The Providence Phoenix News/Features

Better days
Rhode Island's approach to welfare reform is helping people to become self-sufficient. But with the state facing a deficit, will the effort be sustained long enough to ensure success?
BY BRIAN C. JONES

Backed by powerful supports built into the state's progressive welfare reform program -- help with education, job training, medical insurance, and child care -- she got the high school education she never finished when she was pregnant with her first child. She then earned her nursing assistant's certificate, quickly landed a job that paid well over the state's minimum wage, and saw her paycheck move up steadily as she got raises and worked as many as 60 hours a week.

Demers, 28, was explaining all this to a rapt audience of several hundred people who recently gathered at the Community College of Rhode Island's Warwick campus to discuss the future of welfare reform. Then she froze at the podium, tears streaming down her face. "You're doing good," a member of the audience offered encouragingly.

But Demers couldn't say another word, and finally she sat down. One of the program's organizers took the paper she had been reading from and finished it for her. Demers had reached the part of the story -- the most recent part -- where she had to explain that she's homeless.

Late last year, she lost one apartment, then another, and Demers believes that she and her three children would be living in her minivan were it not for the kindness of a friend. The friend already had eight other family members living with her, but nonetheless invited the four Demers to move in. That a mother of three small children can be working and homeless at the same time is one of the many contradictions of welfare reform in Rhode Island.

The successes of reform are real. Since welfare was overhauled here and across the nation in May 1997, 16,960 Rhode Island women have left "the system" to take jobs.

They've found work in the service sector, as cashiers, clerks and telemarketers. Others have become nurses, construction workers, and educators. A Rhode Island College study last year found that about half of the former recipients were making enough money to be above the federal poverty level (the government considers $15,020 to be the threshold out of poverty for a family of three). And as the recession forces many recipients back onto the rolls in other states, Rhode Island appears to holding its own, continuing to pare down its welfare enrollment.

But just as there are vexing turns in Lisa Demers's journey out of welfare, there is danger ahead -- and much to lose -- for Rhode Island's program and the 43,109 children and parents who depend on it. First, there's the constant peril of financial cutbacks, heightened by deficit-driven state and federal budgets, which tempt lawmakers to slash programs. Second, time is literally running out for hundreds of recipients in Rhode Island and millions across the nation. One of the key features of reform is a "lifetime" five-year limit on welfare benefits, and time is up for some. There's also the recession, which is cutting jobs just as the people who face the greatest challenge in getting off welfare are looking for work.

After Rhode Island constructed one of the nation's most progressive welfare reform programs, the question remains whether the state can continue the effort through tough times. The answer could offer lasting proof, as reformers believe, that there's an effective way -- as opposed to just eliminating people from eligibility -- to move people from welfare to self-sufficiency.

This was not what many people expected when Bill Clinton and a Republican Congress agreed to end welfare as it had been practiced for decades. Heidi Keezer, director of Providence-based Rhode Island Parents for Progress, which advocates for welfare recipients, and who herself worked her way off welfare, remembers the hyper-charged mid-'90s. Critics like Newt Gingrich talked about creating public orphanages for children whose parents had lost their benefits.

But so far, the worst fears have not materialized. And especially in states like Rhode Island, where coalitions of welfare advocates, business people, and state officials worked together, there has been actual improvement. (The local coalition plans to trumpet the highlights during a news conference today, Thursday, February 28, at the State House.)

Taking the barest indicators -- spending and welfare caseloads -- the Ocean State is doing relatively well. Since early 1997, caseloads have been cut more than 18 percent, to about 15,590 families, or 3400 fewer than before reform. Cash payments dropped dramatically, from about $117 million to $90 million a year. (This has been offset by child care costs, however.)

But the broad coalition that crafted the Rhode Island program five years ago is uncomfortable with the bare outlines of this tally. In customizing national welfare guidelines, Rhode Island had said that it would ensure the well being of poor families, not just cut the rolls or use the "work-first" system of many states. Instead, job training would initially be offered to many recipients. It's a seemingly sensible step considering that about half of the adults on welfare haven't finished high school, and many have trouble with reading, the most basic of job skills.

Further, reformers believed two expensive hurdles to leaving welfare were finding child care -- which costs about $5000 per child -- and medical insurance. So Rhode Island took what Jane A. Hayward, director of the state Department of Human Resources, describes as the "road less traveled." Among the features:

* Key benefits. Recipients are entitled to medical care through the state's RIte Care program even if they leave welfare but earn below certain income levels. The same is true for child care subsidies.

* A slower welfare benefits "clock." The five-year lifetime limit for cash benefits doesn't start until a parent has had a full "assessment" of job and education needs. It took two years for Rhode Island to complete this task for the thousands of recipients already enrolled.

* Time for education. For the first two years, recipients in education and training can use that experience toward a required 20 hours a week of paid or volunteer work.

* Children exempted. Children never lose cash benefits, even if their adult parents use up their five-year entitlements. As a result, Rhode Island was ranked early on by the American Public Welfare Association as having the most generous program among the 50 states. It's an honor that actually worries supporters of the program, like Nancy H. Gewirtz, director of the Poverty Institute at Rhode Island College's (RIC) School of Social Work.

