Commentary

Whoa! On April 5, the statue of Irishman John O’Donnell, who settled in East Baltimore in 1785 on land that is today the trendy upscale Canton neighborhood, was dismantled. Eight hundred people signed an online petition to remove him from the park of his name because he owned a 1900-acre plantation managed by 36 slaves. For Baltimore to heal and become “a city welcome to everyone, everywhere” this symbol of the enslaver and oppression had to go.

Mayor Gavin Buckley’s first budget was transformational. It did away with a lot of budget gimmicks Annapolis used to hide the cost of city services and then paid for that honest total with a property tax rate increase. There were complaints aplenty, and there still are. Expect it to be the focus of every Republican, and some Democrats, thinking it might be fun to be the mayor. So Buckley could have been excused for hoping the final budget in his four-year term — he’s asking voters for another four this fall — to be less of a challenge.

Once upon a time, in a place called Annapolis, the end of the annual confab by state lawmakers was met with cheers. Not the confetti-and-balloon whoop-de-do presided over by the late Mikes — those legendary legislative leaders Busch and Miller now the stuff of history — but the sense of shared relief from everyday Annapolis. Nothing against state lawmakers from far-flung parts of Maryland. Many of them are genuinely nice people. There just always was a sense of emerging from 90 days in the bunker after Sine Die — loosely, Latin for till next time — was declared.

As the CEO of a 2,000-plus person Maryland-based company involved in the COVID-19 response, I have a high tolerance for the obligations that come with it — like spending endless hours trying to explain complicated manufacturing processes to reporters who just learned we existed. Or battling back the misinformation that is used to find fault with the people who are the spine of our nation’s world-leading response to this pandemic. But it pains me to watch how this negative attention affects our workforce. We talk about front line health care workers a lot, as we should. They are extraordinary, and we could not have done this without them this past year.

The Anne Arundel County Health Department employees who decided to distribute crack pipes in a largely Black neighborhood of Annapolis meant well. They were caught, however, in the sharp-toothed gap between those who see drug use as a public health crisis, those who see it as a crime and those still feeling the wounds of America’s war on drugs. And because the cost of that war, started through fear and ignorance in the 1980s, fell hardest on the Black community, the poorly communicated plan to address the spread of disease from shared pipes for smoking crack, heroin and meth angered and shocked many. Regardless of this bollocked campaign, the tide of public policy is irrevocably shifting toward treating drug abuse as a health issue.