The Valley Viewpoint

I’ve written before — more than once — that I no longer use the phrase “Your Honor.”
Not because I don’t respect the rule of law.
But because far too many who wear the robe have forgotten what honor actually requires.
Now comes the latest example.
According to the New York Post, Rockland County Supreme Court Justice Sherri Eisenpress is stepping down after findings by the New York State Commission on Judicial Conduct. Vacations with attorneys who appeared before her. Group text threads with off-color jokes and sexually explicit images. Cases presided over without disclosure of personal relationships.
And we’re supposed to pretend this is just a lapse in judgment?
I’ve posted before about judges who intimidate, belittle, and hide behind procedure. About the quiet arrogance that can settle into a courtroom when no one dares challenge the bench. About how the symbolism of the robe has too often been misused as a shield instead of a standard.
This isn’t about one trip. Or one text thread.
It’s about culture.
When a judge is socializing in tropical destinations with lawyers who later stand before her arguing cases, the issue isn’t friendship. It’s power. It’s access. It’s the appearance — and perhaps the reality — of insiders and outsiders in a system that is supposed to be blind.
Justice isn’t supposed to look like a private club.
The Commission exists to protect the integrity of the judiciary. But the real damage is done long before a resignation letter is signed. It’s done when ordinary citizens begin to believe that the courtroom is rigged. That outcomes are influenced by relationships. That fairness is negotiable.
And once public trust erodes, it’s almost impossible to restore.
I’ve seen honor displayed in quiet courage — in people who stand up in courtrooms despite the odds. I’ve also seen its absence, when authority is used to intimidate rather than uphold the law.
The robe doesn’t confer honor.
Conduct does.
And until the judiciary understands that respect is earned — not commanded — stories like this will keep surfacing.
The system doesn’t need blind loyalty.
It needs reform.

There was a time when public office was described as a sacrifice — a temporary act of service undertaken at personal cost. Today, it increasingly resembles something else: a career track with remarkable financial upside.

This isn’t a partisan observation. It’s structural.

Members of Congress earn fixed salaries that are publicly disclosed. Yet year after year, financial filings reveal portfolios that place many of them firmly in the ranks of the wealthy.

Nancy Pelosi has reported a net worth widely estimated north of $100 million.

Mitch McConnell has disclosed wealth in the tens of millions.

There are explanations — spouses’ careers, investments, long tenures. None of that is illegal. But legality is not the same as legitimacy in the public mind. When lawmakers routinely accumulate wealth far beyond the median citizen they regulate, confidence erodes. The appearance of alignment between power and prosperity becomes impossible to ignore.

And Congress is only part of the equation.

In many states, judges run for office. Campaigns must be funded. Fundraisers are held. Attorneys and firms that will later appear before those same judges often contribute to those campaigns. Again, much of this is legal. But the mere fact that it is legal does not quiet the deeper concern: justice must not only be impartial — it must appear impartial.

When a lawyer can host a fundraiser for a judicial candidate and later stand before that judge arguing a case, something corrosive enters the bloodstream of the system. Even if every ruling is scrupulously fair, the public sees proximity. It sees access. It sees a circle that feels too small.

Add to this the vast regulatory state, where industries are shaped by rules written by officials who may one day work within the very sectors they oversee. The so-called “revolving door” is not a conspiracy theory; it is a documented career pathway. Regulators become consultants. Staffers become lobbyists. Former officials become strategic advisors — valued precisely for their inside knowledge of the machinery of power.

The result is subtle but profound.

Wealth increasingly flows not only from innovation or production, but from navigation. Those who master the levers of influence often prosper more reliably than those who build tangible value. Compliance departments grow larger. Lobbying expenditures rise. Political fundraising becomes permanent infrastructure.

Meanwhile, small business owners, tradesmen, and entrepreneurs spend increasing amounts of time and money not creating, but complying — seeking approvals, navigating codes, managing risk from rules written far away.

