The Valley Viewpoint

Today, my cousin, Kevin, our family historian, sent out a reminder that our Aunt Elise would have celebrated her 119th birthday today. I know, you’re probably thinking nobody lives long enough to celebrate their 119th birthday…. but, if anyone could have done it, it would have been Elsie.
Elsie. Where do I begin? I can tell you about her cooking skills…they were fabulous. I can also tell you that, to this day, I can’t see rice pudding on a menu without smiling. It was Elsie who introduced me to that. Elise, for many years worked as a ‘domestic’ for various families who lived on Park Ave.

As a domestic, if you went to work for a middle-class family or an upper-class family, you would usually have to go to live in the house where you were working. If you were working for an upper working-class family, it was more likely that you would live at home and simply migrate over every day to do the work. Wherever you were a servant, the hours of labor were very long. If you lived in, you tended to be remote from your own family and friends. Often you would be living in an alien class environment, and employers didn’t want close contacts between the servants and the family. They certainly didn’t want the servant’s family trooping in. And they didn’t really want the servants going off to spend time with their family.
The times when you would have to work hardest were often the holidays when everyone else was having the day off, because usually then, Christmas, for example, the family for which you worked would be having a big party or dinner and you would have to work to get it all ready. This was her life.
There were also times that the families Elsie worked for would not be home for the holidays and that’s when Elise took the time to ‘use’ her employers’ home to entertain by preparing full course meals and serve HER family. Now this usually meant bribing the doorman of the building so he wouldn’t squeal, and I can still remember a family story that, once, during a full course dinner for 10 or 12 members of our family, the doorbell rang. My mother told me that everyone scattered like roaches do when the lights are turned on. I can also recall a story that my Uncle Ray used to tell that, during the long hot NY City summers, it was not unusual for Elsie to call her stepsister, Catherine, my grandmother and Ray’s mother, and tell her to send Ray and his brother Jimmy over to the Park Ave residence of her employer, ‘with towels’, so they could bath in the bathrooms.
Elise. She joined our family when her father married my grandmother’s mother after her husband passed on. A turn of the century blended family. Elsie…..cantankerous, sharp, biting; the stories of her and my grandfather sometimes not seeing eye to eye on issues are legendary. But, beneath the hair that eventually became wispy, there was kindness. She was happy to belong and happy to do for others.
There’s a lot more that I can write about regarding Elsie. I’ll save these stories for another time. I guess I just wanted to thank Kevin for reminding us that today’s her birthday. Happy Birthday, Elsie…..I’ll get some Rice Pudding tonight (even though it’s not gonna be as good as yours) on the way home…..

While many if not most illegal aliens are decent people and are only illegally in the United States to provide for themselves or their families—an action that does not justify breaking the immigration laws of the United States—all of them are not decent and many are responsible for shocking crimes and incredible damage to families all across America.
Most everybody remembers the tragedy in New Jersey where illegal aliens wantonly killed three students and seriously injured another. A few people even remember that Jamiel Shaw was gunned down by an illegal alien gang member. However, very few people remember or even know that four year old Esmeralda Nava was kidnapped, molested, and strangled to death by an illegal alien child predator. The perpetrator that killed little Esmeralda told police that he carried the girl with one arm and muffled Esmeralda’s cries for her daddy with his other hand “until she stopped moving.’’
Almost nobody knows that the illegal alien sexual pervert that used and abused little Esmeralda Nava had been previously deported. Who remembers Min Soon Chang, an eighteen year old freshman at the University of North Carolina who was killed by a drunk driving illegal alien? In that case the perpetrator had at least three prior DWI convictions and had been previously deported 17 times. That is not a typo.
Who besides her family even know, let alone remember, that Danielle Gorectke, a vivacious 23 year old student at University of Wisconsin- Stevens Point was raped and beaten to death by an illegal alien?
Each one of these tragedies devastated an American family, and I could go on and on with more equally horrific stories. Each one of these tragedies was totally preventable if the perpetrator was not illegally residing in the United States.
Excluding breaking the immigration laws of the United States and committing ID theft and fraud, do illegal aliens commit more crime than legal immigrants? Probably, but nobody really knows. Do illegal aliens commit more crime than citizens? Most likely, but nobody really knows. What we do know is that the Justice Department does not report crimes committed by foreign nationals, illegal aliens, or even Hispanics (about 80% of illegal aliens are Hispanic). Interestingly, the DOJ does however, report crimes committed against Hispanics, including illegal alien Hispanics, but will not distinguish if the perpetrator was Hispanic themselves. (Crimes committed by Hispanics, including illegal alien Hispanics, go into the “Caucasian” category as “Hispanic” is an ethnicity, not a race.)
While no crime is ever justified and racially motivated crimes are particularly onerous in a civilized society, the reporting is a one way street the Left’s incorrect perception that “illegal aliens are just good family-values people that are here to do the work Americans won’t.”
When the government does not report crimes committed by illegal aliens, who are mostly Hispanic, but does report “hate crimes” committed against Hispanics it further distorts perceptions.
It is unfortunate that the Left often resorts to an intimidation tactic by labeling my positions as having the ‘uncomfortable stink’ of racism. Why does the Left use this label when a review of any of my previous columns would show nothing but a desire to make certain that our borders are secured and the immigration system has real integrity? Yet, those of us who take this position and make these demands are labeled as racists and xenophobes.
I recognize that our strength as a nation is built on the immigrant experience in America. I welcome legal immigration to this country. However, we are also a nation of laws and government should not adopt policies that encourage illegal immigration. Moreover, our neighbors should not carelessly use the word ‘racism’ when all one is doing is standing for the rule of law.
Illegal immigration is an insult to every American citizen, naturalized or native born.

