logo
Market Basket board members clap back at critique from the sidelines

Market Basket board members clap back at critique from the sidelines

Boston Globe5 days ago
Get The Gavel
A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr.
Enter Email
Sign Up
My wife and I have known the Demoulas family for years. In high school, my wife worked at the Market Basket in North Andover as a cashier and attended school with one of the Demoulas sisters. My father-in-law and his brother ran the family Colombo Yogurt business and sold yogurt to the first Demoulas Super Market on Dummer Street in Lowell.
Advertisement
D'Alessandro is not alone as the grandson of immigrants. My grandparents escaped the Armenian genocide in 1915. My grandmothers were orphaned. One spent years at a refugee camp in Egypt, where her mother died of malaria. Like D'Alessandro's grandfather, my grandfather owned and operated a small grocery store, in North Providence, with fiercely loyal customers. He provided for his wife and six children but never grew his business beyond a beloved corner store.
Advertisement
As a former CEO, D'Alessandro should know that his take on Market Basket makes no sense. Would he, like Arthur T., have refused to give the John Hancock board an annual budget? Or deny his board advance notice of large capital outlays? Would he have turned down repeated requests by his board to meet executives or have a say in succession?
The bottom line is that this is about accountability. How do you manage an $8 billion company so that it thrives for the next 100 years?
We have a mediation planned to try to reach resolution.
Meanwhile, our companywide sales and customer counts are up. The culture has not changed. Our associates are working hard every day and should be applauded. Yet D'Alessandro calls for behavior that would endanger the business and our communities. It is the height of irresponsibility.
Jay K. Hachigian
Chairman of the board
Market Basket
Tewksbury
A commitment to continue Market Basket's traditions
I have spent my career in commercial real estate and grew up in the Merrimack Valley, Market Basket's heartland. I was asked to join the company's board two years ago and have been struck by the commitment of the associates and shareholders and my fellow board members to continue Market Basket's traditions of offering our communities low prices and high-quality products, all while providing profit-sharing and good jobs to our associates.
Let me be clear: No one has ever said a word about changing distributions or our business model. David D'Alessandro admits, 'I don't know Arthur T. or any of the family,' yet he fabricated a scenario about new investors and lenders.
Advertisement
It is surprising and disappointing that an accomplished businessperson such as D'Alessandro would make up such a narrative that puts the livelihoods of our customers and associates at risk, when we're simply doing our jobs and standing up to a CEO who seems to think he doesn't need to be accountable to anyone at all.
Michael Keyes
Belmont
The writer is senior director, acquisitions, at Intercontinental Real Estate.
Orange background

Try Our AI Features

Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:

Comments

No comments yet...

Related Articles

As Washington axes aid for the most vulnerable, legislation in Mass. would tackle inequities
As Washington axes aid for the most vulnerable, legislation in Mass. would tackle inequities

Boston Globe

time4 hours ago

  • Boston Globe

As Washington axes aid for the most vulnerable, legislation in Mass. would tackle inequities

It's vital work, and many of its recommendations are worth enacting. Advertisement This proposed legislation comes at a time when the Trump administration is seeking to limit diversity, equity, and inclusion programs and racial preferences. The work of the Health Equity Compact is not that. It's about finding practical solutions to address the health needs of places like Brockton, where the according to the Atrius Health Equity Foundation. Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up One of the Compact's specific proposals, for which this editorial board Advertisement In general, anything the state can do to advance career ladders for health care workers is valuable. For example, UMass Chan Medical School just The health equity bill allows the public health commissioner to have a role in creating 'stackable' credentials for health care workers, where one credential can be added to the next, creating a career path. Another intriguing idea in the proposed bill is the creation of a trust fund to give grants to 'health equity zones,' specific communities with poor health outcomes. This is a model The In particular, at least for now, lawmakers should resist the temptation to pass new health insurance mandates. Advertisement The bill would require insurance coverage for interpreters, community health workers, and patient navigators. It is important for hospitals and health centers to be able to employ staff who help patients, including non-English speakers, navigate a complex health care system. These positions are typically funded through grants and, in some cases, by insurance under negotiated agreements or payment models. But a wide-ranging insurance mandate like the one in this bill would increase premiums for all payers — including those who can least afford them. In 2023, the Division of Insurance The bill would also require insurers to reimburse equally for telehealth and in-person care for primary care and chronic disease visits. There is ongoing debate over reimbursement rates for telehealth, which exploded in popularity during the pandemic. It's worth studying the costs and benefits of telehealth in specific specialties before mandating payment parity because ideally, telehealth would provide opportunities for cost savings. Those quibbles aside, the proposed health equity bill would move the state in the right direction. At a time when the federal government is cutting health care spending and eliminating benefits that help the poorest citizens, it would be a strong statement if Massachusetts were to take the lead in passing a bill to improve the health of people in communities that today suffer the most. Advertisement Editorials represent the views of the Boston Globe Editorial Board. Follow us