The inversion becomes clear: proximity to power can yield greater returns than excellence in craft.

This is not a moral indictment of individuals. It is a critique of incentives.

When the structure of governance allows — or appears to allow — public service to coincide with private enrichment, the public begins to doubt the motives of its leaders. When judges depend on campaign donations from those who appear before them, citizens question neutrality. When regulatory complexity advantages the well-connected over the independent, trust gives way to cynicism.

A republic does not fail in a single dramatic moment. It erodes when its citizens conclude that the system rewards access more than effort.

Ayn Rand’s warning was not about one politician or one judge. It was about inversion — the quiet reversal of values. When producing requires permission from those who produce nothing; when influence outpaces industry; when the law feels less like a shield and more like a gate — society drifts.

The most dangerous consequence is not corruption itself.

It is normalization.

When young people observe that the safest path to prosperity runs through political proximity rather than productive excellence, ambition shifts. “What can I build?” becomes “Who do I need to know?”

And when that question becomes the default, the business of being in power is no longer a side effect of governance.

It becomes the point.

There are politicians who chase titles.

And there are those who stay grounded.

When Marc Molinaro announced he would leave his post leading the Federal Transit Administration under President Donald Trump to run for a seat in the New York State Assembly, some in Washington called it unusual.

From a Hudson Valley perspective, it feels consistent.

Molinaro has never been a creature of the Beltway. His political life has always been rooted in town halls, county budgets, and kitchen-table conversations. Even while overseeing billions in federal transit funding, his reputation remained that of a local executive — someone who understands what property taxes mean to a retired couple in Hyde Park or what rising costs mean to a small business owner in Poughkeepsie.

Walking away from a powerful federal appointment isn’t a demotion. It’s a declaration.

It says that New York’s challenges — affordability, public safety, overregulation, population loss — are not abstractions to be debated on cable news. They’re realities lived out every day in our communities. And those fights are won or lost in Albany.

There is something refreshingly grounded about choosing to come home rather than climbing higher. In an era when too many politicians measure success by how far they can distance themselves from their districts, this move measures success differently: proximity to the people you serve.

Washington may offer prestige.

Albany offers responsibility.

And for a leader shaped by the Hudson Valley, responsibility to home may matter most of all.

When I first read the line, “Honor is the presence of God in man,” I didn’t hear theology.

I heard responsibility.

Because in my life, honor hasn’t been ceremonial. It hasn’t been a title. It’s been a test.

I grew up thinking honor meant discipline. At Xavier, in uniform, it meant stand straight, take correction, represent something bigger than yourself. Later in business, it meant build the systems right, protect the people you’re responsible for, tell the truth even when it makes the room uncomfortable.

But life refines definitions.

Honor, I’ve learned, is what you do when there’s no upside except being able to live with yourself.

It’s walking away from something that looks secure because staying would cost you your integrity. It’s telling a partner what they need to hear, not what keeps the peace. It’s stepping to a microphone at a town meeting and saying what you believe — knowing some people will clap and others will quietly decide you’ve become inconvenient.

There were seasons when just holding steady was the honorable act. When surviving chaos required more strength than conquering anything. When endurance — not victory — was the measure of character.

And I’ve seen honor misused.

I’ve watched the word wrapped around power like a robe. I’ve seen titles demand reverence without earning respect. In courtrooms especially, I’ve seen “Your Honor” treated as automatic — as if position guarantees virtue. It doesn’t.

I no longer address judges as “Your Honor.” Not as a stunt. Not out of contempt for the rule of law. But because language should reflect conduct. The phrase should mean something. Respect for the court is structural. Honor is personal. When the two diverge, words matter.

I’ve spent enough time in courtrooms to understand how authority operates — the elevated bench, the seal behind it, the ritual language of deference. The symbolism is powerful. It is designed to command order and compliance.

But symbolism and the misuse of judicial authority can be a dangerous combination.

The robe doesn’t manufacture restraint.

The title doesn’t guarantee fairness.

