[Congressional Record Volume 143, Number 25 (Monday, March 3, 1997)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E355-E356]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]

[[Page E355]]
                    EARLY RESULTS OF WELFARE REFORM

                                 ______
                                 

                           HON. NEWT GINGRICH

                               of georgia

                    in the house of representatives

                         Monday, March 3, 1997

  Mr. GINGRICH. Mr. Speaker, even though it has been in effect for less 
than a month, the historic welfare reform bill passed by Congress and 
signed into law last year by the President has already yielded dramatic 
results. The February 11, 1997, Wall Street Journal details how one 
county in Oklahoma has seen its welfare caseload drop 30 percent in the 
last year. According to the Journal ``The story is much the same in the 
rest of the United States.''
  The Journal details that just the news of changes in welfare have 
spurred recipients to changing behavior in numerous ways, including 
finishing education, reporting for training, and finding jobs. This 
story confirms what proponents of welfare reform long believed: The old 
system left people trapped and gave them no incentive to improve their 
lives. Reform has already given individuals a spark for real change.
  I submit the full article into the Congressional Record.

             [From the Wall Street Journal, Feb. 11, 1997]

     Oklahoma's Poor Get the Message, Opt Out of the Welfare System

                           (By Dana Milbank)

       Sapulpa, Okla.--In the Oklahoma land grabs of a century 
     ago, a few sneaky settlers grabbed old Indian territory for 
     themselves before the law allowed, thus earning the nickname 
     ``Sooners.'' These days, thousands of Sooners are again 
     jumping the gun, this time by denying themselves welfare 
     benefits far ahead of the government cutoff.
       Oklahoma's welfare rolls have declined by more than 30% 
     since March of 1994. In Creek County, of which Sapulpa is the 
     seat, the caseload fell 30% last year. The healthy economy 
     accounts for much of the drop. But in Oklahoma and throughout 
     much of the country, something else is happening: Poor people 
     are ``absolutely petrified,'' says Raydene Walker, who trains 
     welfare recipients at her vocational school in Sapulpa. Talk 
     of cutbacks, she says, ``has put some fire behind them. Some 
     who were absolutely resistant have come in and said, `What am 
     I going to do?'''


                         a natiowide reduction

       The story is much the same in the rest of the U.S. 
     Nationally, the number of people on the core welfare program, 
     Aid to Families with Dependent Children, declined 18% from a 
     peak of 14.4 million in March 1994 to 11.8 million in October 
     1996.
       What makes these figures surprising is that the tough new 
     federal welfare law--which mandates lifetime limits of five 
     years for those on public assistance and a cutoff after two 
     years for most of those who don't work--won't begin to 
     jettison welfare recipients until late 1998. Oklahoma hasn't 
     even passed a welfare law to comply with the new federal 
     legislation. Creek County started a publicity campaign months 
     ago to warn people about possible changes. But it hadn't 
     kicked any legitimate recipients off the rolls until last 
     week, and that sanction was limited to one person, who had 
     failed to seek job-training or contact prospective employers.
       The growing economy can't explain the whole drop-off. The 
     national caseload decline is the largest, in absolute numbers 
     and on a percentage basis, since AFDC began six decades ago. 
     More-powerful expansions than the current one have failed to 
     produce the same level of caseload reductions.


                       ``The Big Misconception''

       Because only a handful of states have been expelling 
     welfare recipients, officials in many states point to another 
     explanation: a fundamental change in the attitude of their 
     clientele. Spurred by the welfare-reform debate, some 
     recipients are finding work long before the law requires. 
     Many prospective recipients aren't bothering to secure 
     benefits in the first place, even when they qualify.
       ``The big misconception about welfare reform is that they 
     are shutting down the welfare system, cutting everyone off,'' 
     says Tanya Warner, a senior caseworker in Wilmington, Del. 
     ``People come in afraid this is the last public assistance 
     check they will get.'' Peggy Torno, who runs the welfare 
     program in Kansas City, Mo., says the message has sunk in: 
     ``Last week I went to our jobs center to find someone who did 
     not know about the tougher laws. I couldn't find anyone who 
     didn't know the law had changed.''
       Advocates for the poor worry that some people eligible for 
     public assistance are being driven away by scare stories and 
     false rumors. They also note that some recipients are 
     forgoing promising training to look for work immediately--a 
     step that may land them in dead-end jobs and short-circuit a 
     long-term escape from poverty. But others in Oklahoma and 
     elsewhere hail the change as evidence of social progress.
       The changes came quickly to Creek County, a slice of the 
     Bible Belt stretching southwest from Tulsa over 930 square 
     miles. The county of 60,000 is mostly rural and, despite a 
     relatively low unemployment rate of 4.2%, bears few outward 
     signs of prosperity. According to 1994 estimates, the 
     county's per capita income was $15,075, compared with 
     Oklahoma's $17,610.


