The pictures are meant as testimony to the success of this seven-week motivational job search program -- the cornerstone of the welfare department's $5.2 million job search, education, and training program for San Francisco residents on Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC).
San Francisco's 14-month-old program follows a model developed by Curtis and Associates Inc., a steadily expanding, for-profit "employment communications" consulting firm based in Nebraska, with 65 offices across the country.
The Curtis curriculum includes basic job search skills such as resume-writing and interviewing, but the heart of the welfare cure is a strong dose of est-ian esteem-building and motivation. The program begins with a six-day classroom workshop, followed by six weeks in a job "network" center. It covers child care and bus passes, as well.
The philosophy is simple: Any job is a good job. Those who work hard and believe in themselves will succeed. Motivation, not job training or skills, is the key.
This, the welfare bureaucrats say, is the program that will move San Francisco's 31,000 AFDC recipients off government assistance before new two-year time limits take effect. But this much-touted "gem" may be little more than a mail-order zirconia.
Express to Success is by no means a proven success. The numbers given as evidence of its effectiveness are hardly convincing: Only 35 percent of the roughly 800 AFDC recipients who participated in the San Francisco program between last February and September actually found jobs.
More significant, the city has no statistics whatsoever on the program's long-term effectiveness. The Department of Human Services has not tracked past participants to see whether they have kept the jobs they found, or whether they have fallen back on welfare. In other words, Express to Success could take no one off the welfare rolls over the long term, and city administrators would never even know the program was a complete failure.
And the DHS admits it has little current interest in knowing the long-term efficacy of its program. Patrick Duterte, manager of the department's employment and training services, says, "If we wanted to find out, we could. But tracking is not our focus right now."
Instead, the "focus" is moving bodies -- Duterte hopes for 1,000 placements this year -- through the Express Center.
Day 1: Sweet Potato Pie
Tall and statuesque, Express to Success trainer Briana Moore strikes an imposing figure as she stands at the front of the classroom waiting for her students to settle in. It is 9 a.m. on a Wednesday, Day 1 of a six-day workshop called "Steps to Self-Sufficiency."
Colorful posters with motivational mantras -- Controlling the Interview, Show Liking, and Green Flags among them -- are posted along the classroom walls. In the hallway outside, a poster that features a smiling sun and a pastel rainbow says, "Tomorrow's Success Begins Today!" Down the hall near the kitchen area, there is another slogan posted squarely above a garbage can: "I AM THE CENTER OF ABUNDANCE."
Moore begins the class in sonorous, commanding tones. "Good morning. I want to say I am glad to have you here," she says. "I want to affirm and acknowledge how beautiful each of you looks."
Several of the women cast quizzical looks at one another and at this formidable woman, who resembles an African queen from a warrior tribe. Nobody has ever talked to them like this before. Affirmations and acknowledgements will become familiar lingo in the next few days; they are part of the program's esteem-building component. The instructor will emphasize over and over again that anyone with a positive attitude can succeed.
The 18 women in this class are veterans of the welfare system. They range in age from 24 to 48, though most are in their mid-30s. Some have been on AFDC for more than a decade. Some do not even know that minimum wage is now $5 an hour.
One woman, wearing all black, leans back in a corner chair with her arms folded tightly across her stomach. She hides behind mirrored sunglasses and a shaggy veil of long red hair.
"Remove your shades," Moore orders. "We're going to be working on transforming your lives. I've got to see what's up." The woman sighs, and takes off her glasses.
Moore explains the drill for the days ahead. The sessions will run 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., with breaks for coffee and lunch. An unexcused absence will mean repeating "Steps" from the beginning. After "Steps," each person will have a resume and a master application, and the class will move into the Job Network Center for up to another six weeks.
She points to the flip chart on the table beside her. "Remember what this was?" The chart, introduced to the women during a daylong orientation to the Express to Success program, depicts a pie graph titled "Success in an Interview." Several women in the class nod. "A sweet potato pie."