"Aren't we number three?" asks Gewirtz, concerned that being out too far in front will feed criticism that the state is too soft on welfare and a magnet for recipients from elsewhere. In fact, the Department of Human Services says the opposite has happened: the percentage of new enrollees who moved to Rhode Island in the past three months has declined. Prior to reform, nearly 19 percent of new applicants had moved here recently; DHS says the figure has fallen to 15 percent. As to the suggestion that Rhode Island is overly humane, defenders say the program is strictly pragmatic.

Four months ago, RIC researchers published a study of what had happened to former recipients since reform took effect in 1997. About 86 percent of those who'd left welfare were working, in contrast to national studies that put the rate between 64 and 70 percent.

One supporter of the state's approach is Gary Sasse, executive director of the Rhode Island Public Expenditure Council (RIPEC), a government-spending watchdog group backed by business interests. "A comprehensive welfare [plan] is good economic development," Sasse says. "Economic success depends on a quality workforce," meaning that people can't really work if they lack such basic skills as the ability to read.

THIS HELPS TO explain why it took Lilia Abbatematteo about seven years to get off of welfare (she started before reform and its five-year deadline). Abbatematteo grew up in a big Portuguese-American family in Providence's Fox Point section, where work was a way of life. Her father was a machine operator, her mother worked in the plating section of a jewelry factory. And in the ninth grade, it seemed logical for her to drop out of Hope High School and go to work. Abbatematteo got a factory job making plastic earrings and then took a second job, so she could give the first paycheck to her folks and use the second for her own needs.

She married a few years later, and she and her husband took a chance on the American Dream, starting their own business, a "job shop" doing soldering for larger jewelry firms. But the business failed in 1991, during the last recession. By then, Abbatematteo's husband was under a doctor's care, and she had to support their three children -- and the fourth was on the way. She applied for welfare. "My father was still alive," Abbatematteo says. "I was in such fear that he was going to find out I was on welfare."

Her father never did learn her secret. But Abbatematteo confided another secret, just as shocking, to a welfare worker: she had trouble reading books with words like "hat" and "cat" to her children. The counselor suggested Dorcas Place, the literacy program in Providence. Abbatematteo attended every class, but she wasn't learning. Three years later, a battery of tests produced surprise results: she had two learning disabilities -- dyslexia and attention deficit disorder.

Soon, Abbatematteo embarked on remedial programs, including laborious exercises to help her with math, in which she used blocks that she could not only see, but feel, to get the concepts straight. She got her high school equivalency certificate and simultaneously attended Salve Regina University to get a certificate as a human services case manager. Today, Abbatematteo is 43 and works at the Comprehensive Community Action Program in Cranston, helping recipients to move from welfare to work.

There are thousands of similar stories. Shawna Masse, 21, had a baby soon after she finished high school in 1998. She didn't like the idea of welfare, but she did like reform's emphasis on job readiness.

At the Community College of Rhode Island, she gravitated toward the criminal justice program, which required 15 hours of classes a week. Masse volunteered at a youth program to make up the rest of her 20-hour work requirement and completed the course with a 3.3 grade average. The West Warwick resident is now working for a four-year degree at Roger Williams University. It's a juggling match. Since she's in the final years of welfare, she must work 20 hours a week in addition to her studies while raising her three-year-old daughter. But Masse's confident she'll get her bachelor's degree before the welfare clock runs out, and she's got her eye on a final hurdle: a law degree.

"You could got through training and when you get out, make $10 an hour," she says. "But how long does that last? I'm looking for something long-term, not short-term."

STILL, IF THERE are plenty of stories like Abbatematteo's and Masse's since welfare reform began, many have unhappy chapters, like the story that Lisa Demers has yet to finish. Similarly, the outlook for the Rhode Island system, known as the Family Independence Program, or FIP, is far from rosy.

Although the state's caseload is dropping, the decline has been much faster elsewhere. Two years ago, federal figures showed that caseloads nationally were down nearly 56 percent, compared to 25 percent here. Defenders rushed to explain why: Rhode Island was taking the time to properly assess work situations, meaning a two-year delay. Education and training took time. And supporters argued that there were many bright signs that Rhode Island's approach was paying off. The state says more than 80 percent of recipients who left welfare are able maintain their jobs. The Rhode Island College study referred to earlier found that the average hourly wage was $8.40 for former recipients who work, compared to the $6.15 minimum wage.

Now that the recession has set in, many states are facing big jumps in the number of welfare recipients, while figures are still trending down in Rhode Island. The Center for Law and Social Policy in Washington found that 33 states had increases in caseloads between March and September of 2001, while Rhode Island's fell more than 3 percent. "I think that's a much better place to be than a lot of other states," says welfare director Hayward, "and I think it does speak to the issue of providing them with the right tools to help them succeed in the workplace."

