Trust Shattered: Parents Blast Democrats Over Rising School Violence

Paul Riverbank, 12/20/2025In an era of eroding trust, voters prioritize safety and local concerns over economic statistics. The article spotlights a political disconnect: families want leaders who listen and restore a sense of security, recognizing that trust—not just numbers—will shape the coming election’s outcome.

I sat in a booth at a diner in Waukesha, Wisconsin, sipping weak coffee as a man in work boots gestured toward the TV overhead—“They don’t hear us,” he grumbled, tracing circles in the condensation on his mug. Sure, inflation’s taken a breather, but the sense of unease hangs on, tough to dislodge.

These days, talk of jobs and wage reports sound a bit hollow to folks whose nerves are shot by police sirens and stories unfolding all too close to home. Virginia gave me the sharpest example—a district attorney, heavily supported by reform-minded donors, let a man named Marvin Morales-Ortez walk away from criminal charges not once, but twice. Both times—according to court records—he returned to trouble, until one final run-in turned deadly. “We don’t get second chances for our safety. Why does he get a third?” a mother demanded as she gathered her children before crossing the street. Her question was the sort you ask when theory collides with the everyday risks on your own sidewalk.

Texas tells another, rougher story. In Baytown, at Ross S. Sterling High, students left poems and handwritten notes near the front steps after a stabbing in a classroom. Andrew Meismer, a 17-year-old, lost his life—his teachers had flagged concerns about the troubled classmate involved, but little came of it. On the sidewalk after school, I watched as one girl, backpack straps twisted, shook her head and said, “They pretend to listen. But we’re the ones stepping over the chalk lines.” When parents talk about safety, their voices tighten; some sound tired, a few plainly scared.

What’s strange—and maybe instructive—is how the debates split. Progressive leaders fire off numbers about jobs and GDP, while families want a different accounting: Can my kids get home? Will the schools stand firm, or look the other way? These aren’t abstractions. One columnist wrote, “You can’t fix the feeling in your gut by scanning the BLS report.” I heard the same sentiment in kitchen after kitchen across Illinois and Virginia, and all the way down into Georgia.

Of course, not all discontent points to the same target. Some folks in Illinois hospitals bristle at state edicts touching on values and personal beliefs. In Maine, a retired teacher told me she’s baffled by colleagues who either clamp down too harshly on students—or let the rules slide a little too often. The specifics shift, but the undercurrent is steady: People notice when policy forgets real life.

GOP leaders are quick to catch this mood. On the campaign trail, they speak the language of protection, promising a shift—back toward the tough-on-crime posture remembered from the Trump years. The old refrain—“Remember how things felt, just a couple years ago?”—lands with surprising force among audiences weary from news alerts and changing routines.

But I think it’s too simple to boil it all down to fear or nostalgia. Sure, peace of mind matters; so does feeling that those in charge know what keeps you up at night. This election, perhaps more than any in the last decade, seems to hinge on the question: Who is willing to listen—to actually, genuinely take notice before it’s too late?

In the end, the currency is trust, as worn and irreplaceable as an old dollar bill tucked away for emergencies. Numbers make headlines, but when dusk falls across the country, it’s the quiet calculations—safety, dignity, hope—that shape our politics most of all. And if there’s a lesson buried in the stories I’ve heard, it’s that regaining trust starts not in a spreadsheet, but in every conversation we're finally ready to have.

Eighteen percent. It slips out in conversation, floats at the breakfast table, lingers at church socials and on front porches as dusk presses down over small towns. That number—pollster’s ink, sure, but also a stiff kind of silence—tells its own story about where the Democratic Party stands on trust. It’s not just digits on a page. That low hum of skepticism echoes quietly from Kansas to Connecticut. Sometimes, all it takes is a sideways glance at a neighborhood grocery bill, or a half-laughed-off comment about politicians being “off in their own world.”I sat in a booth at a diner in Waukesha, Wisconsin, sipping weak coffee as a man in work boots gestured toward the TV overhead—“They don’t hear us,” he grumbled, tracing circles in the condensation on his mug. Sure, inflation’s taken a breather, but the sense of unease hangs on, tough to dislodge.These days, talk of jobs and wage reports sound a bit hollow to folks whose nerves are shot by police sirens and stories unfolding all too close to home. Virginia gave me the sharpest example—a district attorney, heavily supported by reform-minded donors, let a man named Marvin Morales-Ortez walk away from criminal charges not once, but twice. Both times—according to court records—he returned to trouble, until one final run-in turned deadly. “We don’t get second chances for our safety. Why does he get a third?” a mother demanded as she gathered her children before crossing the street. Her question was the sort you ask when theory collides with the everyday risks on your own sidewalk.Texas tells another, rougher story. In Baytown, at Ross S. Sterling High, students left poems and handwritten notes near the front steps after a stabbing in a classroom. Andrew Meismer, a 17-year-old, lost his life—his teachers had flagged concerns about the troubled classmate involved, but little came of it. On the sidewalk after school, I watched as one girl, backpack straps twisted, shook her head and said, “They pretend to listen. But we’re the ones stepping over the chalk lines.” When parents talk about safety, their voices tighten; some sound tired, a few plainly scared.What’s strange—and maybe instructive—is how the debates split. Progressive leaders fire off numbers about jobs and GDP, while families want a different accounting: Can my kids get home? Will the schools stand firm, or look the other way? These aren’t abstractions. One columnist wrote, “You can’t fix the feeling in your gut by scanning the BLS report.” I heard the same sentiment in kitchen after kitchen across Illinois and Virginia, and all the way down into Georgia.Of course, not all discontent points to the same target. Some folks in Illinois hospitals bristle at state edicts touching on values and personal beliefs. In Maine, a retired teacher told me she’s baffled by colleagues who either clamp down too harshly on students—or let the rules slide a little too often. The specifics shift, but the undercurrent is steady: People notice when policy forgets real life.GOP leaders are quick to catch this mood. On the campaign trail, they speak the language of protection, promising a shift—back toward the tough-on-crime posture remembered from the Trump years. The old refrain—“Remember how things felt, just a couple years ago?”—lands with surprising force among audiences weary from news alerts and changing routines.But I think it’s too simple to boil it all down to fear or nostalgia. Sure, peace of mind matters; so does feeling that those in charge know what keeps you up at night. This election, perhaps more than any in the last decade, seems to hinge on the question: Who is willing to listen—to actually, genuinely take notice before it’s too late?In the end, the currency is trust, as worn and irreplaceable as an old dollar bill tucked away for emergencies. Numbers make headlines, but when dusk falls across the country, it’s the quiet calculations—safety, dignity, hope—that shape our politics most of all. And if there’s a lesson buried in the stories I’ve heard, it’s that regaining trust starts not in a spreadsheet, but in every conversation we're finally ready to have.