I’ve learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow. I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and misplaced wallets. I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life. I’ve learned that making a “living” is not the same thing as making a “life.” I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back. I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one. I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn. I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

Today, while picking up my morning coffee, with a coffee roll, of course, at Dunkin’ Donuts, the very friendly Dunkin’ employee who was at the window passed me my order and said, ‘Here you go, Ed’. I looked at her, puzzled that she knew me and I, politely, asked if we knew each other. ‘Sure’ she said. ‘I know you from my other job at the McDonald’s drive through’…….

God, I hope that she doesn’t call my Doctors!!!!

You can abolish democracy by banning the vote or you can do it by letting people vote as many times as they want, by letting small children and foreigners vote, until no one sees the point in counting the votes or taking the process seriously. The same goes for marriage or any other institution. You can destroy it by outlawing it or by eliminating its meaningfulness until it becomes so open that it is absurd.
The left’s deconstruction of social institutions is not a quest for equality, but for destruction. As long as the institutions that preceded it exist, it will go on deconstructing them until there is nothing left but a blank canvas, an unthinking anarchy, on which it can impose its perfect and ideal conception of how everyone should live.
Equality is merely a pretext for deconstruction. Change the parameters of a thing and it ceases to function. Redefine it and expand it and it no longer means anything at all. A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, but if you change ‘rose’ to mean anything that sticks out of the ground, then the entire notion of what is being discussed has gone and cannot be reclaimed without also reclaiming language.
The left’s social deconstruction program is a war of ideas and concepts. Claims of equality are used to expand institutions and ways of living until they are so broad as to encompass everything and nothing. And once a thing encompasses everything, once a rose represents everything rising out of the ground, then it also represents nothing at all.
Deconstruction is a war against definitions, borders and parameters. It is a war against defining things by criminalizing the limitation of definitions. With inclusivity as the mandate, exclusivity, in marriage, or any other realm, quickly meets with social disapproval and then becomes a hate crime. If the social good is achieved only through maximum inclusivity and infinite tolerance, then any form of exclusivity, from property to person to ideas, is a selfish act that refuses the collective impulse to make all things into a common property with no lasting meaning or value.
As Orwell understood in 1984, tyranny is essentially about definitions. It is hard to fight for freedom if you lack the word. It is hard to maintain a marriage if the idea no longer exists. Orwell’s Oceania made basic human ideas into contradictory things. The left’s deconstruction of social values does the same thing to such essential institutions as marriage; which becomes an important impermanent thing of no fixed nature or value.
The left’s greatest trick is making things mean the opposite of what they do. Stealing is sharing. Crime is justice. Property is theft. Each deconstruction is accompanied by an inversion so that a thing, once examined, comes to seem the opposite of what it is, and once that is done, it no longer has the old innate value, but a new enlightened one.
To deconstruct man, you deconstruct his beliefs and then his way of living. You deconstruct freedom until it means slavery. You deconstruct peace until it means war. You deconstruct property until it means theft. And you deconstruct marriage until it means a physical relationship between any group of people for any duration. And that is the opposite of what marriage is.
The deconstruction of marriage is part of the deconstruction of gender and family and those are part of the long program of deconstructing man. Once each basic value has been rendered null and void, inverted and revealed to be random and meaningless, then man is likewise revealed to be a random and meaningless creature whose existence requires shaping by those who know better.
The final deconstruction eliminates nation, religion, family and even gender to reduce the soul of man to a blank slate waiting to be written on.
That is what is at stake here. This is not a struggle about the right of equality, but the right of definition. It is not about whether men can get married, but whether marriage will mean anything at all. It is about preserving the shapes and structures of basic social concepts that define our identities in order to preserve those very concepts, rather than accepting their deconstruction into nullification. The question on the table is whether the institutions that give us meaning will be allowed to retain that meaning. And that question is a matter of survival. Societies cannot survive without definitions. Peoples do not go on existing through the act of occupying space. The deconstruction of identity is also the destruction of people.
And that is what we are truly fighting against.