How New England built the Plains
How New England built the Plains

Boston Globe

time5 hours ago

  • Boston Globe

How New England built the Plains

Advertisement But something shifted quickly and irrevocably that night he wrote about in 1854. It began with a man named Anthony Burns. Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up Burns had stowed away for weeks in the belly of a ship to escape enslavement in Virginia. By the time he stepped ashore in Boston, he had become both free and criminal — property that had, under the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, escaped its rightful owner. When federal marshals arrested him on false pretenses, hoping to sneak him back into bondage before the public noticed, Boston erupted. The courtroom became a spectacle. The public was barred. Burns's own lawyer was rendered powerless — forbidden to object, speak, or protect his client in any meaningful way. And in a final insult, a government agent tricked Burns into dictating a letter affirming his status as an enslaved person. The judge empathized with Burns but nonetheless ruled against him. Advertisement Slavery, it turned out, didn't need Southern soil. It could be enforced right in the cradle of abolition, in close proximity to the Boston Common. Amos A. Lawrence in 1880. Wikimedia Commons The city's Black residents, who had always known the fragility of their freedom, mobilized first. The pastor of the Twelfth Baptist Church in Roxbury demanded Burns's release. Protests filled the streets. Fearing an uprising, the federal government fortified the courthouse even before the trial had concluded. President Franklin Pierce ordered troops to secure the building. Soldiers lined the entrances, and chains were fastened across the courthouse doors. What changed wasn't just policy. It was perception. The moral quarantine in which elite white New Englanders had sequestered themselves failed. Slavery had entered their bubble. Henry David Thoreau, speaking just weeks after Burns's trial, demanded that his fellow citizens choose moral clarity over legal comfort. 'Is it not possible that an individual may be right and a government wrong?' he asked. 'Are laws to be enforced simply because they were made?' Amos Lawrence and others like him — well-heeled, genteel, cloistered — took notice. Eventually they also took action, albeit moderated and carried out on their own terms. Calls for a more direct confrontation with slavery were not only imaginable at the time — they were already echoing through New England's streets, pulpits, and newspapers. In the wake of Burns's arrest, some abolitionists demanded open defiance of the Fugitive Slave Act. Many had supported similar efforts just three years earlier, when Shadrach Minkins, who had fled enslavement in Norfolk, Va., was forcibly rescued from a Boston courthouse by Black activists and white allies. With the help of the Boston Vigilance Committee, Minkins escaped via the Underground Railroad and reached safety in Canada. Figures like Wendell Phillips and William Lloyd Garrison urged moral suasion and civil disobedience; others, including activists in Boston's Black community, proposed disrupting the legal process altogether. In this atmosphere of mounting urgency, even violence in the name of freedom was discussed. Advertisement But rather than confronting slavery where it stood and calling for direct abolition or cutting off commercial interaction with the American South, Lawrence chose to abolish only the chances for slavery's expansion. He became treasurer of the New England Emigrant Aid Company, a joint-stock corporation chartered by the Massachusetts Legislature with one aim: to raise funds to send free-soil settlers west to Kansas, in order that they might outnumber pro-slavery forces and tip the future of the American West toward freedom. A war New England hoped to fund, not fight Boston didn't send revolutionaries out west. It sent Congregationalists. Missionaries. Schoolteachers. Families armed with shovels, hymnals, rifles, and righteous intent. The Emigrant Aid Company raised funds through an exhaustive network of some 3,000 churches, many of them Quaker or Congregationalist. 'For Religion,' their circulars promised. 'For Education. For Temperance.' They were advocating a version of abolition that didn't disturb Boston's own social order. It was freedom as export. Righteousness at a distance. The ask was modest — $20 per settler, roughly $700 today. Enough to transport and equip a family to settle Kansas on behalf of abolition. Donations flooded in. The Rev. Horace James from Worcester sent $23.37, boasting of his congregation, 'Never did fingers and thumbs move more nimbly in the performance of any good work.' To him that meant that 'verily there is hope for Kansas.' Others weren't so flush with cash. The Rev. W.C. Jackson from Lincoln, Mass., whose flock scraped together $15, reported, 'Your circular for the Emigrant Aid Society came rather inopportunely for us farmers.' Some ministers like Jonathan Lee from Salisbury, Conn., apologized for the frugality of their flock: 'From my scanty purse a single dollar must be accepted in testimony of my interest in the cause of truth and freedom,' because, Lee wrote, 'I am without pastoral charge or salary.' Others enclosed neat bundles of cash with effusive letters, grateful for a moral cause that could be joined without leaving home. Lawrence threw himself into the effort. He wrote President Pierce — his cousin by marriage — to chide him for failing to protect free-staters. He tracked weapons shipments. He personally funded churches, schools, and armories. He, along with many others, made Kansas a proxy battlefield, a place to perform conviction while sidestepping a harder reckoning with what could be done to stop slavery entirely. Advertisement And Kansas, as it turned out, bled. Missourians — armed and incensed — flooded across the border. Ballot boxes were stuffed. Pro-slavery militias burned pressrooms. In 1856, just as the violence crested, Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts delivered a searing speech comparing Kansas to a raped virgin and accusing Southern politicians of barbarism. In a more familiar scene, days later, a South Carolina congressman, Preston Brooks, stormed into the Senate chamber and beat Sumner unconscious with a metal-tipped cane. This was the war New England had hoped to fund rather than fight. But the borders were dissolving. Eventually, the South seceded. And when Kansas did enter the Union as a free state in 1861, its fate had been sealed not by New England idealism but by the absence of Southern senators in Congress. Advertisement When the Civil War gave way to a fractured Reconstruction, Kansas endured not as a solution crafted by New England elites but as a promise seized by Black Americans themselves. As Reconstruction's guarantees faltered, many formerly enslaved people fled the South for the Plains, becoming known as Exodusters. Others, like Edward McCabe, envisioned Kansas not just as a sanctuary but as a staging ground — a terrain on which to build something autonomous and Black. For McCabe, Kansas — and later, Oklahoma — offered a second chance. Edward P. McCabe, circa 1883-1887. Kansas State Historical Society via National Park Service And the names live on. The college town of Lawrence, Kan., bears Amos A. Lawrence's name, a monument to abolitionism at arm's length. In Langston, Okla., the Black town McCabe helped found, street names like 'Massachusetts' signaled to Black settlers that they were heirs to a longer freedom struggle — one rooted in, but no longer dependent on, New England's conscience. The limits of New England's good intentions The West that New England built was funded by abolitionists who had converted not to revolution but to strategy. They filtered their moral convictions through propriety. It's worth asking what their legacy means now. We live in a moment when the very institutions Amos Lawrence once stood for — elite philanthropy, intellectual inquiry, and cautious reform — have come under fire. Harvard, a beacon of New England liberalism, finds itself besieged by accusations from both right and left. Elsewhere, DEI offices are shuttered. History curricula are rewritten. Librarians contend with what books to put on their shelves. Even here, in the bluest of blue states, there's talk of 'indoctrination,' 'wokeness,' and 'elites out of touch.' And here too, migrants are detained often without the norms and sorts of protections we assumed would be durable. Advertisement In the 1850s, Lawrence and his cohort were shaken into action by a single courtroom scene on Court Street. But their response came with a caveat: They would confront injustice without addressing it at home. Today, Court Street is quieter, humming more predictably with foot and car traffic — but the moral decisions we must make haven't gotten easier. Who we detain, whose histories we erase, which freedoms we underfund — all still happen in that old Boston bubble. The difference now is that there's no Kansas to send our convictions to.

