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!

Finding a New New Year's Resolution

I think that my New Year resolution will be to read more books.

Despite the fact that both of my parents were big readers, I was not.  Dad would read most anything. Mom often read books that, from my kid point of view, seemed like soap operas. They both loved a good story. They could recognize good literature from fluff but seemed to enjoy both. Dad liked reading books about interesting people like athletes, politicians, or journalists. Mom liked reading books about ordinary, yet interesting people who came from backgrounds different from her own.  She was always looking for the common values that most of us on this planet share. And they always had a good paperback close by. But despite the example they set, I have never been someone who always has a book by the bed, or by my favorite chair, ready to read whenever a moment presents itself. That’s the kind of readers they were.

Don’t get me wrong, though.  I love books. Reading is one of my favorite activities when in the right frame of mind. For me, the urge to read happens all at once. I go through reading phases.  I might find a book that my wife has brought home and I pick it up. If it catches my attention, I read it. If I love it, I’m most likely going to read everything that the author has written. One right after the other. Then I might not pick up another book for months, or years, or ever. 

Sometimes a friend will give me a book that blows my mind in some way. I’ll keep going back to that friend and asking for more recommendations. Or I hear about a book on the radio or from a blog. If it is a topic that captures my attention, then I may go on a reading tear on that subject. People around me probably get sick of hearing about whatever the latest subject is. And it could be anything from quantum theory to Lady Ga-Ga to ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE.  I read that Robert Pirsig book about motorcycles and life over and over again. I’m not sure that I ever really comprehended it, but it felt like an important puzzle that I needed to figure out.

Once, my mother suggested that I read Dostoevsky’s CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. It had been her favorite assigned reading in college.  I was mesmerized by that book.  Like ZEN, this is another one that I pick up and read every few years. The appeal of this book is that it makes me feel like I am in the mind of this madman and somehow through that I start to see things from his warped perspective and even begin to understand his actions. I actually feel compassion for this man who, step by brutal step, walks me through the violent murder that he committed. Literature is powerful.

And yet, I can’t call myself a reader. For me to claim to be a reader would be disrespectful of the real readers in this world, like my parents were. Or, like my wife and oldest daughter are. My parents read for entertainment and out of curiosity. But my wife and daughter consume books as if their lives depend upon it. To them, Reading is like eating or breathing. A trip to the library is never about finding a book to read. It is about finding many books to read. They both come back from the library loaded down with giant stacks of books. I’m amazed at the endless stream of books they eagerly anticipate the publication of. And when they get word that a book that is on hold at the library has arrived, it becomes urgent to race to our local branch and bring it (and three or four other books) home so that they can dive right into whatever world the author has created for them.

I’m jealous of their passion for reading. I lament that my parent’s good habits of always having something to read nearby did not rub off on me.  I want to be that kind of person. I try to be that person. And sometimes, I am that person, but only in fits and starts. 

I was most definitely that kind of passionate reader from the moment I cracked the first page and entered the world created by J.K. Rowling in HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER’S STONE.  I became that voracious reader that could not wait to read the next in the series. I would stay up all night devouring every word in those impossibly long stories of magic, love, and heroism of the highest sort.

But Rowling set a new bar that made it even harder for another book to captivate me. Sometimes I try to force it.  I will pick a book from our own personal library (I can count at least eight bookshelves scattered around our home, in my head). I begin to read, but about two pages in, I stop. The author does not grab me with his words quickly enough.  This is how I am. Something has to really excite my brain from the get-go if I am going to see it through.  Since my wife is a teacher and an author, I often pick up any book she brings home and give it a try. Occasionally, one will suck me in within a few sentences. THE SKY IS EVERYWHERE, by Jandy Nelson has that kind of magic. Young Adult books often appeal to me. The characters are at such an exciting point in their lives. But, Jandy Nelson’s book is something special.  One page in and I am seeing through the eyes of the young woman who has recently lost someone close to her. I am tasting the blandness of the food she forces herself to chew and swallow. I can hear the absence of laughter and joy that had once filled her home.

I understand that kind of loss.

My parents were good people. I have never heard anyone say a negative word about them. In fact, it is always the opposite. People gush about my Mom and Dad.  Maybe it’s because they never spoke negatively about others. Maybe it is the fact that they were always genuinely interested in whoever was in their company.  And maybe, just maybe, the fact that they knew how to kick back in the recliner and just simply enjoy a good book made them more open to new ideas, more interested in the stories of other people, and just plain happier. Maybe my New Year resolution should be to be more like Mom and Dad. 

Yeah.  I think I’ll give that a shot.

