The Workshop

A workshop similar to the one I managed.

In response to the article linked here.

The Sub-minimum wage exemptions, allowed to enable places like Goodwill Industries, to provide jobs to people with disabilities is a controversial issue. And it is not quite as black and white as it seems. Yes, the Goodwill executive salaries are obscene, as are most executive salaries at large companies. And this is true of so many non-profits. I would suggest that people research executive pay at non-profits before supporting them. One way to do that is by using Charity Navigator. If they do not list themselves with Charity Navigator, then there is probably a reason for that.

However, I worked for two years managing a sheltered workshop that found assembly and packing work for people with developmental disabilities. I will have to say that those workers were the happiest employees that I have ever managed. They loved having a job. They loved to have a place to socialize with others with disabilities and with their developmentally typical team leaders and job coaches. The Workshop also placed individuals in jobs outside of the workshop. A concept that was frequently used was called an enclave. Imagine a group of 7-8 individuals and a job coach working in a factory. They might be doing quality control inspections or packaging or assembly type jobs. The clients participating in this way were usually individuals that were capable of production efficiencies that were close to that of a typical person, but because of their disability required close supervision by trained staff. During my two years with this program I was able to place a group in an enclave setting and negotiated a pay rate of more than minimum wage, $10 per hour. After all, they could do the work and the team leader would supervise them at no cost to the company. We paid the job coach.

But back at the workshop, many of our clients had disabilities that would permanently preclude them from working, for pay, in any other type of setting. Maybe they were non-verbal. Maybe someone would have to help them use the toilet. Maybe they worked very hard to assemble something that a typical worker could do in 10 minutes over the course of an entire workday. The staff was trained to come up with creative ways to help the clients accomplish the tasks with as little direct intervention as possible, something that a typical factory is not incentivized to accommodate.

To employ these individuals and be able to provide the workshop services to customers at a competitive price, the sub-minimum wage certificate was essential. It would not have been essential if the government had actually paid adequately for the services we provided. The Workshop was supported by a program known as ADVP. Adult day Vocational Programs. The amount we received to provide a facility, team leaders, job coaches, and clinical support staff was a joke. If this had been adequately funded, then we would not have needed to pay sub-minimum wage.

But here is the thing that I think is not well understood. Sub-minimum wage was based on careful time studies that would measure the output of a typical individual doing the work. Then the prevailing wage for similar work would be used as a factor divided by the typical output. This would give us as fair of a per piece pay rate as possible. If they produced the same or more than a typical person could, they would actually make the prevailing wage or higher. This all had to be well documented and was subject to random audits by the local management entity (these are the folks that are supposed to be looking out for how your mental health tax dollars are being used), or LME.

For most of our clients (90%) the work was not about the pay. It was about feeling that they were contributing. It gave them such pride to tell people that they had a job. These workers literally ran back to work after break time. If we were slow and unable to find enough work, we provided daily services for them anyway. Whenever I walked the Workshop floor during these times, the clients would immediately ask, “Do you have work for us? We want work!” 

When I was doing this job, there were many forces moving to end programs like ours. Some were well intentioned disability rights groups. But these groups or their leaders never once came to visit our happy facility. They never saw the surging wave of happiness that coursed into the building each morning as the County Special Transportation Services brought them right to the employee entrance.  When I took over as Director at the Workshop, the county had cut the special transportation program from its budget. They were charging the Workshop $36,000 a year to provide transportation. There had not been enough funds to pay the county for at least the last three months. I began lobbying to get these funds immediately re-instated. I met with the County Transit Manager. I volunteered to sit on the Transportation Advisory Committee Board. I went before the commission and made a case for restoring the funding. Within a month, the county waved the unpaid invoices that we had been unable to pay and used discretionary funds to return to providing the service.  I ask you what typical workplace is going to spend the time and effort to advocate for appropriate transportation for these individuals. The answer is zero.

I personally feel that the state was looking for a way to end these services that had nothing to do with concerns about fair wages or limiting the clients potential. Disability rights advocates were insisting that workshops like ours were limiting the full potential of the clients we supported. And maybe we were. We could have placed many or most of them in jobs in the community if the state provided adequate funding for support ratios of 1 to1 or even 1 to 2. But that was not the solution being offered. The solution was to eliminate ADVP dollars completely from the budget. They also jumped on the well-intentioned movement to end sub-minimum wage exemptions as a way to shame organizations like ours into ending the Workshop programs all together.

The state changed the rules and pushed for organizations like ours to use Adult Day Support Dollars (these dollars were meant for enrichment programs provided to people with very severe disabilities that would pretty much preclude them from any type of work) to place the individuals in jobs in the community making use of “natural supports” to enable them to earn minimum wage and allow them to work to their full potential.  What are these “natural supports” in the community that the government insisted were available?  As far as I could tell, it meant that the individuals own family would have to make sure that they got to work. That the company employing them would provide the intensive support they needed just out of wanting to be good corporate citizens.  The problem was that for the most part there was only one employer in town willing to take on any of these individuals. Harris Teeter stepped up and that is a good thing. However, only a very small percentage of the clients could qualify to do the work. And even then, they were responsible for their own transportation.

I was burnt out after two years of fighting these forces that were intent on putting an end to the services we provided. My staff barely made more than minimum wage themselves. During those two years, I had 5 other programs across three counties added to my job responsibilities. I was not earning anywhere close to enough money to support my growing family. I quit as soon as I was able to find a new job as Operations Director at a medical device manufacturer.   This job offered real benefits and a salary that we could live on.