A brief history of Trump pretending not to know things
A brief history of Trump pretending not to know things

Boston Globe

time5 hours ago

  • Boston Globe

A brief history of Trump pretending not to know things

Less than a week after the Justice Department took the highly unusual step of sending Todd Blanche, deputy attorney general and Trump's former personal lawyer, to interview Maxwell for more than nine hours over two days, she was quietly moved from a federal minimum-security prison in Florida to a less-restrictive facility in Texas. Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up But according to Trump, that decision was news to him. Advertisement Perhaps the president really has no clue as to what's happening in his administration. But Trump's pleas of ignorance are an escape hatch he has deployed for years. Here's a brief history of notable moments in Trump's performative ignorance. The David Duke endorsement (2016): After Trump launched his first presidential campaign by excoriating Mexican immigrants and later promising to enact a Advertisement James Comey's firing (2017): Months into his first term, Trump dumped James Comey as FBI director. At the time, White House officials claimed that Trump fired Comey solely on the recommendation of deputy attorney general Hush money paid to Stormy Daniels (2018): Trump Advertisement Project 2025 (2024): At a Heritage Foundation event in 2022, Trump said the conservative group 'would lay the groundwork and detail plans for exactly what our movement will do and what your movement will do when the American people give us a colossal mandate to save America.' Two years later, Trump Trump seems to treat ignorance — saying 'I don't know' or 'I didn't know'— as evidence of his innocence. He's testing that theory again as his self-inflicted Epstein scandal refuses to go away. But whether this tactic will allow him to dodge accountability this time, no one knows. Advertisement Renée Graham is a Globe columnist. She can be reached at

DOWNLOAD THE APP

Get Started Now: Download the App

Ready to dive into a world of global content with local flavor? Download Daily8 app today from your preferred app store and start exploring.
app-storeplay-store