The Valley Viewpoint

The Diocese of Brooklyn has announced that seven Catholic academies across Brooklyn and Queens will close this June — including Sacred Heart Catholic Academy, St. Bartholomew Catholic Academy, St. Nicholas of Tolentine Catholic Academy, Incarnation Catholic Academy, St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Academy, St. Elizabeth Catholic Academy, and Our Lady of Trust Catholic Academy.

The reasons offered are familiar: declining enrollment, rising costs, persistent deficits. And layered into the broader financial strain facing dioceses across New York are the lasting costs of clergy sex-abuse settlements — necessary compensation for victims of horrific wrongs, but obligations that have reshaped Church budgets and priorities for years.

All of that is real.

But so is this: Catholic education changed my life.

I am a product of Catholic schools. I can still see the crucifix over the chalkboard. I remember the discipline, the structure, the expectation that you would look someone in the eye, shake a hand firmly, tell the truth. I learned that faith was not something you performed on Sunday — it was something you practiced in how you treated people.

Catholic education gave me order when the world felt uncertain. It gave me moral vocabulary. It gave me teachers who saw potential in a kid who might not have seen it in himself. It gave me a belief that character mattered more than applause.

That formation shaped the man I became.

Which is why this next part is hard — and necessary.

I am angry.

I am angry at the leaders who looked the other way. Angry at the bishops and administrators who reassigned priests instead of removing them. Angry that pedophiles were protected while children were not. Angry that institutional reputation was treated as more sacred than the safety of the vulnerable.

Those decisions were not abstract. They were not “mistakes.” They were moral failures.

The sex-abuse crisis did not just create financial settlements; it shattered trust. And trust is the lifeblood of Catholic education. When leaders conceal evil, the damage ripples outward for generations — into parish pews, into classrooms, into enrollment numbers, into the credibility of every good priest and teacher who served honorably.

Survivors deserved justice. Transparency was overdue. Accountability was non-negotiable. The settlements that followed were moral obligations.

But it is also true that innocent communities — children in classrooms today — now bear the downstream consequences of leadership failures decades ago. Schools close. Parishes consolidate. The mission contracts.

And still, I cannot ignore what those schools gave me.

They gave me discipline without cruelty. Faith without sentimentality. Community without pretense. They gave me a compass.

That is why this moment feels complicated. Gratitude and anger can coexist. Love for Catholic education can exist alongside righteous outrage at those who betrayed it.

In June, there will be final Masses. Teachers boxing up memories. Parents explaining why next year will be somewhere else.

And somewhere in those hallways are children being shaped in ways they do not yet understand.

I know this because I was one of them.

Catholic education formed me.

And those who betrayed it should never be forgotten — nor forgiven lightly — for the damage they did to the very souls they were entrusted to protect.

I saw the post — bright yellow, bold lettering, confident messaging. A re-election campaign kickoff. February 26. Guest speaker: the Chair of the Legislature. Hosted by prominent Democratic supporters. Meyer’s Olde Dutch. Food & Such.

It looks organized. Energized. Focused.

And it raises a simple question.

Is this just a gathering of the already-convinced? Or is it an opportunity for the broader community — Republicans, independents, critics — to show up, listen, and be heard?

Campaign events are partisan by nature. That’s understood. But public office isn’t. When you serve in the Dutchess County Legislature, you represent everyone in your district — not just those who share your party registration.

The last vote to eliminate the two-thirds requirement on reserve spending passed strictly along party lines. That wasn’t about campaign energy. That was about governance. About fiscal guardrails. About whether bipartisan consensus still matters.

So here’s the simple question behind the launch:

Are those who disagree welcome in the room?

Because leadership isn’t measured by how strong your base is. It’s measured by how willing you are to face those who challenge you.

Just a question.

Charles Dickens once wrote:

“The one great principle of the English law is to make business for itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings.”

He wrote that in Bleak House in 1853, criticizing a legal system so consumed with its own process that justice became secondary to maintenance.

Nearly two centuries later, the question still lingers.