Guns Kill People

Enough. Too much. Where is the outrage? Are we accepting mass carnage as just part of the fabric of America? Why? In one day, we had two mass shootings. How many tomorrow, three, four, five mass shootings? How many in a day before we march on our Capital and demand sensible gun regulations?  Ordinary citizens owning weapons of war is just unacceptable. Don’t give me any “responsible gun owner” bullshit! How can it be responsible to even own an assault rifle? The statements from Lt. Col. Matt Cooper, of Dayton, say three important things about mass shootings. 

"As bad as this is, it could have been much, much worse, as I think everyone will become aware of here as more information unfolds,"

9 people dead. His statement makes me realize that at this point in our country, NINE dead seems mild to many people. We have normalized this. 

“Though many people were killed or injured, Carper said that the incident was over quickly, because officers were already patrolling in the vicinity when the gunshots started.”

 Over quickly. And yet NINE are DEAD. This is clear evidence that assault rifles have no place in our country. They can kill too many, too fast.

“Police believe the suspect acted alone and that there is no remaining threat to the community, but the investigation is ongoing, Carper said.”

 Acted alone. No remaining threat. Does this make you feel safe? It should not. He did not act alone. I can tell you that even though the suspect has not yet been identified. Who helped him?

First, he was radicalized to some warped belief system most likely via the internet.

Second, some leader emboldened him to take this action. WE don’t know who at this point, but in El Paso, it is the President of the United States that was the instigator of that violence.

Third, the supreme court of the united states has allowed our democracy to be sold to the highest bidder. Corporate and lobbying influence has led to an unwillingness by our government to act even in the face of the most horrible mass murders you could imagine.

Fourth, gun dealers and gun shows do not care how many people die. The more that die, the more money they make.  How do they sleep at night?

Fifth, and the most important accomplice is us. We have become numb to the violence. We only care if it is our loved ones who get murdered. 

We will make marijuana illegal for no reason at all, but we will not take one step to regulate weapons of mass destruction that are killing innocent people going about their daily lives. In the case of these shootings, it is GUNS killing people.  There is no other weapon that regular people own that could kill so many, so fast.  Guns kill. Guns Kill People

Love Our Country And Make it Better

Trump just said that the congresswomen that he had earlier made racist tweets about hate our country. He said that they always complain about our country. First, it is our first amendment right to complain about whatever we want to. Second, these women were elected as representatives of the United States of America and are doing their duty to be a voice for their constituents. Third, I have only heard them complain about policy, process, and the actions of Trumps administration, not the country. Donald Trump, is NOT the country. The people are the country and the people are the government. Fourth, Trump complains more about our country than anyone I have ever heard before. I think he is the one who must hate our country. He hates the rule of law. He hates the balance of power. He has disdain for the constitution and the Judicial branch of the government. He is "in love" with ruthless dictators and monarchies. 

47% of you approve of Trump's performance. That means every other person I meet supports this xenophobic, transgender hating, sexual predatory, misogynistic, bigoted racist. Wake up people! This man is taking us to a dark place in America's past. He is leading us away from our ideals and toward fascism. He is plundering and pillaging our land for his personal gain. 

I beg you please to let go of your fears and embrace the founding ideals of this country that we are a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. That all are equal under the law. That we reject fascism, corruption, and dictatorship. In America we should not tell our brothers and sisters to leave if they don't like how things are. We ask them to speak up and take bold action to make things better. We ask what we can do for our country, not how can we profit from its most vulnerable people. 

I will not ask Donald Trump that he leave our country because he complains so much about it. But I will ask him to resign from the office that he so disrespects. I will speak out against every lie he utters. I will demand that our congress hold him accountable for abuse of power. I will call his supporters out for putting their selfish economic interests above everything, including our Democracy. 

I beg you all not to put me on snooze or hide my comments because it makes you uncomfortable. We should all be uncomfortable with the path this President is leading us down.

 May God please bless this country's people with the ability to truly see the hatred in our hearts, the ability to hear the cries of families ripped apart by Trumps cruel policies, the ability to smell the stench of greed and corruption, the ability to feel empathy for the poor and hungry refugee, and to taste the possibility of what could be if we truly aspire to live up to the ideals of our founding documents.

The Special Name I Called My Father

Mom told me the story so often that I am not sure what is actual memory versus images etched into my mind by her vivid description of the events. I struggled, just now, whether to use the word event, because there is nothing extraordinary about the scene that I am about to describe. I’m sure that this is a scene that plays out regularly in households with young children. Except, there is one oddity to my story that I still don’t know how to explain.

