Reflecting on the fact that Greenwich alone – 60,000 people in a population of 2.5 million – provides 14% of Connecticut’s income tax revenue while getting nothing back, extrapolating that a bit – we’re talking $12,000 per capita – to figure that Fairfield County, with a little help from Avon and West Hartford provides 100% of that revenue source, makes me wonder exactly how much of the total state’s revenue we’re squeezed for. Real estate conveyance tax? It was called “the Gold Coast Tax” precisely because it was drafted to hit only Fairfield County homes – no where else did houses sell for its $500,000 threshold. When inflation took care of that Hartford didn’t repeal the tax on more lowly citizens but did triple it for us. Estate taxes? Again – designed especially for us.
Etc. The few productive towns in the southwestern corner of Connecticut are supporting the rest of an ungrateful state that refuses to cut its spending and instead insists that we just pay them more.
So the question is, why do we put up with this? Imagine a state comprised solely of Fairfield County towns burdened with perhaps a minimal flat tax to cover expenses and no other taxes. Is there any question that we would boom? Every productive person in New Jersey, New York and Massachusetts (and the state we left behind) would flock here. As would corporations and businesses. We would soar, and Connecticut’s vultures would be left to tax themselves to support their spending.
Really: can you doubt that we’d be the best state in the Union to live and work in, or that we could possibly fail? There’s no way.
I’d prefer seceding from the country itself, given the people who run it, but as I recall, the events of 1861-65 showed that was a tough way to go (although, ironically, ours would be a rebellion to end slavery, not preserve it). So okay, a fifty-first state it is. How to accomplish this?
Clearly we have to start a new political party and, in honor of both Teddy Roosevelt and Dr. Seuss, I suggest the name “Thidwicks”. You may recall Dr. Seuss’s story of Thidwick, the Big Hearted Moose who, after giving a couple of free-loaders a ride in his antlers, found himself burdened with lazy parasites and chased by hunters. The free-loaders refused to get off so that Thidwick could save his life, insisting that it was their right and his duty to carry them. He finally shakes off his antlers and escapes while the mooches end up stuffed and mounted over the Harvard Hunting Club’s fireplace. I read that story to all my children and, while Hartford’s legislatures will never understand it, I’d be willing to give them each a copy as a farewell gift.