Fatherhood is shrinking in significance. I’m not just talking about physical absence — a third of American kids now live without their biological fathers — I’m talking about perceived importance. More and more, fathers are being viewed as less than necessary.

A 2016 study concluded that children of lesbian parents fared just as well — if not better — than those from a traditional man-woman marriage. A 2013 book stated “the notion that fathering is essential to children’s … development seems to be a uniquely American preoccupation.”

And take this recent exchange on “The View,” an ABC show with a massive female audience from 2013. A guest host, an actor named Terry Crews, had floated the idea that “there are some things only a father can give you.” He was deluged by objection — both on social media and on the set.

When he said, “A father gives you your name,” cohost Whoopi Goldberg joked, “Like in ‘The Lion King?’ ” When he said “a father gives you your security” and “your confidence,” Jenny McCarthy, who is raising a son on her own, shot back, “I’m a single mother and I guarantee you, I can give (my son) all those things.”

The debate went on for several minutes at a high volume, with the female hosts paying homage to widows, single moms and gay couples, and McCarthy hammering at the idea that her “amazing” son needs no man.

And while I know the show is not scientific, it’s entertainment, it still got me thinking how far we have come, that on network TV, a man suggesting “there are some things only a father can give you” is greeted not with agreeing nods but with cannon fire.

On some levels, we men must blame ourselves. The number of fathers who take no responsibility for parenting — who impregnate and run as if they are pollinating flowers — is despicably high. Same goes for disinterested divorced men and deadbeat dads. They have forced single mothers into playing all roles.

But what about the fathers who stay? The fathers who relish their roles? Is citing their virtues now politically incorrect?

Take the sentence “there are some things only a mother can provide.” Does anyone disagree with that? You say “nurturing,” everyone nods. You say “unconditional love,” everyone nods.

But try saying that sentence about a father — as Crews did — and it’s as if you’re hammering people’s toes. “A father provides security,” you suggest? Oh come on, comes the response, as if a woman can’t? “A father provides discipline”? Don’t single moms keep kids in line? “A father provides a male role model.” So now you’re insulting gay couples?

Whew. When did it become so difficult to extol fatherhood? Perhaps when there became other agendas. An author of that 2010 study on lesbian parenting, for example, also has argued there is no need for marriage whatsoever. She also chided President Barack Obama, saying his emphasis on fathers’ importance was “dead wrong.” Even the New York Times, for Father’s Day in 2013, stirred debate — and presumably readers — by asking, “Do fathers bring anything unique to the table?”

But if they don’t, why does nearly every statistic on kids turn sour when fathers disappear? Youth suicides, five times higher than average. High school dropouts, nine times higher. Behavioral disorders, 20 times higher. Runaways and homeless children, 32 times higher.

Does none of that count?

