The Valley Viewpoint

There’s a moment in every policy debate when reality shows up uninvited.

Not in a press release.

Not in a speech.

But in the quiet retreat—the delay, the adjustment, the sudden change in tone.

That moment just happened in New York.

Governor Kathy Hochul didn’t stand at a podium and declare the state’s climate agenda was flawed. She didn’t call for repeal. She didn’t even use the word “mistake.”

She didn’t have to.

Because when you start pushing deadlines on a law that was sold as urgent and non-negotiable, you’ve already said everything.

Back in 2019, Albany passed the Climate Leadership and Community Protection Act with the kind of confidence that only exists before implementation begins.

It was sweeping.

It was aggressive.

It was, we were told, the only path forward.

And anyone who raised concerns—about cost, infrastructure, feasibility—was treated as if they simply didn’t understand the stakes.

But now?

Now the deadlines are moving.

And that’s where the truth lives.

Because deadlines don’t move when things are working.

They move when the math doesn’t add up.

They move when the grid isn’t ready.

When the infrastructure isn’t there.

When the cost—real, unavoidable cost—starts landing on actual people.

Not policy papers.

Not projections.

People.

Here in the Hudson Valley, that reality isn’t theoretical.

It’s in utility bills that don’t make sense anymore.

It’s in families already stretched thin being told more is coming.

It’s in the growing disconnect between what was promised in Albany and what is actually happening on the ground.

And now, quietly, Albany is acknowledging it.

Not by fixing the law.

Not by rethinking the framework.

But by doing what Albany does best:

Buying time.

Let’s call this what it is.

This is not leadership.

This is not course correction.

This is political containment.

Because admitting the law itself may be flawed would mean admitting the critics weren’t wrong—and that’s a bridge too far for a political system that confuses certainty with strength.

So instead, we get delay.

Push the timeline.

Adjust the language.

Hope the pressure eases.

But the pressure doesn’t ease.

It shifts.

From Albany… to you.

Because every delay without a redesign keeps the same fundamental problem in place:

A policy built on assumptions that reality has now rejected.

You can’t mandate outcomes the system isn’t capable of delivering.

You can’t ignore cost and expect compliance.

And you can’t keep telling people this will all work out—while quietly signaling that it won’t.

What makes this moment different is not that Albany got it wrong.

That happens.

What makes it different is that Albany knows it got it wrong—and still won’t say it.

And that’s where trust breaks.

Not in the ambition.

Not even in the failure.

But in the refusal to be honest about either.

Governor Hochul didn’t need to say the words.

The delay said them for her.

Now the question is whether anyone in Albany is willing to finish the sentence.

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.

What was once unthinkable is now being described by sitting judges as almost routine. That alone should chill every American. Federal judges are now speaking publicly about death threats, harassment, intimidation — and the growing sense that such attacks are becoming “ordinary.”

Let that word sit for a moment: ordinary.

The U.S. Marshals Service reported hundreds of threats against members of the judiciary in the past year alone. This is not political noise. It is real, and it is dangerous.

Chief Justice John Roberts has warned that personal hostility toward judges “has got to stop.” And he’s right. A system of law cannot function if those entrusted to interpret it are looking over their shoulders, wondering whether a ruling will follow them home.

But here is the harder question — the one few in polite circles want to ask:

How did we get here?

Because while threats against judges are indefensible, pretending they exist in a vacuum is just as dangerous.

Over time, many Americans have watched decisions that feel less like neutral applications of law and more like exercises of raw judicial power. Sweeping rulings. Expansive interpretations. At times, outcomes that appear disconnected from the plain reading of statutes or the will of elected bodies.

Fair or not, that perception has taken root.

And perception matters.

When courts are seen — rightly or wrongly — as political actors rather than impartial arbiters, public trust begins to erode. And when trust erodes, frustration grows. That frustration, in a healthy society, should be channeled into lawful dissent, appeals, and elections.

But we are not always a healthy society anymore.

So the question isn’t whether threats are wrong. They are.

The question is whether the judiciary can ignore the environment it operates in — an environment shaped, in part, by its own actions.

Criticism is not intimidation. Accountability is not harassment. And asking whether judicial behavior has contributed to rising anger is not an attack on the rule of law — it is a defense of it.

Because if judges want respect, the system must not only be independent — it must be seen as legitimate.

That legitimacy is not enforced by security detail.

It is earned, case by case, decision by decision.

And once lost, it is very hard to restore.

