeover of Hamilton Hall at Columbia University provides a case study.

You may remember the event. During the campus protests of 2024, demonstrators broke into Hamilton Hall, barricaded the doors, smashed windows, covered security cameras, and hung banners calling for “Intifada.” Two university employees were reportedly assaulted and temporarily trapped inside the building while it was occupied.

Police eventually moved in and arrested dozens of protesters.

Columbia did what any institution responsible for its campus would do. It imposed discipline. Suspensions. Expulsions. Revoked degrees.

Then the legal machinery stepped in — and the entire structure of accountability collapsed.

A judge of the New York State Supreme Court overturned the university’s disciplinary actions against several of the students involved. The ruling did not dispute that the takeover happened. It did not claim the conduct was justified. It did not suggest the university lacked the authority to punish students who seize buildings and intimidate staff.

Instead, the court focused on something else entirely.

The Manhattan District Attorney, Alvin Bragg, had previously decided to drop criminal charges against many of the protesters. Under New York law, once charges are dropped, arrest records are automatically sealed.

Sealed records cannot be used as evidence.

Columbia’s disciplinary panel relied on those arrest records to determine who had actually been inside Hamilton Hall. Because the records were sealed, the judge ruled the university could not use them.

Without those records, the university could not legally prove who was inside the building.

And just like that, the discipline was thrown out.

The result is something only a modern legal system could produce: a building was occupied, people were arrested, the conduct was widely documented — and yet the institution whose building was taken cannot legally discipline the participants because the legal system erased the evidence.

Every step of this process followed the rules.

That may be the most troubling part.

First, a building is seized.

Then arrests are made.

Then prosecutors decline to prosecute.

The arrest records are sealed.

The evidence disappears.

And the university is told it cannot hold anyone responsible.

The crime becomes a legal ghost.

What makes the situation even more remarkable is the asymmetry of the system. The law bends over backward to protect the procedural rights of the offenders, yet shows almost no concern for the institution that was disrupted or the employees who were trapped inside the building.

Procedure triumphs. Accountability vanishes.

This is not an argument against due process. Due process is one of the foundations of a free society.

But due process was never intended to become a machine for institutional paralysis — a system in which the law erases the very evidence of wrongdoing and then scolds the victim for failing to prove it occurred.

Yet that is exactly where we now find ourselves.

Universities are expected to maintain order on their campuses. They are expected to protect staff and students. They are expected to enforce rules.

But when the legal system removes the tools necessary to do that, those expectations become little more than empty rhetoric.

What happened at Hamilton Hall should concern anyone who believes in the rule of law — not because the judge ignored the law, but because the law itself has drifted so far from practical justice that it can no longer recognize the obvious.

A building was taken.

Employees were endangered.

Police made arrests.

And yet, in the eyes of the legal system, no one can be held accountable.

That is not justice.

That is a system so consumed with procedure that it has forgotten the crime.

I read recently that St. Elizabeth’s Church in Yorkville may soon be demolished.

It caught my attention immediately. Not because I’ve attended Mass there in years, but because St. Elizabeth’s is the church where I was baptized.

And when a place like that is disappearing, you realize it was never just a building.

It was the beginning of your story.

Baptism is something none of us remembers. We were too young. But our parents remember it. Our godparents remember it. Someone held us, water was poured, a name was spoken, and a family quietly marked the beginning of a life.

For me, that moment happened at St. Elizabeth’s, in the Yorkville that shaped so many of us who grew up on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

And I still have the photograph.

It’s a simple picture, really — my Aunt Sissy carrying me into St. Elizabeth’s for my baptism. I was an infant, of course, with no idea what was happening. But there she is in the photograph, holding me as she walks toward the church doors. It captures a moment that, for me, marks the very beginning of my story in that neighborhood.

Yorkville back then wasn’t the polished neighborhood people see today. It was a neighborhood of families living close together, of stoops where kids gathered on warm nights, and corner stores where the guy behind the counter knew your parents. Life spilled out onto the sidewalks. People talked to one another. Kids roamed the blocks freely.

I remember sitting on the stoop of the building where my family lived on 83rd Street when I was a little kid. The street felt like an extension of our living room. Neighbors drifted in and out of conversations. Kids ran up and down the block. It was a neighborhood where everyone seemed to know one another, even if they didn’t know your name.

It was also where I learned some early lessons about people.

One afternoon I was sitting on that stoop when a man from the neighborhood slowly walked toward me. His body twisted in painful spasms with every step. I was terrified. When he saw the fear on my face, he struggled to get the words out.

“Please don’t be afraid of me.”

His name was Joe. My uncle later explained that Joe had once been an accountant before a neuromuscular disease took hold of him. His wife had left, and life had become unimaginably hard. The kids on the block didn’t understand his condition and would sometimes shriek when they saw him walking.

But the adults in Yorkville quietly looked out for him. Someone would hand him a dollar or two. The deli guys let him wash up in the back. The bar on the corner gave him a place to sit.

Yorkville had its rough edges, but it also had that kind of humanity.

And like so many neighborhoods of that time, the parish church was the center of it all. St. Elizabeth’s wasn’t just a place for Sunday Mass. It was where families marked the milestones of their lives — baptisms, weddings, funerals, confirmations. Generations passed through the same doors.

Places like that held the rhythm of the neighborhood.

Yorkville itself has changed enormously over the years. The old bakeries disappeared. The small neighborhood bars and stores closed. The stoops grew quieter. Apartment buildings were renovated or replaced. Families moved away.

And increasingly, the churches have disappeared as well.

To some people, the story of St. Elizabeth’s is simply a property story. Manhattan land is valuable. Congregations shrink. Maintenance costs grow. Developers make offers that are hard to refuse.

But churches were never just real estate.

They were where people were baptized, married, mourned, and remembered. They were quiet anchors in neighborhoods that otherwise changed constantly.

When one disappears, something deeper disappears with it.

Not just stone and stained glass.

Memory.

For those of us who passed through those doors long ago — even if only once, carried there as infants — the place remains part of our personal history.

Long before careers, responsibilities, and the complicated lives we eventually lead, someone carried us into St. Elizabeth’s, poured water over our heads, and welcomed us into a community that believed we belonged.

And somewhere in a photograph, my Aunt Sissy is still carrying me through those doors.

That kind of beginning stays with you.

Even when the church itself is disappearing.