I loved working at the Workshop. I miss the enthusiasm, joy, and love that was demonstrated daily by the clients and the staff.  The Workshop was closed soon after I left. Immediately, the 40 or so people we supported had nowhere to go.  The organization attempted to use “natural supports” to find employment for the clients. This proved to be nearly impossible and the only work that could be found were volunteer jobs. They went from earning something that equaled their production abilities, to being not paid at all.

Fortunately, there was a similar program managing to survive in a neighboring county that was able to bring on many of the clients. If they are still in operation, their days are numbered.

Services for people with disabilities are very low on the totem pole of needs across the state.  Our legislature finds that it is more important to give tax breaks to the wealthiest among us. They believe that rich people will be a “thousand points of light “and magically fill the need for services in the disability community.  It’s been 10 years and no “natural supports” have spontaneously apparated into the community.

I will agree that sub-minimum wage certificates should be eliminated. But not until the State provides real funds that can provide quality services and real support to these beautiful individuals who just want a place to go and be a member of society with enough value to earn a paycheck.

The Circus Drummer and Me

Me and Pete Martin in his basement classroom.

 

My mother always spoke with enthusiasm.  One day I came home from Eastover Elementary and Mom excitedly said, “I have some wonderful news for you! I signed you up for drum lessons today!!”  She said the words drum lessons like someone might say “We are going to Disney World!!”

I was really happy about this news, but I was rarely at that Disney level of excitement like my mother always was. Because my older brother, Tommy, was already a student of the same teacher, my mother had a wealth of fun facts to share about Mr. Martin.  Pete Martin toured the world as a circus drummer for Ringling Brothers. He even took the spotlight as a featured performer playing the marimba with mallets taped to his feet! Mom used her best Central High, letter girl, pep rally voice so effectively while telling me all these details that I might as well have just been told that we were going to Disney World! I was starting to feel her enthusiasm, but I tried to resist giving into it completely. I did not want to be disappointed.

Me, carrying snare drum case to school bus stop.

Mom drove me to my first lesson and walked with me to the back of Mr. Martin’s two-story house. Mom explained that he taught his students in the basement of his home and that he would greet us at the basement door. On the drive over she had been exuberantly describing how terrific Mr. Martin’s basement was. She kept saying, “You are just going to love it!”  Mom said things like that all the time but was not exactly 100% accurate with her predictions.  She told me that I was going to LOVE first grade. That forecast was a flop as soon as my teacher laid me across her lap and spanked me in front of the whole class. On the first day!  My offense? Talking.  So, I wasn’t exactly confidant in Mom’s ability to know what I was going to love. However, this time she was spot on. 

Pete Martin, the 86-year-old retired circus drummer had the coolest basement I had ever seen! I was not disappointed.

When Mr. Martin opened the door for us on that first day, it was immediately clear why my mother loved him so much. He was sparkling with enthusiasm!  He was a member of my mother’s tribe. His broad smile said welcome, before he had spoken a word. When he did speak it was in a sing-song voice loaded with a heavy French accent.  I gazed around at all the crazy decorations, circus posters, and old-fashioned toys that filled his basement classroom as he and my mother were busy one-upping each other with warm greetings and compliments.

I was so mesmerized by all the gadgets and gizmos in the room that I hardly noticed when he said to my mother, “I will just show her around a little bit before we get started with the lesson.” It was the long hair that confused him. It was 1974, after all. This was not the first time an adult had made that mistake.  My mother tried to correct him, but he didn’t hear. He was already showing me his monkey on a unicycle toy that rode across a high wire in his basement.  My mother left us as I watched the monkey clap its cymbals and pedal its way across the basement.   I soon forgot that Pete Martin thought I was a girl as he showed me all his old circus posters and collectables.

He had a magnificent set of wooden marimbas. He demonstrated how he played with two mallets in his left hand and one in his right hand.  Then the magic started. This 86-year-old man began flailing away at a blinding speed with his mallets up and down the instrument. Notes of every color and shape filled the room until there was nothing left but me, the music, and Mr. Martin. Everything else faded away as he brought the marimba to a resounding crescendo! He asked, “Did you like that?” I managed to nod, and he smiled. “Let me show you my drum set that you will be playing. I think you are going to be a very good drummer!” he exclaimed with an enthusiasm that was very familiar to me.  “You are going to love it!” he said.

And I did love it. He was right about that, but sadly wrong about his prediction that I would be a very good drummer.  I had fun and I did learn some tricks on the drums that allow me, even now, to occasionally fake people into thinking I can actually play.  I learned to read music by following the handwritten music cards he had made for the lessons. The songs I remember are ones like “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.”  He referred to this one as a “very pop-a-lar tune” since it was featured in a television commercial for Coca Cola. 

When Mom would come to pick me up, it always seemed too soon.

Mr. Martin was a practical joker and liked to startle the Moms with his favorite contraption. It looked like a rabbit hutch, but inside was a small furry animal barely visible in a little shelter in the hutch.  My mother knew about the trick, but that did not stop Pete Martin from asking us to come over and take a close look. He would lure us in by saying that during his travels around the world he had bought a mongoose to keep as a pet. He showed us an article that described how a mongoose was able to kill a giant python with its extra sharp claws and strong jaws.  He would then encourage us to take a closer look while it was sleeping in its little house. And just when you leaned in, Mr. Martin would step on a lever that sent the cage flying open and the furry mongoose launching at the onlookers!  Of course, it was just a toy, but he was so effective at reeling you in that you could not help but get startled no matter how many times he had pulled the trick on you. My mother would whoop and play up her feigned alarm. And we would all have a good laugh.

And that is how Pete wanted people to leave his magic basement; with a lingering giggle escaping the smile on their faces.

Each time we were on our way out the door, he never failed to say, “She is a very good drummer!” He was wrong on both counts, but I did not care.

I loved Mr. Martin

School Concert, Silk Shirt!