June 27, 1999, Sunday

A SINGLE MOTHER OF FIVE FINDS HER WAY FROM WELFARE TO WORK

By Colleen Carroll
of the Post-Dispatch

Slipping into her welfare-to-work class 30 minutes late, Debra Knighten flashed a smile dazzling enough to atone for her tardiness. But her grin quickly faded when she spotted signs of trouble -- No. 2 pencils, answer sheets with little bubbles waiting to be filled in, frowning, silent classmates.

Taishai Starks, her 24-year-old caseworker at Midtown Catholic Community Services, grinned and passed her a standardized test.

"Tired," Debra mumbled, as she sank into a metal chair next to her sister, Althea Watson. "I'm tired."

It was only 9:30 a.m., but May 4 already had been rough on Debra. A single mother of five, Debra usually wakes at 5:30 a.m. to hustle her children off to school. This morning, her 18-year-old son ran late and needed a ride to Roosevelt High School. The trip made Debra late for her appointment at Barnes-Jewish Hospital, where she visits doctors every three months who puzzle over her frequent seizures.

But she made it to Midtown, a Catholic Charities agency that, among other things, trains welfare recipients to find jobs. Debra may have been exhausted and wearing a frown on a face that looks too young for her 39 years, but she made it.

Debra's story

The typical Missouri welfare recipient is a 29-year-old single woman with two children and just over 11 years of formal education. Debra, a striking woman with wide eyes and a soft voice, roughly fits those statistics. While at Vashon and Southwest high schools, she dreamed about marriage and a cosmetology degree that would allow her to style hair in a salon. Then she got pregnant. Debra dropped out in 11th grade and joined the welfare rolls. She was 18.

Life rolled on, and her childhood dreams faded. The father of her eldest son died in a car accident. The two fathers of her other children came and went. She never married. She never got a cosmetology degree.

To supplement her welfare income, Debra worked a handful of part-time jobs. But the state trimmed her welfare checks when she worked, and her seizures -- which began when she was 19 -- made it hard to keep a job.

Two months ago, Debra's 45-year-old sister, Althea, decided to take the welfare-to-work class at Midtown. Debra decided to go with her. She knew about the July 1 welfare-to-work deadline – social service agencies kept sending her letters warning her to find a job, join a class or face benefit cuts. But that isn't what made her enroll.

Debra just thought it was time. Makes no sense to stay at home when your youngest daughter is 10, she figured.

Plus, Althea would be there. She and Debra are tight. They wear the same sundresses, the same sandals and the same double gold hoops in each ear. They party at the same bar on Friday nights -- Spruill's at Jefferson Avenue and Stoddard Street. They spend their weekends together, munching on grilled hot links and steaks in the gangway of the house they share with their 74-year-old mother, Debra's children, and Althea's two grandsons.

Debra also liked Midtown. Over the years, she spent thousands of hours volunteering there with her children's Head Start classes. Year after year, she earned towering trophies for "volunteer mother of the year" and "top volunteer" that now decorate her cluttered living room, where plaster and wood peek through cracked white walls.

She knows the administrator, John Pachak, and Midtown is just a few blocks from home. Why not give his welfare-to-work class a try?

Back to school

In the second week of the welfare-to-work class, Mary Kay sales director Pearlie Anderson arrived to offer some basic lessons in professional posturing: How to stand without slouching. How to carry a purse without looking like Santa Claus hauling his toys. How to apply makeup.

That last goal seemed daunting. Most of these women -- like Debra and Althea -- played with makeup as kids, but as adults, never touched the stuff.

"Let's start with the eyes," Anderson chirped, as she glided between three tables overflowing with mirrors, makeup and confused pupils.

Anderson paused at the front of the classroom, lifting an applicator with her right hand and a mirror with her left. She began swabbing her smooth mocha eyelids with purple shadow.

Giggling, Althea grabbed her applicator and tried to follow along. She glanced at the result – and cringed.

Debra, lounging in a nearby chair, tossed her head back and laughed at her older sister. Then Anderson approached her.

Looking suspicious, Debra told Anderson she had never worn makeup, never.

Anderson leaned into her and began sweeping shadow across Debra's eyelids. They quivered as Debra stifled a giggle.

"It helps you to look more alert and alive," purred Anderson, whose own skin and eyes looked as polished as a magazine model's.

Althea and Debra stole glances at each other and chuckled again. They planned to scrub the stuff off as soon as they arrived home.

"Trick or treat," Althea chortled, peering again in the pink plastic mirror Anderson gave her for the makeover. Already, she could feel her skin breaking out.

Debra giggled, inspected her own face, then frowned. "Terrible."

"Go girl," Althea cooed. "You look cute!"

When it was over, the group clapped, then paused for a moment of analysis, led by Anderson.

"Let's look at (Althea) for a moment," Anderson said, as Althea buried her pixie face in her hands. "Isn't she gorgeous?"

