This morning, the day before Election Day and with the next Health and Human Needs Committee – Opioid Settlement Subcommittee meeting only hours away, I got a text message apology from Dane County Supervisor Rick Rose.
Let me be real clear here: a private apology, sent quietly the day before voters head to the polls, is not accountability.
Accountability is public. Harm that happens in public spaces, especially harm rooted in misogynoir, power, position, and repeated behavior, requires a public response.
Over the past several months, members of our community have witnessed Rose’s pattern of behavior in county meetings that reflects something deeper than a disagreement in policy. What has been on display is the all-too-familiar experience of Black women being interrupted, dismissed, questioned differently, and ultimately disregarded, only for the same ideas to be validated when said by those who identify as white. What’s really wild about all of this, is that Rose and his employer (among others) were the problem, but they deflected accountability and instead attempted to label me in the negative for calling out the many issues I and Alders Field and Matthews found in the process before, during and after Caya Clinic’s proposal was ultimately rejected.
This is not new. It is not isolated. And it is not harmless.
When Black women-elected officials, subject matter experts, and community leaders raise concerns about process, equity, and impact, those concerns deserve to be taken seriously the first time. Not after having to advocate over and over and over again. Not after validation by others. Not after harm has already been done.
The issue at hand involved the potential allocation of $2.4 million in opioid settlement funding, resources that could have directly impacted communities in crisis. Instead, we saw a process with serious concerns: a flawed RFP, misrepresented relationships, and insider access that raised significant questions about fairness and transparency.
One of the organizations at the center of this process was Caya Clinic — the same organization where Supervisor Rose is employed. That application included claims about relationships with Black community stakeholders that did not reflect reality. Those discrepancies were not minor; they were part of larger systemic failures, and they were part of the reason the process was ultimately challenged and the contract denied. (It should also be known, despite media reporting, Caya Clinic did not withdraw their application, and to date, I have not seen Rose nor the Clinic’s founder publicly acknowledge that important fact.)
This alone should have triggered a higher level of scrutiny and accountability.
Instead, we saw continued resistance, deflection, and a failure to fully acknowledge the seriousness of what occurred.
It is also important to name the concern around proximity and influence. When an elected official is both employed by an organization connected to a funding process and has a close working relationship or personal familiarity with its leadership, that raises legitimate questions about conflicts of interest, whether intended or not. At minimum, it demands full transparency and a clear step back from decision-making roles tied to that process.
That did not happen in the way it should have.
We must name what accountability actually requires at this:
It requires a public acknowledgment of the behavior that occurred, not a vague reference to “things getting off track,” but a clear naming of the misogynoir, disrespect, the dismissiveness, and the inequitable treatment that took place.
Public apologies should also be directed to Alder Glenn and Director Aurielle Smith. Black women whose experience and leadership in harm reduction were equally devalued.
It requires stepping down from leadership roles, including serving as the chair of the opioid subcommittee, to allow for trust to be rebuilt and for this work to move forward with integrity. (I should mention that the full Board of Supervisors could also remove Rose as chair.)
It requires a full and transparent acknowledgment of conflicts of interest before, during, and after the RFP process, including those connected to outside employment and internal relationships.
It requires acknowledging the harm done not just to elected officials and Public Health staff, but to the community members who were counting on these dollars to address real, urgent needs and who are still waiting while this process remains unresolved.
And it requires a commitment to changing behavior in a way that is visible, measurable, and sustained, not just alluded to in private text messages.
This is larger than one meeting. Larger than one interaction. Larger than one text message apology.
This is about whether we are willing, as a community, to confront how power operates in our local county government and who is heard, who is believed, and who is expected to endure harm in silence.
I am not interested in sharing lemon cake or kekeing. I am interested in systems that work, processes that are fair, and leadership that is accountable to the people it serves. Anything less than full accountability is more of the same.
Black women should not have to fight to be heard in rooms where we have already earned our place.
And our community should not have to settle for anything less than full accountability from those elected to serve.
“I will not have my life narrowed down. I will not bow down to somebody else’s whim or to someone else’s ignorance.”
― bell hooks
Peace,
Sabrina
This piece reflects the opinions of its author, not necessarily those of Madison365, the 365 Media Foundation, its staff or board of directors.