The sweet potato pie breaks down the interview process into categories ranging from "packaging" (the largest portion) to "experience" (the smallest). The pie's purpose is to show the women visual proof that they have what it takes to get jobs and become self-sufficient.
"So you see, you can have education and experience, but packaging and responsiveness are the most important," Moore concludes. "And you women have done an extraordinary job on packaging."
Next, Moore instructs the women to come to the front of the class to talk about their families, their hobbies, their past jobs, and the jobs they want to find. After speaking to the class, each woman is rewarded with her choice of one of a dozen "claps" listed on a piece of paper posted near Moore. The claps range from Addams Family applause -- four table thumps and two claps, timed to the theme of the namesake television show -- to the more ethnically attuned "Uno, Dos, Tres, Ole!" and "You go girl!"
The claps are meant to provide participants with a special show of appreciation from their peers, says Dianne Owens, of Curtis and Associates Inc. "Adults rarely get applause for the positive things they do," Owens explains. "It's a fun way to energize people and reward them for taking risks."
Michelle, a bright-eyed 24-year-old with long orange nails, tells the class she wants to work as a probation officer or in computers. "But I'm not really sure what kind of job I want," she adds.
"You already have a job!" Moore says emphatically, to Michelle and her classmates. "You just got to get out there and find it! Repeat after me: We will get a job!"
"We will get a job."
Moore modifies the mantra. "We already got a job!"
"We already got a job!" the class shouts energetically. Moore begins a thump-thump-clap rhythm on one of the tables, and the class joins in, singing "Weee will, wee will, Get-a-Job. Get-a-Job!"
After lunch, the class watches a video titled Are You Better Off Working? The host is none other than Dean Curtis himself, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the ever-earnest Ned Flanders, neighbor to Homer, Marge, and the kids on The Simpsons. "When we're more productive, we're able to control our lives, and our self-esteem increases," says the workfare guru, a former communications professor. "And now you have six reasons to take that positive next step."
A fundamental principle of the Curtis system is the notion that taking positive steps requires the use of positive language. So each woman picks a positive nickname. Valerie chooses "Valuable," Lupe is "Lucky," Naomi decides on "Nice."
"This will help you remember each other's names in a conscious, positive way," the instructor explains.
Moore later conducts practice interviews with the women. The interviews are videotaped and then replayed for the class. Shari bursts into nonsensical giggling during her interview and wins a prize -- a plastic lotion bottle -- for being the funniest faux job applicant.
"I know these seem like silly little cute things," Moore says. "What you get the opportunity to do here is simple little things. Just be yourself and have fun -- and don't worry about what's out there."
Day 2: Shields and Balloons
This morning, Briana Moore's class is drawing pictures -- pictures of shields, to be exact. Each shield is to be divided into compartments, each representing family, hobbies, previous jobs, and three accomplishments from past jobs, respectively. Five "positive words" -- part of last night's homework -- will occupy another compartment.
"Make them colorful representations of who you are," Moore instructs, passing a basket of markers around the room. At the end of 45 minutes, Moore's charges take turns explaining their heraldic artwork at the front of the room.
The shields are meant to remind the women of their positive qualities, which will, in theory, help when they begin interviewing for jobs. Drawing the pictures is designed to help commit the positive attributes to memory.
"I am responsible, helpful, nice, and very dedicated," says "Jumping" Jacqueline, a petite woman with an abundance of black hair and silver rings on her fingers. "This is me working at 850 Bryant in the coffee shop."
"I like to go to parks when the weather is good and sit in the sun and watch the babes," she cackles, pointing to the shield.
Moore asks the class for other words Jacqueline can use to describe herself to an employer. "Ambitious" someone says. "Patient." "Dynamic." Several sets of eyes glance at signs on the wall, which supply other uplifting adjectives.
"Determined."
"Self Controlled."
Jacqueline must now "take ownership of the words" by using the phrase "I am" or "I have" along with them. So, on the teacher's cue, Jacqueline says, "I am determined. I am self-controlled."
