In fact, as a condition of allowing me journalistic access to Express to Success, the Department of Human Services insists that I participate in the program and all its touchy-feely, motivational ritual.
I hate the Wave. Group hugs make my skin crawl. But because it is part of my job, one Wednesday in March I find myself at 30 Van Ness Ave., where trainer Briana Moore introduces me to a group of women whom I do not know, and with whom I will be expected to share my feelings while I shed the hurtful, negative energy that has kept me from self-sufficiency.
By the end of the day, I have a positive nickname ("Tenacious" Tara). I have helped draft an "employee handbook" of classroom rules. Otherwise, though, I have successfully evaded major invasions of personal space, even managing to avoid being videotaped in a practice job interview. Several of the program participants have started talking to me; I'm pleased that they seem comfortable in my presence. I think journalism may eventually occur here.
But Brenner, the program manager, is clearly not pleased. She summons me to her office, where she claims to be "very concerned" about some questions I have allegedly asked during the day.
One of the women in the program, Brenner says, has complained that I'd asked where she bought her boots and jewelry, and what they cost.
The accusation is simply bizarre. There is no journalistic need for me to ask those questions. I explain that I did not and would never make such inquiries.
She shrugs and responds tersely: "Well, I wasn't there."
Brenner remains concerned that my questions might disrupt progress of the class, so she asks me to refrain from "personal interviews" until Day 4 of the program. I agree.
Later that afternoon, Patrick Duterte, who directs all the city's welfare education and training programs, telephones me at my office and asks if I might start my research over the following week -- with a new class.
"What we're trying to do in 'Steps' is very directed," Duterte explains politely. "There's a concern that your presence has sidetracked the class, and getting that built back up is going to be very difficult."
Duterte now claims that three women (the number having somehow tripled in the two hours since I spoke with Brenner) have complained that I had commented on their clothes, and what they must have cost.
I deny the allegations, but Duterte says that whatever I said during my questioning upset the class.
"My impression is that if you stay in that class, people are not going to come around." He sounds almost sorry. "If you start with a new group next week, you can interview them after the six days are over. I want you to get your story."
I explain that journalists have deadlines, that I can't simply wait another week. Duterte sighs. He relents, saying that I can remain in the class -- but only if the participants themselves are amenable.
The next morning, Brenner intercepts me as I arrive at 30 Van Ness and ushers me into her office. The instructor, Briana Moore, joins us, saying she will use my predicament as "a learning tool" to teach the group about the decision-making process. I ask if I might say something to the class.
"No. They get to talk first," the program manager says.
I follow the instructor into her classroom. Brenner, who is right behind me, tells the class she was "upset" by some of the questions I had been asking. The class, she says, has the power to decide if I will stay or not.
"This is a safe place for you," she tells them. Several of the women look confused.
Moore tells class members to express their feelings about my presence. The women say they don't mind my being there. Some say they like me. No one says anything about being upset or offended by questions I have asked.
The program manager escorts me from the classroom. She points to a table in the Job Network Center. I am told to wait there until the class decides.
Forty-five minutes later, the instructor emerges with the verdict: I can stay. To commemorate the decision in my favor, I am allowed to select the sort of applause I'd like to receive from the class, using a list of claps posted on the teacher's table. (I am partial to gospel music, so I choose the church clap, a Sunday-service-at-Glide sort of beat.)
I am now a full-fledged member of Express to Success.
Over the next five days, I draw a shield. I am interviewed. I am POIPed. I meditate. I draw more pictures.
Like everyone else, I must present the shield I have drawn, so the rest of the class can comment. I am determined to make this process as painless as possible, so I hastily explain the elements I have drawn inside the shield: representations of my family, my hobbies, and past jobs. As required by the Express to Success curriculum, I rattle off five positive words to describe myself.
Moore invites the class to suggest another five adjectives. Like the other women there, I am asked to "just let the words in."
The words these women suggest are dauntingly flattering: intelligent, professional, enthusiastic, outgoing, and energetic. I can feel my face getting hot. I want very much to sit down.
"I'm going to add another word," says the instructor, smiling tightly. She looks me straight in the eyeballs, and writes this on her flip chart: "Trustworthy.