Justice should feel fair.

Not perfect. Not always victorious. But fair.

It should feel like you were heard.

Like the person on the bench actually listened.

Like the decision followed the facts — not the ego in the room.

I’ve met extraordinary lawyers and principled judges who understand that the robe is a symbol of restraint. And I’ve met others whose ego arrives 30 minutes before they take the bench — where impatience replaces inquiry and technical pouncing substitutes for thoughtful review.

A courtroom is one of the last places in civic life where one person controls the room entirely. That kind of authority demands humility. Without it, trust erodes quietly.

Corruption doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like indifference. Sometimes like favoritism. Sometimes like a mind already made up.

Justice doesn’t require perfection.

But it should feel like it was honestly pursued.

When it doesn’t, people notice.

And that’s when systems — like Dickens warned — begin to serve themselves instead of the public they were meant to protect.

This week, according to Mid Hudson News, Lieutenant Governor Antonio Delgado abandoned his Democratic primary challenge to Governor Kathy Hochul. The explanation offered was clinical: no viable path forward.

Of course there wasn’t.

There rarely is when you challenge the sitting governor of New York and the full institutional weight of the party apparatus lines up behind her. Delegates fall in line. Major donors close ranks. County leaders choose access over agitation. And before a single primary voter casts a ballot, the outcome is pre-determined.

Governor Hochul now enjoys what incumbents prize most: silence.

No primary debates. No uncomfortable stage moments. No forced defense of policy decisions before her own party base. No sustained internal critique of her record on affordability, public safety, migration policy, or spending priorities.

And that record deserves scrutiny.

New York remains one of the most expensive states in the nation to live in. Residents continue to leave in meaningful numbers. Businesses weigh expansion elsewhere. Local governments — including here in the Hudson Valley — wrestle with mandates and costs that originate in Albany but land squarely on property taxpayers.

The migrant crisis was managed reactively, not strategically. The bail reform debate continues to generate public unease. Budget negotiations increasingly resemble opaque back-room choreography rather than transparent public deliberation.

Yet within the Democratic Party, none of that will now be tested in a primary.

Delgado’s candidacy, even if uphill, at least suggested a conversation about direction. About tone. About whether Albany’s leadership is sufficiently responsive to upstate concerns. His withdrawal signals something else: that challenging the status quo inside the party is structurally discouraged.

This is not about personalities. It is about insulation.

When a governor does not have to defend her record to her own base, she governs in a bubble. When party leaders prioritize unity over examination, voters lose the benefit of contrast. And when the only real competition shifts to the general election, policy nuance is replaced by partisan trench warfare.

Governor Hochul is politically disciplined. She has consolidated power effectively. But consolidation is not synonymous with excellence.

New Yorkers deserve more than inevitability. They deserve answers.

Why does affordability remain elusive?

Why do budget negotiations feel increasingly centralized?

Why does upstate so often feel like an afterthought to downstate priorities?

These questions will not be asked in a Democratic primary now. They will linger — unanswered — beneath the surface of the general election.

In Albany, victory often means surviving the cycle.

For the rest of us, survival is not the standard. Leadership is.

What does courage look like in public life?

It’s not always dramatic. It’s not standing on a podium when the room is cheering. It’s not casting the easy vote when your caucus expects it. It’s not repeating the talking points that poll well.

Sometimes courage is far quieter — and far rarer.

It is the citizen who reads the resolution no one else bothered to read.

It is the taxpayer who shows up on a Tuesday night when the outcome feels predetermined.

It is the voter who says, calmly but firmly, “This is not acceptable,” even when elected officials would prefer silence.

And sometimes courage belongs to the official who breaks ranks. The one who asks the uncomfortable question. The one who votes against political convenience because conscience demands it.

Accountability requires courage on both sides of the dais.

For the governed, it is the voice that refuses to be dismissed.

For the governing, it is the willingness to answer — clearly, honestly, and without contempt.

Majorities have votes. That is how democracy functions.

But citizens have voices. That is how democracy survives.