"You want to learn these words and use them," Moore explains.
Positive phrases -- known as "green flag statements" -- like these are strongly encouraged at the Express Center. Words like "can't" or "quit" are verboten. They are, according to the Curtis system, "red flag statements." Students are given both red and green flags, which they are urged to wave at the appropriate junctures.
By early afternoon, the back wall is covered with shield drawings. Moore is pleased. "So it is your responsibility to sell yourself to your employer," she says. "You have to walk in with grace and power and confidence."
She instructs the class to hold hands and form a circle in the center of the room. Under no circumstances can they let go of one another's hands. Moore pulls a pink party balloon from a garbage bag and tosses it into the air.
"OK, you can't let this touch the ground," she says, as the balloon descends. The women giggle, flailing arms and legs in a vain attempt to intercept the orb before it touches the carpet.
She tosses another dozen balloons in the air: "These are all challenges. This is relationship problems. This is your sick children. This is somebody got shot in your neighborhood. This is your PG&E ...." Predictably, the balloons ultimately light on the floor.
"That was hard, tiresome work, right? It takes a lot to do that, but it was easier if you had more than one person helping you, right?" coaxes Moore. "While you're working, there will be a lot of things you will have to juggle. You already do that in your everyday life. When you're working, you're going to have to do more."
Wide-eyed, the women look at her as if she has just revealed one of the mysteries of life.
But "Real" Rosemary, a deflated woman with flushed cheeks and waist-length hair the color of wet straw, is not happy. She does not want to be here. A mother of three, she taught herself to read last year and now desperately wants to get her high school equivalency degree. The Department of Human Services won't let her.
Riverside County, Calif., which is considered the model among welfare-to-work programs, would probably have sent Rosemary to school. In that county, welfare case managers assess participants when they enter the system, placing those who need additional basic education or training in the appropriate programs.
In San Francisco, however, the rules require all AFDC recipients, with very few exceptions, to participate in Express to Success -- even if they lack the basic education needed to take on even the lowest-paying and most menial work. All Express participants, even those who obviously need extra help, are sent directly to "test the job market."
Participants who can't find jobs are assessed at the end -- not the beginning -- of the seven-week course.
The idea of not being able to go to school frustrates Rosemary to the point of tears.
"I think I have more important things to do than to be here today," she mumbles, as she fills out a job priorities work sheet. "What's all this going to prove in the end?"
Day 3: Powerful Purple Light or Underwear Equals Opportunity
Briana Moore's classroom is quiet this morning. The lights are off. Eyes are closed. Heads are resting on desks. A female voice as smooth and deep as polished mahogany emanates from a portable stereo: "Let the powerful purple light flow through you. Let the powerful purple light balance you. Let the powerful purple light relax you."
"Exhale and relax. ... Just allow your body to settle. Feel the sensation moving through you. ... Deeply inhale. Inhale the light and exhale the light. Allow your body to relax in the power of the purple light."
After several soothing minutes, the meditation ends and the lights go back on.
"What do you think life would be like if you did that twice a day?" Moore asks rhetorically. "It is so important that you realize that you have your own power."
She quickly moves on to matters of a less spiritual nature. Those who did their "homework" -- completing a master job application and a form for the Employment Development Department's job database -- get $50 in Curtis and Associates play money, which they can use at a Goodwill store or at the Express to Success Center's Friday afternoon auctions.
Moore orders the class to the center of the room. "I want to tell you about my auntie. Her name was Willie Mae, and she was on my mother's side of the family." Apparently, Aunt Willie Mae was Moore's mentor and role model, a dynamic woman with many boyfriends. Upon her death, she left her niece a gift -- her bloomers. The class looks puzzled.
"I know that her bloomers were a very special part of her, and I want to give them to one of you," she says, solemnly proffering a brown paper grocery bag that is stapled shut. "So pass this around -- it's like a hot potato."