We all recognize it’s a changing world. And I would not use this space to disparage single parents, or two men or two women raising children. But if it’s now insensitive to even question gay parenting, why does it ruffle no feathers to dismiss heterosexual dads? No one should be made to feel a traditional role is prehistoric thinking. That’s bullying of its own kind.

Fatherhood didn’t suddenly, after thousands of years, lose its value. It may be trendy to dismiss dads as little more than fertilizer, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s pretty foolish. Such is our world, where a comment like Crews’ brings a tsunami.

Last night, I found myself trying to organize all those things that one keeps labeled under the heading of ‘family stuff’. There’s something intriguing about poring over old photographs. Whether the photos are black and whites from the Old Country or yellow-stained images from the days of our own youth, looking at them is like peeking through a window at another world. There was other things as well. Since my uncle’s passing in 1976, I kept his ‘stuff’. Now, this includes not only photographs, but mementos from his life. His 8th grade class autograph book, where salutations from fellow classmates read along the lines of ‘2 good 2 be 4 gotten’ and other similar notations that harken back to how kids spoke to each other in the 1920’s. Then I revisited every report card that he received while attending Xavier High School in the 1930’s and painstakingly saved. Now, since I attended the same high school as my uncle, there was a deep bond between him and me. There were letters that several Jesuits sent to my uncle as a young man that he kept. In particular, there were letters from one Jesuit named Gerry Cuddy. While my uncle was alive, he spoke of this Jesuit as being one of the best teachers he had. The report cards bear this out. He received ‘second honors’ during the year that Mr. Cuddy, then a Jesuit Scholastic, was his home room teacher. The report cards then take an ominous turn when, in the following year, he found himself in academic trouble. ‘You son is in danger of failing the following subjects; Latin Composition, Latin Lit, Mathematics. He will need to take remedial examinations in the above checked subjects in order to continue at Xavier’, another saved letter stated. The Jesuits charged 5.00 for each examination and my uncle kept the receipt for these tests, as well. Like a detective, I tried to understand what happened. As I reviewed each card, I saw him standing in from of his parents asking them to sign these report cards and they did. My grandparent’s signatures are on each card under the red circled grades. The shame must have been overwhelming. John was asked to leave Xavier going into his senior year; yet he kept those cards and letters from Gerry Cuddy. Last night, I decided to find out more about who this Jesuit was and, because of the internet, I found myself corresponding with a present day Jesuit, Francis X. Hezel, who worked with Father Cuddy in Micronesia. Father Hezel, thanked me for reaching out and promised to share some insight into who Gerry Cuddy was with me. He sent me the attached photos of Father Cuddy. What kind of man was he that made my uncle save every small piece of correspondence sent from him? When I think of the Jesuits I had, I can recite a number of them who had profound impact on my life. Duminuco, Aracich, Keenan, Biaggi, Hoefner, Wood are Jesuits who helped me in my own life. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, lemme tell you. Those are big years. Everybody always thinks of it as a time of adolescence—just getting through to the real part of your life—but it’s more than that. Sometimes your whole life happens in those years, and the rest of your life is just the same story playing out with different characters. I’m eternally grateful for going through those years with these Jesuits and I’m grateful that my uncle had, even for a brief time, Gerry Cuddy. A teacher, wrote Henry Adams, attains a kind of immortality because one never knows where a teacher’s influence ends. I hope that Father Hezel shares with me some stories of who Gerry Cuddy was. His influence on my uncle’s life was unquestionable and I thank him for that.

So, as I closed the box on the items I have kept, I will miss my uncle no more or no less than I did yesterday. In a strange way, I found myself missing Gerry Cuddy although I never knew him. There’s no magic wand that has filled the void of my uncle’s absence. Nor would I want there to be. There is no expiration date on grief. Grief, after all, is just a measure of the vastness of love. Grief never really ends because love never ends. I’ll never get rid of those report cards or Gerry Cuddy’s letters.

With this upcoming Sunday being Mother’s Day, I’ve received a lot of requests to rerun something that I wrote about for the anniversary of my Mom’s 84th birthday.