Courage in a republic is not loud bravado. It is persistence. It is showing up again after being ignored. It is insisting that safeguards matter, that process matters, that transparency matters — even when the majority already has the numbers.

Sometimes courage is simply the voice inside that says, against the pressure to move on, “I will not give up.”

And in a self-governing society, that kind of courage is not just inspiring. It is necessary.

Tonight, I addressed the Dutchess County Legislature regarding the proposal to eliminate the long-standing two-thirds vote requirement to access County reserve and contingency funds.

In my remarks, I made clear that this was not a minor procedural adjustment, but a structural change to one of the County’s key fiscal safeguards. For years, requiring a supermajority before tapping reserve funds ensured that significant financial decisions reflected broad bipartisan agreement. Reserve funds are the County’s financial safety net — intended for emergencies, downturns, and true contingencies — and the two-thirds threshold forced collaboration, deliberation, and accountability before those dollars were accessed.

I emphasized that political majorities change, but institutional guardrails should remain stable. The supermajority requirement created discipline. It ensured that when taxpayer savings were used, the decision carried consensus, not just a narrow margin.

The resolution ultimately passed along party lines, 15–10.

During public comment, I observed that my own legislator appeared disengaged while I spoke. Residents who take the time to participate in the democratic process deserve attentiveness from those elected to represent them.

The rule is now changed. The guardrail has been lowered.

Precedent matters. And once removed, safeguards are rarely restored.

My friends and neighbors,

On Monday, the Dutchess County Legislature is scheduled to vote on a proposal that would eliminate the long-standing two-thirds requirement for accessing the County’s reserve and contingency funds.

This may sound technical. It is not.

For years, accessing reserve funds required a supermajority — broad bipartisan agreement — before taxpayer savings could be spent. That safeguard ensured that major financial decisions reflected consensus, not just a narrow majority. It forced debate. It required persuasion. It demanded transparency.

Most importantly, it protected you — the taxpayer.

Reserve funds are not routine operating dollars. They are the County’s financial safety net — intended for emergencies, economic downturns, and true contingencies. The higher voting threshold recognized that drawing from those reserves should never be easy or automatic.

Lowering the requirement to a simple majority fundamentally changes that standard.

It shifts power to whichever party holds the bare minimum number of votes at any given time. It removes the built-in incentive for negotiation and compromise. And while today’s majority may feel comfortable exercising that authority, the rules changed now will govern future Legislatures as well.

Precedent matters.

Once the bar is lowered, it is rarely raised again.

Government works best when guardrails are stable and insulated from political convenience. Institutional safeguards exist to ensure that taxpayer dollars are handled with broad agreement and careful deliberation — not simply because enough votes are available.

This vote is about more than procedure. It is about the architecture of accountability in Dutchess County government.

I encourage every resident — regardless of party affiliation — to call or email your County Legislator before Monday’s vote. Ask them to maintain the two-thirds requirement. Ask them to preserve the safeguard that has protected reserve funds for years.

Your voice matters.

When rules governing taxpayer money are rewritten, silence should not be assumed as consent.

Respectfully,
Ed Kowalski
The Valley Viewpoint

As the full Legislature prepares to vote Monday on the proposal to eliminate the two-thirds requirement for accessing County reserve and contingency funds, I write as a concerned resident who believes this decision deserves deeper reflection.

This vote is not about party politics. It is about institutional safeguards.

For years, requiring a supermajority before tapping into reserve funds ensured that significant financial decisions reflected broad agreement. That higher threshold forced collaboration. It required persuasion. It demanded transparency. Most importantly, it protected taxpayers by ensuring that reserve dollars — our financial safety net — were accessed only with strong consensus.

Lowering the requirement to a simple majority changes that dynamic entirely.

Reserve funds are not routine operating dollars. They are the County’s fiscal backstop — intended for emergencies, downturns, and true contingencies. A supermajority standard recognized that drawing from those reserves should never be easy or automatic. It required elected officials to build bipartisan support before spending down savings.

That friction was not obstruction. It was accountability.