The women pass the packet until Moore says "stop." "Daring" Diana apprehensively opens the bag and smiles as she pulls out a pink carnation with baby's breath wrapped in cellophane.
"When I said 'bloomers,' what did you think?" Moore asks the class.
"Underwear!"
"Yeah, dirty drawers."
The exercise is intended to remind the class to be on the lookout for hidden opportunities. A job that sounds unappealing at first may actually turn out to be a good opportunity. Minimum-wage positions aren't "dead-end jobs," they're "stepping stones."
"So when you hear of one thing, don't close your mind to it, because you never know what opportunity lies behind it," Moore preaches. The class nods.
Moore refers to the Yellow Pages each woman has on the desk before her. "Turn to the first page of the restaurants listings, on Page 1,465," she instructs. "Now look for the kind of job you want -- assembly/factory, custodial, whatever -- under that heading."
Naomi is late returning from lunch, so the other women wave their red flags at her as she takes her seat.
"Joker" Justine has turned to the Yellow Pages listing for janitorial services, but she really wants a job as a mechanic or driver. "Do janitors need drivers?" Moore asks, and Justine nods.
"Well OK then!" Moore says, somewhat obliquely.
For an assembly or factory job, "Joyful" Joy selects a clothing retailer that sells blue jeans. "Because," she says, without challenge, "they've got to put the jeans together."
Moore reiterates an earlier point. "There are a lot of hidden opportunities, and this is where you will be able to explore them."
"If you can open up your mind, past the bloomers, you realize there might be other possibilities there."
Day 4: "What a Difference a Job Makes"
Just as the class is "getting centered" for the morning's activities, there is a knock at the door. Alice, another trainer, pokes her head inside. "We have two jobs to celebrate out here!" she beams, her flat flaxen bob swinging excitedly.
Moore's class files into the hallway past the phone bank, a series of cubicles that have telephones and mirrors; Express to Success job seekers are instructed to observe themselves as they call prospective employers. At the Job Network Center, another 40 people are seated at conference tables beneath more posters and more slogans on more brightly colored paper. "Goals are dreams with deadlines," one poster asserts. "What is your biggest weakness? Turn a weakness into a strength."
Alice scurries up to the two women standing sheepishly at the front of the room. Job Celebration, as it is known in the Curtis system, begins.
"We have two very important people here. I'd like to introduce Vera and Tamara, and they need to tell you what's happened to them!" Alice gushes, squeezing one of the women's arms.
Tamara has found a child care job that will pay her $7 to $10 an hour. Vera will be cleaning rooms at a downtown hotel for $10.50 an hour.
The wages sound impressive, but both jobs are part time, meaning the women will remain on some kind of government assistance, even as they work.
In fact, more than a third of the San Francisco placements made during the first six months of Express to Success were in part-time or on-call positions. Whether full- or part-time, most placements were in entry-level jobs like these, but few paid as well. The average wage for placements during the program's first six months was $6.87 an hour -- which would provide income just above the poverty line for a family of three, if the job were full time.
"This is so wonderful," Alice enthuses, as she attaches a "What a Difference a Job Makes" pin to Tamara's bosom. "This is just a beginning. I know that this is the beginning of a new adventure for you, and here is your very own PayDay candy bar as a symbol of that."
For her reward, Vera picks not a clap, but a snap. The Beatnik Snap. Tamara chooses the Addams Family clap. Alice takes photos of the two women, each holding the prized PayDay under her chin. Other participants offer hugs and handshakes of congratulation.
Back in her classroom, Moore uses the morning's announcement as a teaching aid: "These women have been here three to four weeks. You see, you put it in, you get it back."
Next, she hands back professionally typed versions of resumes the women had turned in two days earlier. The resumes make the best of sparse employment histories and limited skills. One woman has not held a full-time job since 1977. Others have never worked full time.
Most have spent the past several years at home caring for their children, and have little to write. But instead of writing "welfare mother," the Curtis system has suggested different phraseology: self-employed homemaker. Operated household on a limited budget. Helped children with socialization skills.