How can I tell you about my mother? This might sound silly. But in the 1941 movie “Dumbo,” there’s a scene where the captured mother elephant, through the bars of a cage, cradles little Dumbo in her trunk and sings:

Baby mine, don’t you cry

Baby mine, dry your eyes

Rest your head, close to my heart

Never to part

Baby of mine

I choke up whenever I see that, because I know that feeling. Forever loved, forever comforted, through whatever bars may separate you, never to part. If this is the last column I write about my mother, then you should know. That was what it felt like to be her son. And it was glorious.

She was born during the Depression and was raised in Manhattan in a ‘railroad’ apartment. She arrived the last of 6 six kids, fully 17 years between she and her oldest sister. Her father drove a bus, her mother stayed at home; sometimes keeping her out of school for company. She used to like telling the story of staying at home and sitting on the ‘stoop’ waiting for her brother to return from WW2 when her family was notified he was on the way home from his duty station in Iceland. They knew he was coming home, but didn’t know when he’d arrive. No worries, she was allowed to stay home from school because her mother felt that there was some things more important than school. She also was fond of telling the story that, while on an earlier Army leave, her brother John was late in seeing her school Christmas show. When he showed up at the school, the nuns of St. Ignatius school stopped the performance and had the kids restart it. Her 4th grade heart, she told her kids, swelled with pride because her brother was there. She and her school friends would hang out on the fire escapes. Her mom left this world when she was 11 and she was left with her dad and brother in that railroad apartment. That same year, in sixth grade, she met a boy who would one day become her husband. Later on when he was in the Army, he became part of the Old Guard. He walked the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington. She would often travel, chaperoned by her aunt and brother to Arlington, to just watch her boyfriend guard the tomb.

She was married at 21 and her own motherhood began at 23 with the birth of her son; followed 2 years later by the birth of her daughter.

Like many women of her generation, she concentrated on what she had: a family. She was a strong matriarch, vocal in her love. She kissed. She lectured. She enjoyed being part of a large family. She inspired with her tenacity. Once, when her son was being treated unkindly by a nun that questioned his ability, she took the long ride to the convent to point out to the good sister how wrong she was.

She made her kids breakfast, dinner and Halloween costumes. She was the one they woke at 3 a.m. after a bad dream. She was the one who got up early to put the kitchen oven on in her own railroad apartment so that her kids could dress in front of the open stove in winter. She made sure that her son knew that there was a neighbor of hers named Flip Finnigan who never made it home from Europe during WW2 and she kept a picture of him with her as a young kid sitting on his lap during one of his leaves. At one time she wanted to be a nurse, but she put those deferred dreams into her children and her family.

She became sick early on in her life. Multiple Sclerosis. She saw her ability to move become increasingly difficult, yet she didn’t really complain. She still had her family around her. It must have been hard. She saw her children grow, graduate college, marry and have children of their own. Sadly, she didn’t get to really enjoy or know her grandchildren or live long enough to see her two great granddaughters and of all the trials and tribulations she experienced in her short life, I know that this is the one that she would most regret as her grandchildren have grown into fine adults.

I guess she was like millions of great mothers and, of course, she was to us. In blogging as much as I do, I’ve written about a lot of things but for some reason, I have never really written about her. Sometimes I can almost hear her ask “When do you tell my story?” Today. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

And thanks to all the Moms out there for doing what they do.

I recently received from a cousin the census and baptismal records of our grandfather who was born in Ireland. I learned that that our grandfather lived in the same house with his father, our great grandfather, and that our great-great grandfather, too, lived with them and was listed as the head of that household at the age of 78! As I reviewed these records, I got to thinking that we inherit from our ancestors gifts so often taken for granted. Each of us contains this inheritance of soul. We are links between the ages, containing past and present expectations, sacred memories and future promise. I also thought about the richness of our family’s ancestry and the fact that I don’t spend enough time being thankful for the family that I have. How many calls have I not made, how many emails have I not sent? I guess we are all guilty of not paying attention to those of us who are still here, yet, it’s ironic,we look back and share records of our common ancestry almost wistfully. I wonder how those folks who lived so long ago would feel about their descendents not keeping in touch with each other? I have some emails and phone calls to make………….