Last night wasn’t just a fundraiser.

It was a statement.

A statement about the kind of leadership people in Pleasant Valley—and across District 2—are ready to stand behind.

That leader is Anne Burger.

What stood out wasn’t just the turnout—it was the tone of the room. Conversations grounded in real life—taxes, roads, public safety, small businesses, and the future of our community. Not theory. Not abstraction. Reality.

And that’s where the contrast in this race becomes unmistakable.

This election presents two very different visions of leadership.

Emma Arnoff represents a more collective, ideology-driven approach—one that emphasizes group outcomes, broader systems, and policy frameworks designed to serve the whole, often through centralized decision-making.

There’s a place for that conversation.

But local government is where those ideas meet real people—and real consequences.

Anne Burger represents a community-first, individual accountability approach.

She starts with the people in front of her.

She understands that every policy has a direct impact on families, homeowners, and small businesses.

And she believes leadership begins with listening—not prescribing.

Where Emma’s approach leans toward the collective…

Anne’s is rooted in the personal.

Where Emma’s model can feel top-down…

Anne’s is built ground-up.

That distinction matters here in Dutchess County.

Because this isn’t about broad ideological experiments. It’s about whether your representative understands your street, your concerns, your tax bill, your day-to-day life.

Anne Burger does.

She’s present.

Accessible.

Accountable.

She’s not trying to fit District 2 into a larger narrative—she’s working to represent it as it is.

Last night reinforced something important:

People want to be heard.

People want to be represented—not managed.

And people are ready for leadership that reflects the values of this community.

A special thank you to Madison’s Pizza. Jay and Madeline once again created the kind of space where community actually happens—not just talked about, but lived.

That’s what Pleasant Valley is about.

And that’s what Anne Burger represents.

I’m proud to support her.

Because in a race that comes down to philosophy—collective versus community—the choice is clear.

Anne Burger is the right choice for Dutchess County Legislature, District 2.

There’s no shortage of people willing to tell you how to lead.

In the Hudson Valley alone, you can sit through a dozen meetings in a week—town boards, school committees, nonprofit boards—and hear the same language recycled: strategy, alignment, vision, stakeholder engagement. It all sounds impressive. It all fills the room.

And yet, somehow, the results don’t always follow.

Because leadership, real leadership, isn’t built in conference rooms or PowerPoint decks. It’s revealed in decisions. Quiet ones. Hard ones. The ones nobody wants to make when the room goes still.

That’s why I keep coming back to Warren Buffett.

Not because he’s a billionaire. Not because of the mythology that’s grown up around him. But because he has a way of stripping leadership down to its essentials—seven rules that, on the surface, look simple.

They’re not.

They are, in fact, a mirror.

Start with character.

Around here, we’ve all seen what happens when that gets ignored. The wrong person gets elevated because they’re connected, because they’re loud, because they check the right political box. Intelligence and energy? Plenty of that. Integrity? Not so much. And then we act surprised when things start to unravel.

Buffett’s point is blunt: the wrong person in the right seat is the most expensive mistake you’ll ever make.

You don’t need a case study. You can drive through it.

Then there’s reputation.

In small communities like ours—from Poughkeepsie to Pleasant Valley—reputation isn’t abstract. It’s currency. It’s the difference between being trusted and being tolerated. And once it’s gone, no press release is getting it back.

It takes decades to build and minutes to lose. Yet we still watch leaders act as if nobody’s paying attention.

They are.

The third rule is one most leaders quietly ignore: stay inside what you understand.

There’s a kind of arrogance that creeps into public life—the belief that once you’ve been elected, appointed, or promoted, you’re now qualified to weigh in on everything. You’re not. None of us are. Knowing the limits of your knowledge isn’t weakness. It’s discipline.

And that discipline leads directly to the hardest word in leadership: no.

Every yes sounds good in the moment. Every new initiative, every added responsibility, every “we can take that on.” Until suddenly the organization is stretched thin, the mission gets blurry, and nobody is accountable for anything.

Focus is not accidental. It’s protected.

Buffett thinks in decades.

Around here, we barely get past the next election cycle. The next budget vote. The next headline. But real leadership isn’t measured in news cycles—it’s measured in what still stands ten years later. Patience isn’t passive. It’s strategic.

And then there’s something we don’t see enough of: accountability.

When mistakes happen—and they always do—the instinct is to explain them away, shift the narrative, buy time. But trust doesn’t grow in those moments. It erodes.