Debra rocked in her chair, grinning.

Anderson held a mirror out before Althea. "That's how other people see you."

Althea dropped her hands, stared into the mirror, then called out with a laugh: "She's so pretty!"

Looking for jobs

On Wednesday of week three, Althea, Debra and two of their classmates piled into Althea's 1989 red Coupe De Ville. Debra, who was battling a headache, rode shotgun as they headed to Goodwill Industries, where potential employers awaited them at a job fair.

As her classmates fanned out across a noisy room teeming with job seekers and colored balloons, Debra felt confused and annoyed. She did not know where to go or who to talk to. Slowly, she threaded her way through the crowd to a booth where employers from the city of St. Louis sat. They had a job that interested her: a summer position that would allow her to work part time, work on her high school equivalency degree and do something she knows well -- watch children.

Hanging behind pushier competitors, Debra whispered "excuse me" to the employers. No one seemed to hear her. She repeated herself and waited. No response. They must be in their own world, she thought. Finally, one employer looked up and handed her an application. Debra snatched it and fled, too timid to compete for space at the table.

Balancing the application in her left hand, she leaned on her left leg, her brow furrowed in concentration. A line on the application stopped her. Jerking her head back, she glared at the question.

"I'm not working 'at the present time,'" she snapped, as if the application posited that question simply to irritate her.

Well, no sense in trying to cover it up, she thought. So she scrawled the truth -- "unemployed" -- on the application and turned it in.

Weary and worn an hour later, Debra found Althea, who already had filled out 10 applications and turned down one job offer. Debra sighed. She had a few leads. A laundry service employer encouraged her. But she had no resume, no high school diploma and no more energy to push her way through the masses.

"I'm about through now," Debra said, gripping the plastic water bottle that fair organizers gave her as a door prize.

Life with seizures

The night of the job fair, Debra had a seizure. It was only a partial one this time. But she heard that same strange noise beforehand, and felt that same terrible headache afterward.

In class the next day, she tried to relax in her stiff metal chair. Her head aching, Debra worried she might have another attack, a full-blown, body-racking seizure, right there in class. She swabbed her face and

neck with a damp, blue-checkered towel and slurped from her new Goodwill water bottle.

Althea eyed her nervously. She never knows what to do when Debra has a seizure.

Debra was filling out an application that her employment counselor, Princellar "Prince" Bland, would dispatch to multiple employers, including a hotel that had an opening in its laundry department. Debra had worked in a laundry before. It was simple and she knew what to do. But Althea objected.

"I don't know why you want to go in laundry," Althea scolded, her eyes fixed on Debra's sweaty brow. "That's heat."

The doctors never said it, but Althea believed heat made Debra's condition worse. Debra lost her laundry job four years ago after frequent seizures knocked her out of commission.

Debra did not answer Althea. She finished the application and handed it in. Maybe it would land her a job washing sheets, or even the child care position she really wanted.

On the application, Debra's writing was neat, but she could check off only a few skills: filing, operating an adding machine and running a cash register. Her current income: $ 431 a month. Her goal: a job that paid $ 5.50 an hour, minimum wage. That would double her income, but still leave Debra and her family well below the poverty line.

Preparing for the interview

Debra came down with a severe case of nerves on Monday, May 24. She and her classmates had spent three weeks learning how to manage conflicts, impress employers and radiate self-confidence. Now, it was time for them to face a mock interviewer.

Debra wore a smart royal blue suit given to her by the St. Peters' branch of Dress for Success, a nonprofit group that helps low-income women find interview outfits. Nervously, she blotted her ruby nails with nail polish remover that she bought on the way to class. Her Midtown caseworkers had told her not to wear colored polish to the interview.

Prince was circling around the room, giving the class a pep talk.

"Everybody has at least one question to ask an interviewer," Prince was saying.

Debra gasped, her mouth wide open.

"At least one," Prince repeated, raising her index finger to Debra.

"I wrote something down, now I can't find it," Debra said. "Uh-oh."

Minutes later, the interviewer entered.

"Althea can go first," Debra told Prince, when her sister was safely out of earshot. "Did you hear me? That's Watson first."

Why did these interviews have to be on a Monday morning, Debra thought. It was too early.

When Prince called her name for the interview, Debra rose on arched black heels and adjusted her new suit.

Prince led her past the crowd that made her nervous -- the interviewer, her classmates -- and into the hallway. Once there, Debra took a deep breath, put her hands on her temples, then gripped her stomach.

"I forgot my question!" she whispered.

Prince smiled and reached out to test her handshake.

"You're almost like your sister -- breaking my hand," Prince said, prying it out of Debra's grip.