After lunch, Moore directs the women to find partners. Taking one marker and a large sheet of paper, each pair of women must draw a picture together without talking. The activity is called "controlling colors."
At the end of the exercise, Moore asks the members of each "team" to introduce themselves by their positive nicknames. The groups must also tell the rest of the class about their pictures. Keisha (aka "Kourageous" with a "K") and her partner, "Fabulous" Francia, explain the line of green spikes that is their picture. "This is our green grass," says Francia. More pictures and explanations follow: a house with flowers in the back yard; sunshine and trees; money.
The exercise, Moore explains, shows who has passive or aggressive personalities, based on who "took control" of the marker. Discovering whether you are aggressive or passive will help you get along with co-workers when you find a job.
Another knock at the door interrupts the lesson: two more jobs in the Network Center! Another Express trainer, Jeff, a slight man with evenly rolled shirt sleeves, proudly congratulates two women who testify that the center has made them friendly and positive. The women from Moore's class and other, more advanced job-seekers look on with awe.
Jeff puts an arm around one woman, and leads a cheer, on the count of three: "You go girl!" he yells, thrusting a thin, pale arm skyward.
Day 5: NOIPs and POIPs
Today's lesson is simple: NOIPs are bad, POIPs are good. "This stands for Negative Opinion In People," explains the teacher, pointing to a frowning face on the ever-present flip chart. NOIPs have challenges in their lives that "make them this way," Moore says.
Uncapping a red marker, she draws a smile over the frown, and flips to "Three Steps to Being a POIP" (Positive Opinion In People).
1) Recognize a NOIP.
2) Show liking -- POIPing.
3) Do not take it personally.
The class nods and murmurs in agreement.
Positive thinking is crucial to getting a job, Moore reiterates. She has added a sheet of positive phrases to the Curtis curriculum. "Let's look at creating affirmations," she says. She leads the class through three suggested affirmations, repeating each three times: "I take full responsibility for myself, my actions, and my future. I appreciate my own self-worth. I am the center of abundance."
The last sentence, Moore says, states one of "the most powerful affirmations there is."
"When we said that, six people got jobs. Just like that," Moore snaps her fingers. "Claiming your affirmation is important. Say, 'I,' and meditate on it. That is your mantra."
There are other recommended daily affirmations, among them the "Divine Affirmations for the Spiritual Woman" (also known as "Divine Rights Touch of Life 1995). These affirmative statements include: "I am the master of my life. ... I am divinely searching for my purpose in life. ... I am a seeker of truth and wisdom."
Moore wants the class, fortified with this information, to visualize what their upcoming job interviews will look like. Again, lights go off, eyes are closed, and Moore begins the sermon.
"You are in the lobby, waiting for the employer. As you are waiting, you are taking deep breaths."
"You are thinking 'I am prepared. I am prepared.' "
"You have showered, your clothes are neat and pressed, you look and smell great. You are five minutes early. You have your master application, your resume, and a black pen."
"You know what strengths you want to present, what green flags you want to wave, exactly what you have to offer the company."
"You walk into the room with your shoulders back, you are smiling, and you introduce yourself. You use the employer's name, and you remember why you are here."
"The interview is coming to a close. You shake the employer's hand and say you really want to work for this company."
Several of the women are smiling. Moore switches the lights back on.
"OK. So now we're going to practice interviewing."
Day 6: Incentives to Succeed
On this final day of the "Steps" program, the class is watching a video hosted by a handsome, well-dressed African-American man, a motivational speaker and former Ohio state assemblyman named Les Brown. His message: "This Is Your Decade."
"Now repeat after me," Brown says to the studio audience. "I deserve the best life has to offer. I deserve to find my purpose in life. Now shake hands with the person on your left and right and say, 'Find your purpose.' " The women at 30 Van Ness are captivated, and obediently follow Brown's instructions.
He advises members of his audience to follow their "inner conversations" to fulfill their potentials.