The appointment doesn’t ensure dignity.

And I’ve seen far too many instances where the weight of the bench was used to intimidate rather than to clarify, to belittle rather than to elevate the process. When authority crosses into humiliation, something essential is lost.

In a federal courtroom before Victor A. Bolden, I was reminded how powerful the architecture of authority can be. But architecture is not character. Authority may remain intact in those moments — but honor erodes when power is exercised without discipline or humility.

Authority is structural.

Honor is behavioral.

Honor isn’t dominance.

It isn’t intimidation.

It isn’t control.

It’s steadiness under pressure.

It’s restraint when you could overpower.

It’s dignity extended even to those who disagree with you.

I’ve made mistakes in my life. I’ve stayed too long in certain fights and left too late in others. I’ve trusted institutions more than I should have at times. I’ve learned that bitterness is easy — integrity is harder.

But honor — real honor — is alignment. It’s the daily decision to live in a way that doesn’t require revision later. It’s correcting course when you drift. It’s refusing to become what disappointed you.

A title can command compliance.

Honor commands respect.

And in a world that increasingly confuses position with character, practicing honor may be the most radical act left to us.

Not the robe.

Not the title.

Not the ritual words.

The practice.

In the national debate over immigration enforcement, it’s easy to get lost in slogans — until the numbers start landing in our own backyards.

Today’s New York Post opinion column by Betsy McCaughey highlights a poll suggesting a seismic shift in public sentiment: about two-thirds of Americans now disapprove of the work of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. That’s a dramatic change from not long ago, and McCaughey argues it’s the backdrop for efforts in Congress to restrict immigration enforcement funding. 

What makes that statistic consequential isn’t just the political signal — it’s the real-world cost McCaughey says comes with it. She points to data suggesting that undocumented residents are linked with crime rates roughly three times higher than legal residents, according to reporting on New York crime statistics.  If those figures are taken at face value, they aren’t just abstract percentages — they become taxpayer impacts: policing costs, judicial congestion, emergency services, school resource strain.

Locally in the Hudson Valley, we’ve been debating school budgets, housing demand, ambulance runs, and staffing shortages. Here’s the practical question at the heart of this debate: if federal enforcement is weakened or underfunded, who shoulders the downstream consequences? From a governance perspective — and fiscally — it’s rarely a federal checkbook that writes those costs: it’s states, counties, cities, and ultimately taxpayers.

Critics of ICE call for reform or restraint to prevent family separations and protect civil liberties. Supporters of enforcement emphasize rule-of-law and public safety. Both sides raise moral points — but morality rarely balances a municipal ledger. Numbers do.

Whether you agree with McCaughey’s interpretation of the data or not, the core tension she points to is one our local leaders will have to grapple with: how much responsibility our communities carry when national policy shifts? Because policy isn’t only written in Washington. Eventually, it shows up in school board budgets, sheriff’s department overtime, and county social service costs.

And in the end, someone locally has to explain the bill — without political spin, without distraction, and without pretending that abstract debates don’t have very real, very local consequences.

This isn’t just about romance. It’s about recognition.

Over the years, I’ve watched the women around me carry more than anyone gives them credit for. I’ve seen the quiet strength. The late-night worrying. The steady presence when things were uncertain. The way you hold families, friendships, and sometimes entire worlds together without announcing it.

People sometimes ask why women cry.

I don’t anymore.

If I imagine asking God about it now, I don’t hear a sentimental answer. I hear something simple: You’re looking at the tears. I’m looking at the weight she’s been holding.

Because the women I’ve known — mothers, daughters, friends, partners — are anything but fragile. You are the steady presence when things wobble. You absorb stress so others can breathe. You show up when you’re tired. You love even when it costs you something.

And when emotion breaks through, it isn’t weakness.

It’s depth.
It’s investment.
It’s a heart fully engaged in the people around you.

You feel deeply because you care deeply. You stay. You forgive. You try again. You carry more than most of us will ever fully understand.