For me, Superman is and has always been America’s hero. I had an uncle who was a weight lifter. When I was 5 or so, I remember asking my mother if my uncle, John, was really Superman. She looked at me and very seriously told me that she couldn’t tell me because ‘no one was supposed to know’. That sealed it for me. From that day on, my uncle was Superman and I was now entrusted with this knowledge. I mean, after all, he carried my sister and I up three flights of stairs using nothing but the palms of his hands. Who, but Superman, could do that? But the real reason he was Superman was that he stood for what we believe is the best within us: limitless strength tempered by compassion, that could bear adversity and emerge stronger on the other side. He stood for what we all feel we would like to be able to stand for, when standing is sometimes the hardest.

We could all use a little Superman these days, couldn’t we? And we could all use a lot more TV shows like this one that you could watch with your kids and be reminded of its message. So, on the nights when you can’t sleep, and during the times when the darkness of uncertainty presses in on you, find a couple of these old ‘Adventures of Superman’ episodes. They’re a reminder that hope must lead the way. They’re a reminder that courage is the most important of all the virtues because without courage, you can’t practice any other virtue consistently. Take it from me, because, you see, I was related to Superman.

Today, at work, I heard that a coworker’s daughter has a friend who is turning 16 and is saddened that her birthday celebration is bittersweet because no one on her ‘invite’ list has responded that they will go.
I’m not sure who to blame for this. Is it the parents of the kids who haven’t even responded or the kids themselves for being rude?
This story made me remember this. As many of my friends know, my mother was confined to a wheel chair/hospital bed for the majority of her short life due to MS. This didn’t stop her, however, from keeping tight control of her household; particulary her children.
Coming home, one day, in my 16th year, I was ‘summoned’ to her room. ‘Eddie, I got a phone call from Mrs. Williams today. ‘You remember her daughter, Nancy, don’t you…..you went to grammar school with her………remember?’
By this time, I was sweating……….’Nancy needs a date to her junior prom at Notre Dame High School……you’re going’.
My reaction can only be compared to Jimmy Cagney’s performance in ‘Angels with Dirty Faces’ where, in the death row scene, he is dragged to the electric chair, crying, screaming, grabbing the radiator, etc.. If you haven’t seen this movie, I’ve attached the scene so you can get a visual of what I went through……My performance didn’t work and guess what? I went and actually had a nice time. So, to the kids who don’t want to go to my coworker’s daugther’s friends party and, particularly, to the parents of these ‘Im too busy to respond’ young people……… too bad…you’re missing out on a good time…..

This is a difficult email to write for me. Many of you who follow my Facebook blogs know that I have written extensively on the clerical sex abuse scandals that, all too often, have been widely publicized. Most recently, I published the letter that I wrote to John Cecero SJ about his letter that identified Jesuits who, over the past 50 years, were credibly identified as being guilty of abuse.

I previously wrote of the obfuscation that the Jesuits used in attempting to shield assets with the 166 million dollar judgement that was levied against them when it was found that Jesuits from the Oregonian province were guilty of sexually abusing Alaskan villagers over a period of 25 years. Anyone who visits my page can see these posts.

Like many of you, these scandals have shaken my faith. Last week, the NY Post reported on new suit filed on behalf of a plaintiff who, during the 70’s, alleged that he was sexually abused by Father Hoefner. His full complaint is posted below. Father Hoefner….Jake….known to my family since 1953. Was on the altar when my parents were married at St. Ignatius in 1956. I was a member of the choir and an altar server for most of my grammar school days as well as my high school ones at Xavier. Not once did I see or hear of Father Hoefner doing anything, anything to any of my friends. Not once. But yet, here is another salacious allegation. I’ve shared this with the guys that I knew from my choir and altar days and I’m happy to say the consensus is all the same. But at the same time, I’ve heard stories from these same guys that all have the following in them- “Jake,,,,,no…but did I ever tell you about Father…….’

I don’t know where this will end. I will always be grateful for my Jesuit education and having been influenced by the likes of Woods, Duminuco, Reilly, Keenan, Dineen, Aracich and many others. I’m old enough and have spent so many years in corporate America to know that any organization is weakened by the secrets that it keeps. I hope that these allegations against Father Hoefner are proved false……

https://nypost.com/2019/04/13/horace-mann-alum-details-horrifying-new-sexual-abuse-claims-in-lawsuit/