Deadly Consequences: Progressive DAs, Failing Schools, and the Cost to Families

Paul Riverbank, 12/20/2025Crime, mistrust, and unmet promises define Americans’ growing disillusionment with leaders and public safety.

Take Wisconsin, for example. Here, $2.29 for a gallon of gas has become prime fodder for campaign commercials. True, nobody’s losing sleep over egg or milk prices anymore—those spikes have softened. But inflation isn’t what animates the small talk at O’Leary’s Diner these days. On a recent morning, with the usual crowd leaned into chipped mugs and slow refills, one regular told me—the words flattening between pauses—that he stopped believing politicians have any idea what matters on the ground. The talk was less about statistics, more about mood. “They’re just not listening,” he said. Outside, snowmelt pooled by the curb, as a delivery guy muttered about politics under his breath.

But it’s when the conversation turns to public safety that frustration boils past mere cynicism. You hear a certain sharpness—anger more than complaint. In Virginia, a case involving the now-familiar name of Marvin Morales-Ortez made that evident. With a district attorney supported by progressive donors moving to drop charges, Morales-Ortez was set free, only to be swiftly accused of murder. The outcry was immediate, raw. One parent in the area, trying to herd two kids out the door, shook her head, “We don’t get second chances for our safety. Why is he getting a third?”

The pain is more visceral in Texas. At Ross S. Sterling High School, the classroom walls still echo with grief. A 16-year-old, Andrew Meismer, lost his life in a stabbing committed by another student—a name that teachers and students alike say was already a walking cautionary tale. Some classmates didn’t return to school the next day. Others stood on the sidewalk out front holding hand-lettered signs: “We don’t feel safe here.” The district sent emails assuring parents that policies were in review, but that didn’t stop the questions. “Andrew should still be alive,” one teacher insisted to a small cluster of reporters. Down the hall, a mother’s voice cracked, “That boy was known to be troubled. Why wasn’t anyone really listening?”

The debate isn’t new, but it feels newly urgent. Democrats in office emphasize economic progress—higher wages, lower jobless claims, quieter grocery aisles. Listen to the Republicans, and you hear relentless focus on crime: the systems, they insist, are letting ordinary Americans down. But in the middle, most people aren’t weighing charts and statistics. They’re comparing peace of mind to paychecks. The bluntest summary came from a local columnist over breakfast one morning: “You can’t spend your way past worrying whether your kid’s coming home after class.”

And the policy conversations, the ones about equity or restorative justice or school regulations? They feel a step removed when you talk with parents who are just trying to get through the day. In Maine, school administrators get called before commissions for enforcing rules only to be scolded for overreach. In Illinois, it’s religious nurses and doctors, tense over regulations that seem to ask more than they can give. The details change—the unease doesn’t.

Election season magnifies everything: ad wars over gas prices, endless talking points about job growth, fierce wrangling over who failed whom first. Underneath, though, a subtler current flows: trust, or the lack of it. Voters find themselves wondering not so much about which number went up or down—but whether anyone who speaks in their name is just guessing at their worries, or actually paying attention.

Of course, these are messy questions, impossible to settle by spreadsheet. What you see on campaign trails, in playground conversations, between the lines of the morning paper, is a public measuring value by one yardstick above all—security, and the comfort of knowing that what matters at home isn’t an afterthought for people in power.

That sense of being heard, and—yes—kept safe, might well be the hardest promise on any ballot this year. And it’s the one that, for now, so many Americans still find themselves waiting for someone to honor.

Eighteen percent. The Democratic Party’s latest approval rating isn’t just a statistic—it lands with the sort of finality you hear in the sighs of commuters, in the cautious laughter that floats around break rooms, in the uncertain silences that punctuate family dinners. Numbers like that don’t need much explaining; people live the mistrust every day, and—whether it’s on AM radio in the morning or through a friend texting a story midafternoon—the reason feels familiar. It’s the growing sense that what leaders say in Washington rarely matches what’s actually happening at the corner store, or in the halls of the local high school.Take Wisconsin, for example. Here, $2.29 for a gallon of gas has become prime fodder for campaign commercials. True, nobody’s losing sleep over egg or milk prices anymore—those spikes have softened. But inflation isn’t what animates the small talk at O’Leary’s Diner these days. On a recent morning, with the usual crowd leaned into chipped mugs and slow refills, one regular told me—the words flattening between pauses—that he stopped believing politicians have any idea what matters on the ground. The talk was less about statistics, more about mood. “They’re just not listening,” he said. Outside, snowmelt pooled by the curb, as a delivery guy muttered about politics under his breath.But it’s when the conversation turns to public safety that frustration boils past mere cynicism. You hear a certain sharpness—anger more than complaint. In Virginia, a case involving the now-familiar name of Marvin Morales-Ortez made that evident. With a district attorney supported by progressive donors moving to drop charges, Morales-Ortez was set free, only to be swiftly accused of murder. The outcry was immediate, raw. One parent in the area, trying to herd two kids out the door, shook her head, “We don’t get second chances for our safety. Why is he getting a third?”The pain is more visceral in Texas. At Ross S. Sterling High School, the classroom walls still echo with grief. A 16-year-old, Andrew Meismer, lost his life in a stabbing committed by another student—a name that teachers and students alike say was already a walking cautionary tale. Some classmates didn’t return to school the next day. Others stood on the sidewalk out front holding hand-lettered signs: “We don’t feel safe here.” The district sent emails assuring parents that policies were in review, but that didn’t stop the questions. “Andrew should still be alive,” one teacher insisted to a small cluster of reporters. Down the hall, a mother’s voice cracked, “That boy was known to be troubled. Why wasn’t anyone really listening?”The debate isn’t new, but it feels newly urgent. Democrats in office emphasize economic progress—higher wages, lower jobless claims, quieter grocery aisles. Listen to the Republicans, and you hear relentless focus on crime: the systems, they insist, are letting ordinary Americans down. But in the middle, most people aren’t weighing charts and statistics. They’re comparing peace of mind to paychecks. The bluntest summary came from a local columnist over breakfast one morning: “You can’t spend your way past worrying whether your kid’s coming home after class.”And the policy conversations, the ones about equity or restorative justice or school regulations? They feel a step removed when you talk with parents who are just trying to get through the day. In Maine, school administrators get called before commissions for enforcing rules only to be scolded for overreach. In Illinois, it’s religious nurses and doctors, tense over regulations that seem to ask more than they can give. The details change—the unease doesn’t.Election season magnifies everything: ad wars over gas prices, endless talking points about job growth, fierce wrangling over who failed whom first. Underneath, though, a subtler current flows: trust, or the lack of it. Voters find themselves wondering not so much about which number went up or down—but whether anyone who speaks in their name is just guessing at their worries, or actually paying attention.Of course, these are messy questions, impossible to settle by spreadsheet. What you see on campaign trails, in playground conversations, between the lines of the morning paper, is a public measuring value by one yardstick above all—security, and the comfort of knowing that what matters at home isn’t an afterthought for people in power.That sense of being heard, and—yes—kept safe, might well be the hardest promise on any ballot this year. And it’s the one that, for now, so many Americans still find themselves waiting for someone to honor.