"How are you going to do it? That will come to you in time. What makes you feel good?" ("Shopping," someone in Moore's class says solemnly.)
The women listen intently as he fires off a rapid succession of slogans.
"You go through life being casual, you're going to end up a casualty."
"You've got to start saying, 'Yes,' to your dream, 'Yes,' to your unfolding potential, 'Yes,' to your future!"
"When you're not fulfilling your potential, you are committing spiritual suicide."
"You have greatness within you!"
Stirred by Brown's motivational message, Moore's class embarks on the final exercise in "Steps." It is called "completion." Each of Moore's students takes a turn coming to the front of the classroom and "selling" herself to an imaginary employer. Then classmates write assessments and comments on Post-It notes that they give to one another. The Post-Its convey messages such as "You Go Momma!" and "Very Smart." The notes are affixed to sheets of paper, providing each participant with a memento of sorts, like a high school yearbook.
The next day, they will begin working the phones at the Job Network Center. Participants are strongly encouraged to use the Yellow Pages as a job solicitation reference, starting with the first letters of their first names. (In practice, however, the phones are primarily used to call home and check that children are where they are supposed to be.)
Moore's class will be expected to apply the techniques they have learned over the past six days to their Yellow Pages-guided job search. They have assembled resumes and learned interview "control techniques." They have learned the difference between NOIPs and POIPs and found new ways to cope with conflict. They have new "assertion tools" and at least five master job applications. Most significant, they feel really good.
San Francisco officials are feeling pretty good, too. They cite high job placements and short-term savings as evidence of the success of Express to Success. In fact, they are so impressed with the program that they want to expand it.
Although the city has not committed any additional money for the fiscal year that begins in July, the DHS is already planning to use state money to finance a $1.5 million expansion for Express to Success at either the Van Ness Avenue facility or at a location in Bayview-Hunters Point.
Without a reliable measure of the program's long-term effects, however, welfare bureaucrats are hard pressed to make broad claims about the program's efficacy. Simply put, the Express program is unproven. And none of the tracking that would provide proof -- pro or con -- is being done. It is as if San Francisco's welfare administrators were determined to remake the mistakes of the Great Society programs that welfare reform was expected to redesign or eliminate.
The Manpower Demonstration Research Corp., a nonprofit social policy think tank, has documented success at some California work-first programs. But social welfare experts say no single program is a panacea, and they point out that the Express to Success program is significantly different from the work-first programs that have been studied.
Jill Duerr Berrick, who heads UC Berkeley's Center for Social Services Research and the National Child Welfare Research Center, cautions that work-first programs like the Curtis model simply won't help the many AFDC recipients who have specialized educational or health care needs.
"It's not just a matter of a quick-fix program that is going to help welfare recipients catch up with everyone else out there who has years of social and educational experience," says Berrick. "You have people who have a complex set of needs, who are not going to be able to easily jump into a job tomorrow and have all that disappear."
But San Francisco's welfare bureaucrats have "motivation," as Dean Curtis might say, to go with Express to Success, and go big. The clock is ticking. Under new welfare rules required by federal reform efforts, states that fail to move 50 percent of their AFDC caseload off government aid by the year 2002 face sizable cuts in their federal welfare funding. Less welfare money for Sacramento means less money for San Francisco. The incentives are clear.
Just Find It
Back in Moore's classroom at 30 Van Ness Ave., the women are flushed with the excitement of "completion." Lupe, a broad-shouldered Latina with a passion for cars and a movie-star smile, has just received a certificate and a rainbow-colored ribbon that says she is both a graduate and a POIP. She dedicates her certificate to her four daughters and to the memory of her grandmother.
"I'm glad to be here with all you guys," Lupe says, brusquely wiping tears from her eyes. "And thanks to Briana for teaching us how to find a job to help our kids."
"You already have a job, remember?" Moore coaches.
Lupe and her classmates nod, and reply in unison.
"I already have a job. I just have to find it.
