In his speech on Tuesday, the governor touted the idea of giving voters the final say when it comes to how localities use the money generated by the county legislatures. It is a convenient way to deflect and misdirect the public from recognizing the true culprit causing the state’s enormous property taxes, unfunded state mandates. Cuomo continued the trend of laying blame on New York’s counties. After a week of regional presentations that took the place of the usual “State of the State Address,” Gov.
When it comes to the misuse of taxpayer dollars, the current administration has a habit of pointing fingers at everyone except themselves. I was raised by it.The following is a column from Assemblyman Ken Blankenbush:
I can’t put it into words, obviously, because I’ve never been through it, but I’ve seen it. Trying to get back into everyday life, while carrying the memories or people they killed, the smells, the sounds…the sights. I saw friends who were once funny, happy, and easy-going guys come home…a shell of their former selves.
I saw younger versions of my dad, but worse. I had a lot of friends who had been deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, and once they started coming home, I began to see. Only in recent years had I learned the term PTSD. Perhaps I could’ve been a better daughter. Wondering if things would’ve been different between us had I just known what he was going through. The memory of his memories still swirls around the back of my mind. It’s been eight years, and I still find myself thinking about that. I think it was a mixture of reliving some good times in his life and coming to terms with them. He told me a lot of things he probably shouldn’t have. I took photos of the entire six months, preserving. The ONLY good thing that cancer brought to me was the fact that I got to have some real conversations with my dad, my hero, for the first time in my life. Watching a man who was 215 pounds of muscle shrivel away to 135 pounds within six months. When my dad died in 2008, I sat in his hospital room just staring at him. He stuffed every feeling, every memory into a shoebox…put the lid on his mental issues, and never opened it in front of anyone. When I asked, he would tell me he was fine. There were just things that he didn’t like doing, and I wasn’t allowed to ask why. We never watched any movies that had any military themes. We didn’t go to fireworks displays on the 4th of July. I didn’t understand why for most of my younger years, but I do now. I walked in on him sitting on the couch once, crying. He’d realize what was happening, tell me to go back to bed and that he was fine. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to my dad screaming into the darkness of his room. I also remember a lot of times where weird things would happen. I think he was a little pissed he had raised an almost exact female version of himself. I remember getting some severe ass whoopings and then being sat down after, nose still running, and having my dad explain to me why I was in trouble, why he spanked me and him making sure I knew he loved me.Īs an adult, we butted heads constantly. I literally had the father who would lay his weapons out on the kitchen table and clean them while chatting up a nervous 17-year-old boy waiting to take his daughter out to a movie. I remember him being a really intimidating war hero to boys I dated in high school. When I asked where he was, he almost always lied to me because he wasn’t allowed to tell me. I remember as tiny human getting phone calls in the middle of the night from far away places I’d never even heard of.
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