Reducing the threshold shifts power to whichever party holds a bare majority at any given time. It removes the structural incentive for negotiation and compromise. And while today’s majority may feel confident in exercising that authority responsibly, the rules you set now will govern future Legislatures as well.

Precedent matters.

If the supermajority requirement is eliminated, it will be far easier — politically and procedurally — to access reserves whenever votes are available. Over time, that can erode fiscal discipline and public trust.

Government works best when guardrails are stable, predictable, and insulated from short-term political convenience. Institutional protections exist not because they are convenient, but because they prevent impulsive or narrowly supported decisions involving taxpayer money.

As you prepare to vote, I respectfully urge you to consider the long-term implications of this change. Ask whether lowering this safeguard strengthens public confidence — or weakens it. Ask whether the County is better served by consensus-driven fiscal decisions — or majority-driven access to reserves.

The vote Monday is about more than a rule. It is about the architecture of accountability in Dutchess County government.

Once lowered, that bar will not easily be raised again.

Respectfully,
Ed Kowalski

There are moments in government when process matters more than politics.

This is one of them.

This week, Dutchess County Democrats advanced a proposal to eliminate the long-standing two-thirds vote requirement for accessing the County’s reserve and contingency funds. On paper, it sounds procedural — a rules change. In reality, it’s a significant shift in how millions of taxpayer dollars can be spent.

For years, tapping into reserve funds required broad bipartisan agreement. Not a narrow 51 percent. Not a simple majority. A supermajority. That higher threshold existed for one reason: when you’re reaching into the County’s financial safety net, the decision should reflect more than one party’s will.

Reserve funds are not an operating slush fund. They are the County’s financial shock absorber — designed to protect taxpayers in emergencies, downturns, and true contingencies. Requiring two-thirds agreement forced collaboration. It forced debate. It forced leadership to make the case publicly and convincingly before drawing down savings.

That friction wasn’t dysfunction. It was discipline.

Lowering the bar to a simple majority changes the culture of spending. It means that whichever party holds power can access reserves without needing to persuade the minority. It removes the structural incentive for compromise. And when compromise disappears, so does one of the healthiest features of representative government.

The timing also raises legitimate questions. Rule changes that expand spending authority rarely happen in a vacuum. When long-standing safeguards are altered just before major financial decisions are expected, taxpayers are right to ask why now.

This isn’t about partisan talking points. It’s about precedent.

Political majorities shift. Control changes hands. The rules written today will empower future Legislatures — perhaps of a different party — to operate under this lower threshold. Once the standard is reduced, it rarely returns.

The full Legislature is scheduled to vote on the rule change this Monday. Residents who have concerns — or who support the proposal — should take the time to contact their County Legislator before the vote and make their voices heard.

Rules are not technicalities. They are the architecture of accountability.

And when the rules governing taxpayer money are rewritten before the spending begins, the public deserves to pay attention.

Over the course of my career, I’ve worked with brilliant executives, gifted operators, and rainmakers who could bend markets with a phone call. I’ve seen companies scale fast, attract capital, and assemble extraordinary teams.

And I’ve seen all of that jeopardized by one person.

Not because they lacked talent.

Because they were tolerated.

The most expensive employee in any organization is not the one with the highest salary. It’s the toxic high-performer leadership refuses to confront.

At first, it’s easy to rationalize.

“They deliver.”

“They’re intense.”

“That’s just their style.”

“They’re hard on people because they care.”

But toxicity doesn’t sit quietly in a corner. It spreads.

It shows up in meetings where others stop contributing.

It shows up in hallway conversations where good employees whisper, “Why does he get away with that?”

It shows up when your best people disengage — not dramatically, but incrementally.

And it rarely travels upward. Toxic employees are often skilled at managing up. The damage flows sideways and down.

I’ve watched strong contributors walk out the door because leadership chose short-term performance over long-term health. I’ve seen trust evaporate in teams that once collaborated seamlessly. I’ve seen compliance risks ignored because people were afraid to challenge a “star.”

The erosion is subtle. That’s what makes it dangerous.