Prince opened the door, led Debra back out past Althea and the rest of her audience, and introduced her to the interviewer, Larry Williams. Debra wants a position in child care, Prince told him. Debra flashed her toothiest grin. With the stiff posture she perfected at Midtown, she strolled over to Williams and sat down. Crossing her ankles, Debra titled her head away from him as if already dodging a blow.

Williams, a soft-spoken man with a white-starched shirt and serious face, paged through her application. Debra began rocking back and forth. They exchanged pleasantries, a few questions. Then he asked about her work experience.

"Oh boy," Debra muttered, still grinning. "I'm dependable."

"Tell me one reason why I should not hire you."

Debra's grin crumpled. Her eyes crossed at him in a near-sneer.

"Why you should not?" she asked.

Silence.

Debra stared at him. "No reason."

"Tell me about your career goals."

Debra smiled again: "To get my G.E.D . . . and to continue working with the children."

What did she like least about working with children?

"Nothing I didn't like about the children," said Debra, who fanned herself with her hand as she talked.

What were her salary expectations?

"Twelve-thousand or $ 13,000," Debra chirped.

"Twelve-thousand or $ 13,000?" he repeated.

Debra's eyes crossed again: "Not a month!"

She and Althea both giggled.

Finally, he asked the question she had been dreading all morning: Did she have any questions?  

Debra paused.

"Would I have more than one supervisor?" she asked.

No, he told her.

Debra's part was over. She rose and put her hand to her cheek as she walked back to her seat.

"Oooh," Debra cooed to her classmates, as she slid into her chair next to Althea. "I think I did better than I thought I'd do."

Grinning, she let her head collapse onto the table. Then it bobbed up again. Debra peered up at the video image of her interview.

"OK," Prince said, after the video finished playing her interview. "How do you think you did?"

"Not so good," Debra said, a grin slipping across her face. "I could've done better."

"Oh," said Prince, "everybody always says that."

Debra looked at Althea and they both giggled.

Williams spoke next. He liked Debra's steady eye contact, but she should not have mentioned her G.E.D. as a career goal.

And calm down, he said: "You were very nervous. You've gotta get a grip on your nerves. Just breathe."

Tapping his cheek, Williams smiled at Debra. "Your cheek was jumping."

Debra slapped both hands over her cheeks.

Graduation day

At 7:30 a.m. on May 28, Debra and Althea chose identical outfits for the big day: blue, sleeveless sundresses with tiny flowers. Four hours later, they breezed into their last Midtown class.

Debra, looking breathless and tired, lugged a crock pot of fried chicken -- her contribution to the graduation luncheon. She placed the pot on the rectangular table where she had experimented with eyeshadow two weeks earlier. Today, the table was festooned with a white cloth and a ceramic teddy bear -- special touches for this class of 1999.

As she took her seat, Midtown administrator John Pachak started his speech.

"We want to congratulate you on hanging in there this month and doing a good job," he said.

"Remember, it's the first step. The next step gets a little more difficult."

Looking over his latest class of graduates, Pachak wondered: Who would succeed? How long would it take? When Midtown started the welfare-to-work class, he figured it would give women like Debra a leg up on other welfare exiles who had not spent a month honing their working skills.

But, for some Midtown graduates, it had not worked out that way. Even when it did, Pachak noticed, most welfare recipients needed several jobs before they adjusted to the working world. And a permanent job rarely guaranteed them a livable income: Many welfare recipients simply join the ranks of the working poor. That's why Pachak told Debra and her classmates to continue to lean on Midtown's caseworkers when they needed help.

"Don't give up," he said, his eyes locking with each listener. "That's what I want to leave you with. Don't stop."

By the time Taishai passed out diplomas a few minutes later, several of Debra's classmates already were crying. Althea was holding back tears.

Debra did not cry. She strolled to the front of the room, smiled, and took her diploma. Her classmates chanted, "Speech! Speech!"

"No," Debra hissed, grinning slightly.

She had enjoyed the class. She learned a lot. But she heard Pachak's speech. She knew she needed to schedule some promising interviews. She knew she needed a job. And once she landed one -- if she landed one -- she knew it might not last. Her Midtown graduation was a happy moment, but it was just the first step.

When the speeches ended and the food disappeared, Debra stood. She hugged Taishai and Prince, picked up her crock pot and headed home. She had a lot to do.

Sweet success

Two weeks after graduation, Debra Knighten found a job. She works as a teacher's aide at the Children's Enrichment Center, at Ewing Avenue and Market Street, near Harris-Stowe State College.

She earns minimum wage. After a 90-day probation period, she will earn benefits -- including vacation days and sick days -- and have the option of purchasing insurance.

Debra also is preparing for a test that would give her a high school equivalency degree. She still dreams of earning cosmetology credentials, and hopes someday to open a hairstyling business in her home.

For now, though, Debra is enjoying her new job and hoping it will last.

"I don't want to brag," Debra said. "I want to see how things turn out . . . to be here, not just be here until next month."