This isn’t just about romance. It’s about gratitude.

The tears aren’t the story.

Your strength is.

There’s a particular kind of patience tested only in coffee shops.
You’re standing there, wallet in hand, maybe already late, maybe just pretending you’re not. And in front of you is a man making his coffee like he’s in a laboratory at MIT.
He doesn’t pour. He calibrates.
He studies the lid options like they’re competing policy proposals. He selects a cup, then reconsiders. He lifts the carafe with the slow precision of someone defusing a device. A half inch. Pause. Adjust wrist angle. Pour. Stop. Examine color density as though he’s checking crude oil viscosity.
You glance at the clock.
He glances at the surface tension.
Sugar? Not dumped. No, no. Measured. One packet torn with surgical delicacy. Emptied in controlled increments. Stirred clockwise. Then counterclockwise — because balance matters in the universe.
You shift your weight.
He leans in, watching the granules dissolve like a chemist observing a reaction. He taps the spoon twice against the rim — a sound that echoes like a metronome marking the slow erosion of your morning.
Cream is not added. It is introduced.
A thin stream. Stop. Evaluate hue. Another fractional pour. He lifts the cup toward the light, searching for the exact shade of morning optimism with mild bitterness.
You, meanwhile, would have poured, splashed, stirred once, burned your tongue, and moved on with your life.
But here’s the thing.
As much as you want to scream internally — Sir, it’s diner coffee, not a Nobel Prize thesis — there’s something almost admirable about him. The world rushes. Emails pile up. Headlines scream. Everyone is late for something.
And this man?
He is conducting a ceremony.
He is not making coffee. He is insisting on control in a world that offers very little of it. In three square feet of counter space, he is master of temperature, ratio, and outcome.
Maybe he’s the only one in the room who isn’t letting the day bully him.
You start to wonder: when did we all get so hurried that someone taking their time feels like a personal offense?
Eventually, he snaps the lid on with quiet satisfaction. A final inspection. A nod — as if approving his own thesis defense — and he walks away, unbothered, coffee perfected.
Your turn.
You step up. Pour. Splash. Stir. Go.
But for just a second, you hesitate.
You add a little less cream than usual.
You actually taste it.
And you realize that maybe the scientist wasn’t holding up your morning.
Maybe he was stirring clockwise in a counterclockwise world — and you were just impatient with the results.

According to reporting by Mid Hudson News, a new proposal is circulating in Dutchess County that would eliminate fares on the county’s public bus system. On its face, the idea is simple: make buses free. But as with most things in government, the real question is not whether something is free — it is who ultimately pays.

City of Poughkeepsie Eighth Ward Councilman Daniel Atonna urged the Dutchess County Legislature to consider a fare-free transit model, pointing to neighboring counties that have already adopted similar systems. Currently, riders pay $1.75 per trip. The proposal would remove that cost entirely.

Supporters argue that eliminating fares would ease burdens on working residents and increase ridership. It is an appealing concept. Public transportation can be a lifeline for many — seniors, students, workers without reliable vehicles. No one disputes that mobility matters.

But public policy requires more than good intentions.

Mid Hudson News also reported that immediately following the legislative session, three buses arrived at the county transit hub carrying just four passengers total — two departing empty. That snapshot raises a legitimate question: Is the primary barrier to ridership the fare itself, or are deeper service and demand issues at play?

When government labels something “free,” it does not eliminate cost. It redistributes it. Taxpayers absorb it. That may be justified — but it must be examined honestly. What would the lost fare revenue total annually? How would it be replaced? Would service expand or remain the same? And would eliminating fares materially increase ridership enough to justify the subsidy?

County Executive Sue Serino declined comment, noting that no formal proposal has been submitted. For now, the idea remains a concept — but one that deserves serious scrutiny.

Public transit is important. So is fiscal responsibility. Before Dutchess County embraces the promise of “free,” it would be wise to examine the price.

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.