Own it. Fix it. Move on.

It’s not complicated. It’s just rare.

And finally, the rule that matters most—and the one that will outlast all the others:

Measure success by the lives you impact.

Not the budgets you pass. Not the titles you hold. Not the statements you release.

But whether, at the end of it all, people are better off because you were there.

Because long after the meetings end, the votes are counted, and the headlines fade…

What remains is simple.

Not what you said.

Not what you promised.

But how you led.

There’s a persistent lie in American politics—that what happens in Washington somehow stays there.

It doesn’t.

It spills.

And right now, what’s spilling out of the Capitol—driven in no small part by Chuck Schumer—isn’t strategy. It’s disruption, and it’s landing squarely here in the Hudson Valley.

You can see it the moment you try to leave.

Families from Poughkeepsie, Fishkill, Newburgh—people who did everything right, booked their flights, planned their trips—are now leaving their homes before sunrise just to fight through airport lines that shouldn’t exist. TSA agents, many of them unpaid, are stretched thin. Some have already walked off the job. The system, predictably, is beginning to strain.

And yet, in Washington, this is still being framed as leverage.

Out here, it feels like something else entirely.

It feels like failure.

Because this isn’t theoretical. It’s not a cable news argument or a Senate floor speech. It’s a federal worker from Dutchess County showing up every day knowing the paycheck isn’t coming. It’s a family recalculating a budget that was already tight. It’s the quiet frustration of people who are once again being told that dysfunction is somehow part of the process.

It isn’t.

It’s the result of decisions not being made when they should have been.

That’s the part that feels so familiar. Not just in politics, but anywhere leadership falters. Problems are allowed to linger. Hard choices are delayed. Accountability is softened. And eventually, the situation reaches a point where the only option left is confrontation—loud, public, and costly.

By then, the damage is already done.

What Schumer appears to be betting on is the same thing politicians always bet on in these moments: that the public will assign blame neatly. That voters will understand the nuance, follow the arguments, and land exactly where the messaging tells them to.

But that’s not how this works.

People don’t experience politics as theory. They experience it as inconvenience, as stress, as disruption in their daily lives. And when that disruption hits—when it affects their commute, their paycheck, their plans—it doesn’t come labeled by party.

It just feels like Washington isn’t doing its job.

And that frustration doesn’t divide cleanly. It spreads.

That’s the real danger in what’s happening now. Not just that this standoff drags on, but that it reinforces something deeper, something harder to repair—that the people in charge are more comfortable playing the game than solving the problem.

Because from here, from the Hudson Valley, that’s exactly what it looks like.

A game.

One where the stakes are real, but the consequences are felt by everyone except the people making the decisions.

And at some point, the public stops trying to figure out who’s right.

They start asking a much simpler question.

Why does this keep happening?

And why does no one in Washington seem capable of stopping it?

That line stopped me when I read it because, in many ways, it describes the path I’ve taken over the past several years.

It would have been much easier to stay quiet.

It would have been easier not to start The Valley Viewpoint, not to write about uncomfortable issues in the Hudson Valley, not to question decisions being made by people in positions of power. Silence is always the safer route. It doesn’t attract criticism, it doesn’t stir controversy, and it rarely puts you in anyone’s crosshairs.

But it also doesn’t change anything.

When I began writing The Valley Viewpoint, I knew it meant stepping into conversations that many people prefer to avoid—local politics, accountability, justice, and sometimes the uncomfortable intersection of all three. Writing about these issues means not everyone will agree with you. In fact, some people will strongly disagree.

That’s the price of speaking plainly.

The same principle has applied when I’ve stood up in legislative meetings or when I’ve challenged sitting federal court judges in filings and arguments. Those are rooms designed to remind you who holds authority. The titles, the robes, the dais, the formal procedures—all of it carries an unspoken message that perhaps the better course is simply to sit quietly and let the process move forward.

But democracy was never meant to be a spectator sport.

Sometimes you have to walk to the microphone.
Sometimes you have to file the motion.
Sometimes you have to ask the question that no one else in the room seems willing to ask.

Does it always work? Of course not. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes the system pushes back. Sometimes you make mistakes along the way.

But those mistakes are still better than silence.

Because the real regret in life isn’t trying and failing. It’s watching something unfold, knowing you could have spoken up, and choosing instead to remain seated.

That’s why that simple line resonates with me.

Better to jump and make a mistake than to sit there too frightened to make a move.

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.