                          One-on-One Meetings

       When it comes to welfare overhaul, Creek County has relied 
     largely on the bully pulpit. In October 1995, caseworkers 
     began telling all recipients to apply for jobs--usually eight 
     to 10 a week--before they could apply for benefits. 
     Recipients also were warned that time limits were on the way, 
     but that was a bluff, because the limits didn't even become 
     law for an additional 10 months. After the federal law 
     passed, the state mailed letters to recipients warning that 
     ``if you refuse to participate in work activities. . . your 
     case will be closed.''
       County officials summoned every welfare recipient for a 
     one-on-one meeting about the new get-tough policy, including 
     the likelihood of time limits. A large, handwritten sign was 
     installed at the agency's reception desk. ``Notice,'' it 
     says, ``AFDC applicants will be required to participate in 
     job search Immediately.''
       Local media joined the chorus. ``The timer starts running 
     Oct. 1 for welfare recipients,'' the Tulsa World warned last 
     fall in a front-page story, referring to federal time limits 
     on eligibility. ``For welfare recipients in Oklahoma, the 
     clock is ticking,'' echoed the Sapulpa Herald.
       In the first two months after Creek County started its 
     tough talk, the number of new applicants for AFDC dropped by 
     about half. During the past 15 months, 45% of first-time AFDC 
     applicants didn't return to the office after hearing about 
     the new time limits and the local requirement for recipients 
     to contact prospective employers while getting benefits.
       Melinda Jones heard about the new federal law from her 
     mother, who regularly watches the evening news. Since last 
     year, the 39-year-old Ms. Jones, who cares for her two 
     grandchildren, had discussed welfare reform with friends. She 
     is scared.
       ``If I don't find a job, they cut you off,'' she says, 
     snapping her finger. She thinks other benefits are doomed, 
     too. ``I heard by word of mouth they're just cutting out food 
     stamps totally,'' she says. Even subsidies for day care, she 
     hears, will be terminated.
       Her fears, particularly those about child care and food 
     stamps, are exaggerated. The children wouldn't lose food 
     stamps even if Ms. Jones does, and the new law calls for 
     increased spending on day care. But the talk had its effect: 
     Ms. Jones, who has a fourth-grade education and failed twice 
     to get a high school general equivalency diploma, or GED, has 
     returned to training with new vigor.
       The new attitudes quickly became evident in welfare 
     offices. Rolls began shrinking so fast, ``we wondered if we'd 
     have a job,'' recalls Connie Turner, who interviews 
     applicants. Wanda Watson, another interviewer, recalls 
     handing an applicant a list of 10 employers he would have to 
     apply to before receiving his check. ``He stood up,'' uttered 
     some epithets ``and walked right out,'' she says.


                             the rumor mill

       Welfare rumors, often unfounded, spread quickly among those 
     in public housing in Creek County. ``A lot of people I know 
     have been cut off,'' government-housing resident Cheryl 
     Bowman says. That statement wasn't accurate, for it was made 
     before Feb. 1, when the county began culling its rolls of 
     those who refused to apply for jobs. But Ms. Bowman stepped 
     up her job training anyway and found work as a physical-
     therapy assistant. ``I don't want to be stuck at 
     McDonald's,''she explains. She is due to leave the welfare 
     roll in a month.
       In a recent application session, welfare prospect Kim Nance 
     seemed surprised as a county interviewer rattled off the new 
     restrictions: the time limits mandated by Congress, and the 
     county's requirement to apply for 10 jobs a week. ``You begin 
     tomorrow'' looking for work, the caseworker orders. Ms. Nance 
     responds repeatedly with ``OK.'' But when the interviewer 
     leaves, she is deflated. ``It will be hard to get used to,'' 
     Ms. Nance says. On the list of employers in her hand, she 
     sees only two in her hometown. ``Hopefully, I can get hired 
     right there.''
       Ms. Nance did get a job with a nursing home in her town, 
     one of the employers on the list. She called the welfare 
     office to tell them about her job, and her case was never put 
     on the roll.
       Some advocates for the poor say that confusion over the new 
     regulations has scared