You don’t see the cost immediately on a P&L.

You see it in turnover.

You see it in stalled innovation.

You see it in the absence of dissent.

You see it when meetings get quieter.

Culture isn’t destroyed by incompetence. Incompetence is usually obvious and dealt with. Culture is destroyed by tolerated behavior.

The moment employees believe that results excuse misconduct, your values become optional. And once values are optional, loyalty is too.

The strongest leaders I’ve worked with understood something simple but hard: protecting culture requires discomfort. It requires confronting revenue producers. It requires consistency. It requires holding everyone — including the top performer — to the same standards.

Because no matter how talented someone is, if they poison trust, they are not an asset.

They are a liability with a bonus structure.

And in the long run, they are the most expensive employee you will ever keep.

The idea of fare-free buses is politically irresistible. Who argues against “free”? Who doesn’t want to help working families, boost ridership, and reduce congestion?

But when municipalities actually implement zero-fare systems, the long-term record is far more cautionary than celebratory.

Start with Kansas City Area Transportation Authority (KCATA) in Kansas City — one of the most cited examples of systemwide fare-free transit in the United States.

Kansas City eliminated fares in 2020. The policy was widely praised as a national model. Ridership increased. The optics were powerful.

But the funding model depended heavily on pandemic-era federal relief dollars. Once those funds began expiring, the math tightened quickly. KCATA publicly warned of structural operating gaps. By early 2026, the agency approved reinstating fares — reportedly returning to a $2 base fare — because the city could not sustainably backfill the lost revenue year after year.

The lesson: when fares disappear, the revenue does not. Someone must pay — and often that someone is the municipal budget.

Now look at Boston.

The City of Boston funded fare-free pilots on several MBTA bus routes beginning in 2022.

The results were celebrated:

Ridership increased. Riders reported saving meaningful monthly costs. Boarding times improved.

But Boston’s program was funded with federal ARPA money — one-time pandemic relief dollars. That funding was never permanent. As federal funds expired, the city faced the same question Kansas City did: Do we raise local revenue, cut other services, or reinstate fares?

Fare-free worked as a pilot. Sustaining it indefinitely required a durable revenue source — something most municipalities struggle to identify.

Consider Alexandria and its DASH bus network.

DASH went fare-free and reported record ridership. On paper, it looks like a success story.

But Alexandria’s system is relatively small, heavily subsidized, and serves a compact urban area. The city absorbs the lost fare revenue as a policy choice. That works in a high-income, smaller municipality with strong fiscal capacity.

Scale that model to a large metro with higher operating costs and political fragmentation, and the financial risk multiplies.

Then there’s the behavioral side.

Several agencies that experimented with fare-free service reported increased “non-destination” riding, loitering, and behavioral incidents. Whether overstated or not, these reports often led municipalities to increase security staffing — adding new operating costs that offset any savings from eliminating fare collection.

This dynamic doesn’t show up in campaign talking points, but it shows up in operating budgets.

Even the environmental promise has limits.

Spain implemented large fare-discount programs nationally. Studies examining air quality effects found little measurable improvement in pollution levels. The reason is straightforward: much of the increased ridership came from existing transit users making additional trips, not drivers abandoning cars in significant numbers.

Free buses do not automatically produce mode shift at scale.

And here’s the structural reality many cities confront:

When fares are eliminated:

Ridership rises. Fare revenue falls to zero. Operating costs remain constant — or increase. The city must permanently subsidize the gap.

In tight fiscal years, that gap competes with:

Public safety Schools Infrastructure Social services

Transit does not exist in a vacuum. It exists inside a municipal balance sheet.

The pattern across municipalities is consistent:

Kansas City — embraced fare-free, then reinstated fares when relief funds expired.

Boston — launched a pilot funded by temporary federal dollars, sustainability unresolved.

Alexandria — sustaining fare-free, but within a small, well-subsidized system.

The short-term political and ridership gains are real.

The long-term fiscal obligations are also real.

And for many municipalities, that second reality is proving far harder to manage than the first.