BY JANE PRENDERGAST
The Cincinnati Enquirer
COVINGTON - This month brought a very clear definition of welfare reform to Kentucky - the ultimatum: Get a job, get into school, or lose that monthly check.
Most recipients made the switch. Virtually all in Northern Kentucky, in fact. And the statistics look great. Thousands in the Bluegrass state are off the public dole.
The Nov. 1 deadline came 23 months before Ohio's. That could mean recipients on the southern side of the river would be a good collective barometer for how cut-off former recipients cope.
But the problem, advocates say, is that nobody's tracking them. The government set up the decentralized reform system, they believe, fully knowing that it was only a politically popular money-saver, not a plan to help people boost themselves to better lives.
"You get the feeling that after awhile, it's, 'Let's just get these people off the rolls,' " said the Rev. Donald Smith, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Covington. "There's no caring."
That perceived lack of concern brought together a unique patchwork of social-service types to form the Northern Kentucky Welfare To Work Task Force. They are a minister, social workers, government employees and others that organized themselves because they believe the government hasn't done enough to ensure the future of people who get off the welfare rolls.
They're worried because the reform did little, if anything, to help former recipients deal with perennial poverty-related issues: a lack of good transportation, a lack of appropriate child care at necessary times and a lack of a good support system to smooth over the rough spots. And those are just the more common problems, they say. Others are worse: alcoholism, domestic violence, mental illness.
The advocates fear a future that leaves to them the long-term care of a whole new generation of people who are working poor.
"Mom goes to work, no time with the kids - what does that do to society?" wonders Dave Mosmeier, Boone County director of human services, administrator of Maplewood Children's Home and a task force member. "There's no thought. No money was put into how we will deal with these individuals."
The state of Wisconsin, considered a leader in welfare reform, saw its deadline pass a year ago. There also, thousands left the welfare rolls. But now, although Gov. Tommy Thompson says he's extremely happy with the rolls reduction, critics of Wisconsin Works are beginning to air some of the same concerns about the future.
"This is not a social service problem anymore," said Linda Young, executive director of Covington's Welcome House and another task force member. "It's a societal and community issue."
In Northern Kentucky, the former recipients are people like Melinda Bolden. For years, the Covington mother got welfare on behalf of her two boys, ages 6 and 3, and her daughter, 8 months. Their fathers do not contribute child support and are not involved with the family, she says.
She has an apartment in the City Heights public housing complex. For the last seven months, the 25-year-old also has had a job, night-care for her kids and transportation.
She bought the van used, of course, and recent transmission problems cost her a bundle. No matter. The van is both necessary and tangible evidence of her accomplishments.
The changes in the welfare system influenced her decision to work. She also wants her sons to know that their mother has a job. She cleans planes at the Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky International Airport.
It's great that people like Ms. Bolden are succeeding, says Karen Kahle, a Welcome House program coordinator. But key is how well they're really doing, whether they can weather any truly bad times. And for how long.
"These are not lazy people, stupid people," she said. "Many of them are stronger than you and I. But we can't just say, 'OK, do this.' "
Follow-up lacking
It is difficult to predict how former recipients will fare.
Four months ago, the Enquirer published a story about India Greer, a 26-year-old mother embarking on her first job after several years on welfare. She completed a four-week job-preparation course offered by the state's Department of Employment Services, then got work as an aide at Lakeside Place nursing home in Alexandria.
She had high hopes for a better future with her 4-year-old son. The state was going to help with day-care costs, and she intended to get a GED. She talked of eventually obtaining a better position in the medical field.
Now, however, Ms. Greer's phone number is no longer valid and Lakeside Place employees do not know where she is. She quit after a few weeks, they say; apparently she had some concerns about passing the test required to get a permanent position.
"The biggest weakness of this reform is a lack of follow-up," said Dan Petronio, associate director of the Covington Community Center and another task force member. "Nothing in this legislation says, 'Follow these people.' "
The task force members do admit the reform caused some positive change. For example, it prompted service providers to learn to work differently with families, said Tammy Weidinger, associate director of the Brighton Center.
But again, the working differently was their chore to figure out.
"This never should have fallen to us," the Rev. Mr. Smith said. Other agencies have responded also, with programs tailored to recipients who need help getting meaningful post-welfare jobs. One Welcome House project aims even earlier than that - at self-esteem and other personal issues that can prevent the women from even feeling as if they're ready to look for a job.
Brighton's Center for Employment Training is at work training people to work in four fields the agency chose after researching the local job market - office skills, shipping and receiving, building maintenance and medical assisting. Classes also touch on work ethic and attitude.
"We really do want them to be self-sufficient," said Wonda Winkler, program director. "But to do that, the job has to be the right fit."
The program began in April 1997. As of this summer, they'd placed 60 workers. Of those, about 89 percent were still working after the 13th week, Ms. Winkler said. Others were in various stages of getting other jobs.
For Ms. Bolden, getting a job was easy, she says. She simply went to the airport and checked around.
Now she cleans Delta airplanes from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m. A cousin in Cincinnati watches her children overnight. On a recent evening, Ms. Bolden breezed into the cleaning company's office just in time for a staff meeting.
"The kids, the kids," she said, laughing. "Couldn't find a shoe. Normal stuff."
The boys, she says, are a handful.
Ms. Bolden got a promotion about a month ago, to crew leader. This means she drives a truck full of cleaning supplies to her assigned planes, with a team of cleaners riding in the back. She figures she got the promotion, which raised her salary by about 75 cents an hour to $8.75, because her boss saw that she was working hard "and I wouldn't let him down."
On each plane, she watches over the other workers but also does her share of cleaning: spraying and wiping spilled coffee in the alley, hauling bags of trash, picking up dirty tissues from the floors. The work looks monotonous, and nobody moves particularly quickly.
In the morning after work, Ms. Bolden picks up her youngest children, Decorey and Ezaraih; oldest Terrick is usually already headed to school. She drops Decorey off at her mother's apartment a few doors away.
Then she goes to sleep with the baby. Or tries to sleep, anyway.
One solution: Child care at her home
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