[[Page E356]]

     off some who are eligible--and needy. But in Creek County, 
     officials say, many of those, like Ms. Nance, disqualified 
     themselves after finding jobs. Others already had 
     ``underground'' jobs--baby-sitting, housecleaning, working a 
     booth at the flea market--and may not have deserved benefits 
     in the first place. Officials here figure as many as half of 
     all recipients have such off-the-books jobs; the $307 monthly 
     payment for a parent of two children, after all, isn't much 
     to live on. ``We're discouraging the marginal, extra-money 
     folks, a lot of those who didn't need it,'' says Wayne 
     Thiltgen, a creek County caseworker.
       As recipients' attitudes are changing, so is the 
     administrators' thinking. Dee Anne Ruggs, who oversees the 
     former AFDC program (now called Temporary Assistance for 
     Needy Families) for Creek County, even set up a ``Super 
     Bowl'' competition to see which caseworker could get the most 
     people into school, job-training programs or work. The 
     winner, Mr. Thiltgen, got an ice-cream sundae.


                    ``why wouldn't they be scared?''

       Though he says he doesn't try to scare his clients, Mr. 
     Thiltgen is aware of the underlying fear. ``I'm using that to 
     my advantage,'' he says. ``The idea in the community is that 
     we're going to kick everybody off.'' Ironically, he says, 
     some of those responsible for the panic are welfare activists 
     who direly predict a wave of misery following reform. 
     ``Listening to these sound bites on the news, my God, why 
     wouldn't they be scared?'' Mr. Thiltgen says of his clients.
       Despite the declining rolls, Creek County still faces the 
     challenge of hardcore cases, including those with 
     multigenerational dependency, without education or addicted 
     to drugs or alcohol. The new federal law allows 20% of the 
     caseload to be exempt from time limits because of such 
     problems, but that may not cover all the hard-luck cases.
       Tarlina Turner, 31, knows about the new law. She was reared 
     in a family on welfare, has received AFDC in her own right 
     for the past 10 years, and lives with her diabetic mother and 
     three children in a home that is little more than a shack 
     beside a dirt road outside Bristow, Okla.
       ``Don't mind the chicken poop,'' she says, leading a 
     visitor past the chickens, dog and cat on the porch and into 
     her home, where tape plugs ceiling leaks. Her ailing mother 
     needs to have her nearby, and Ms. Turner doesn't have a car. 
     Meanwhile, county officials support her claim that there is 
     neither work nor public transportation nearby.
       Ms. Turner has already come within days of being cut off, 
     agreeing at the last minute to join a job-training program. 
     ``I better get up and get work; I don't have a choice,'' she 
     says. But she has little confidence in her prospects.
       Another unanswered question about the rapid caseload 
     reduction is how many of those who have moved off welfare are 
     working in secure jobs. If some of these former recipients 
     can't hold their jobs, the case reductions could prove 
     temporary.
       Even those working aren't always confident. Karen Michael, 
     on AFDC for two years, says she was ``extremely worried'' 
     about the time limits and used the deadline to motivate 
     herself to finish training as a licensed practical nurse. She 
     now makes $9.75 an hour as a nurse. Yet, faced with the loss 
     of Medicaid, food stamps and child-care benefits because of 
     her earned income, she finds herself only marginally better 
     off than when she was on welfare.
       Ms. Michael had to forgo plans to get her registered-nurse 
     degree, which would allow her to earn more than $20 an hour 
     and perhaps leave poverty for good. If not for the pressure 
     of time limits, she says, she probably would still be in 
     school. She would still be on welfare, but she might also 
     have a better chance of staying off permanently. ``The 
     option,'' she says, ``was not there.''

                          ____________________