Meanwhile, there's the issue of recipients whose time limits have run out -- DHS predicts about 307 this year and 991 in 2003. Many are expected to find jobs, some could be granted exemptions, and other families will get reduced cash amounts, since their children remain eligible. But what actually will happen to those forced out remains the big unanswered question of welfare reform.

Linda Katz, policy director of the Poverty Institute, says a major challenge will be working with people for whom leaving welfare is the hardest, because of disabilities and a long history on welfare. At the same time, DHS staffers have huge caseloads, upwards of 250 per caseworker. The immediate threat to the Rhode Island program is state and federal cutbacks. Worried about a federal pullback, the welfare reform committee that has shepherded the local program convened the forum at the Community College of Rhode Island in Warwick in late January.

It was at this session that Demers, Abbatematteo, and Masse spoke, and a host of experts wondered whether President Bush and Congress might scale back the program. So far, that hasn't happened. Bush has said he'll recommend a freeze in overall welfare spending. Local experts are glad there isn't an outright cut, but level funding, they say, amounts to reduced funds because of inflation. On Tuesday, February 26, Bush outlined proposed changes, including increasing the hours that recipients are required to work and mandating states to make sure that a higher percentage of recipients are working.

Meanwhile, the state is facing budget deficits. Reform initially cost the state somewhat more money. In 1997, the state was spending about $136 million for cash assistance and child care. That's gone up to $158 million now. The state's share of that is about $71 million, some $13 million more than it was spending before reform.

Governor Almond has proposed about a half-dozen actual cuts. He wants to scrap a $100-a-year "weatherization" grant to help the state's 15,600 welfare families with heating bills. He also wants to stop allowing families to keep the first $50 a month that absent fathers pay as child support.

If these two cuts seem minor, welfare advocates say, consider the impact on a family of three that gets $6648 a year from welfare: the two stipends total $700, equivalent to 10 percent of their annual cash. Almond also wants to halt expansion of the child care program for another 290 children, saving $1.7 million. He wants to boost the required weekly hours, from 20 to 30, that welfare parents are expected to work while receiving cash assistance. While this also seems like another "so-what" nibble, Gewirtz says the extra 10 hours could have a destabilizing effect on a harried mother.

"Single parents bringing up their children on their own have the most difficult barriers to overcome," Gewirtz says. "These are women who for the most part don't have their own cars. They are supposed to study and do their work and be parents. I think, for some, 30 hours in a week is unmanageable."

It's unclear what the General Assembly will do. In general, it has been a strong supporter of the poor. In welfare reform's favor is a strong coalition backing the program. It includes organizations like Rhode Island Parents for Progress, the Campaign to Eliminate Childhood Poverty, the Rhode Island Coalition Against Domestic Violence, and a host of others. Supporters include Almond himself and Hayward, his welfare chief, who argue that their suggested cuts are defending the "core" programs of child care, medical insurance, and education. Public concern could also help. Interest in the issues of low-income residents has been heightened by controversy involving the state's emerging housing crisis.

Five ministers were arrested during a State House protest of Almond's decision to withhold a $5 million state allocation -- the first ever enacted by the General Assembly to support low-income housing. The protest underscored the fact that housing has turned out to be one of the intractable issues facing the poor and even the middle class. And housing now threatens to undermine the welfare reform.

In fact, housing is the reason that Lisa Demers's success story took a wrong turn.

Demers had gone on welfare when she was pregnant and had not graduated from high school. As was supposed to happen, she made progress, getting her GED, then her nursing assistant's certificate. Later, Demers landed a job and was making enough -- $11-an-hour -- and putting in as many as 60 hours a week, to be well on her way to leaving welfare. Then real life, rather than welfare policy, intervened.

Last year, one of her sons, who suffers from chronic and dangerous asthma (she says he's been hospitalized 30 times during his seven years) became critically sick again. Demers missed one night shift at a nursing home, then another, and the nursing agency she worked for fired her. Demers was back on cash assistance. She says this meant monthly income of only about $554. But the rent for her Central Falls apartment was $600. Worse, the apartment building was sold, and the new landlord raised the rent to $750.

Demers and her three boys moved in with a friend. But only a few months later, the friend's apartment house was sold and the rent increased. The friend found a new place, but Demers couldn't. Another friend stepped in, offering to have Demers and her three children move in with her, her husband, their five children, plus the friend's bother-in-law and a cousin -- a total of 13. Demers is working again as a certified nursing assistant, this time for another agency. Even better, she says, she's number 14 on the waiting list for public housing in Providence.

Three years ago, when she applied, Demers placed about 100 on a "pre-list," which led to the actual list, where she started as number 130. If Demers does get into public housing, she says her costs will be $200 or $300 a month, compared to the $800 she's being quoted for non-subsidized three-bedroom apartments.

She expects to get an update on this in the next few weeks, a development that could put her back on track: off welfare, back at work, with a home of her own. So now she's back to crafting happy endings for her welfare success story. "I want to go back to school," Demers says. "I want an RN (registered nurse's license), and a safe place to live. And I want to be off the system."