When I was a toddler, my father worked second shift as a photojournalist for one of the two regional newspapers. Like most homes with kids, ours was a busy place each morning. I was the youngest, so my siblings would get themselves ready for school. Mom would be busy packing lunches, preparing and serving breakfast, and generally making sure that everyone got off to a good start for the day. I guess that Dad was sleeping as this all took place. He worked until midnight and then would watch the rest of Johnny Carson before turning in.

Once my two brothers and my sister were off to school, it was just Mom and me. We would spend our morning running errands. The A & P at Cotswold shopping center was a regular stop. Cotswold was partly an indoor mall at that time. The A & P anchored the “East Mall” and the Harris Teeter was at the far end of the “West Mall” After grocery shopping at the A & P, we would walk through the West Mall  past Ernie’s Record Store, jewelry stores, the dry cleaners, and the beauty shop, all the while enjoying the cold AC and the clean smell of the indoor fountains.

The West mall was connected to the East mall by a store called Roses. Roses was sort of a mini-department store. We would usually linger here while Mom looked at clothes and I was allowed to roam the toy aisle. From there we would ramble through the East Mall and straight into the Harris Teeter grocery store. We did not shop at Harris Teeter. We walked straight through the only automatic doors I knew of at the time, into Harris Drug Store. Mom would pick up Dad’s blood pressure medicine from the friendly druggist, Dan Lemelin.

Then we would head home for lunch with Dad. Only I did not call him Dad. My siblings called him Dad. My mother called him Tom or Tommy. I had my own name for him and that is the oddity of my story.

After lunch, my father would get showered, dressed, and ready for work just like any other dad. He would kiss my mother good-bye and that was my cue that he was about to leave. I would not see him again until lunch the next day. I wonder if at that young age I thought that he might not return at all. At least, that is how I acted.  What followed became a daily occurrence. I was determined that he was not going to walk out the door. I’m sure that this happens all the time. Toddlers do anything they can to stop their parents from leaving for work.

First, I would scream his name, but not Tom, Tommy, or Dad. Not Daddy or Da-da. Not Pop or Poppy. I would scream out the only name I had called him since uttering my first words, “Ahh-beee!” I would begin to cry loudly and shout “Ah-be, Ah-be” over and over. I would wrap myself around his legs to try and prevent him from reaching our front door. He would attempt to shuffle, and I would slide down his legs and seat myself on his shoes. I would keep clinging and yelling “Ah-be” as I cried and fussed using every ounce of strength I could muster. I had to prevent him from walking out the door. Ah-be would speak in a calm voice. He would tell me that he would love to spend the day with me if he could. He had to go to work.  He had to go take pictures. The newspaper would not like it if he did not show up. I can picture my mother standing back, allowing this to go on just long enough for my father to see how much I loved him. She would have a content smile on her face as she carefully unwrapped me from Ah-be’s legs. He would tell me he loved me and that he would see me soon. He said I’ll bring a present home for you. And he would. Along with cameras, lenses, and film in the trunk of his VW Bug, he also kept a steady supply of small toys, gifts, and Chet Snow Realty lollipops. Every day I would get something from this stash.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped calling him Ah-be. He became Dad, just as he was to my siblings. My mother loved telling me about my special name for my father. She’d say, “We have no idea where you came up with that.” All I know, is that is who he was to me. He was Dad to my brothers and my sister, but he was Ah-be to me only. When Mom would re-tell this story, I could see how happy it made Dad to picture it all unfolding in his head and to be reminded of how I loved him in a special way that required that I call him by an entirely unique name.

From my adult perspective, Ah-be meant something more than father. It was a kind of sacred term of endearment. A type of endearment that means you never want to let go of this person. Ah-be is a loved one that you long for his company so deeply that you will do anything to stop him from walking out the door.

One year ago, my father walked out the ultimate door. He will not walk back through it with a gift in his hand for me.

I was on the phone with him just moments before he pushed the emergency button at Plantation Estates. By joking about not knowing how much longer he would be on this earth, he had gently prepared me for the shocking news that would follow. Dad was gone.

 Ah-be had gone to be with Mom. He missed her so much. As much as I would have wanted to throw my arms around his legs and plead with him not to leave, I would not have. He was ready to move on, hold my mother, and wait for us to join him.

It’s like we are on the A & P end of Cotswold Mall. Mom and Dad are on the Harris Drug side of Roses. My friend, Dan Lemelin, the friendly druggist, is with them.

 I wrote before about how Dad left us a note saying that he had no regrets, only happy moments. It has become a mantra that my siblings and I try to live by.  However, I wish that before I hung up the phone with him on April 21 last year, that I had called him Ah-be one more time.

I have faith that he knows that. I love you Ah-be. I will see you one day and this time I will bring a gift to you. Maybe a Chet Snow Realty lollipop. Those were pretty special.