No Free Lunch : One Man's Journey from Welfare to the American Dream

by CARROLL, RODNEYKARTON, GARY

• ISBN13: 9780345452290
• ISBN10: 0345452291
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2002-04-01
• Publisher: One World/Ballantine

Summary

"Everyone who is successful, regardless of age, race, or ethnicity, at some point in their lives received an opportunity. Someone believed in them enough to give them a chance."These are the words of Rodney Carroll, one of America's most innovative minds and a leading architect of the welfare to work movement. They encapsulate his inspiring memoir,No Free Lunch, the story of a man who rose to the topand returned to bring millions of people along with him. Raised in an area both economically and emotionally depressed, Rodney and his siblings were forced onto welfare after Rodney's alcoholic and abusive mother was declared unfit to raise her children. Though lured by gangs that aimed to "draft" him into their midst, he clung instead to his wise and loving grandmother and his innate desire to "make a difference." A part-time job as a truck loader for UPS would change Rodney's life foreverand eventually change the lives of others who were looking for a chance to work. By improving the efficiency of others at UPS, Rodney was rewarded with promotions. By balancing his successes and setbacks, applauding others' accomplishments, and disciplining not humiliating, he learned how to manage men and women, lead departments, and, at last, to lift up others who started out as humbly as he had. Putting his own job on the line, Rodney created a program to employ welfare recipients at UPSa plan that would become a model for others across the country. Initially derided by others as "those people," these new workers responded to Rodney's faith in them, and their new self-esteem led to new self-sufficiency. Written with vigor and humor,No Free Lunchis a testament to one man's tenacity and compassion, a sweeping story that starts in a slum and ends on a stage shared with President Clinton, a stirring book about one American's fight for the independence of millions.

Author Biography

Rodney J. Carroll is President and CEO of the Welfare to Work Partnership.

Excerpts

One, Two, Three—You’re My Man

In exactly twenty-four hours the president of the United States is scheduled to step up to a podium and say, “I’d now like to introduce a man who knows about welfare reform from every conceivable perspective. He’s a truly remarkable man and we are grateful for his services. I’m happy to introduce Rodney Carroll.” That’s when I will walk on stage, shake President Bill Clinton’s hand, and speak about a topic that has consumed my life.

The event is a town hall meeting and the White House staff is leading our first and only rehearsal. Since the signing of the new welfare reform law on August 22, 1996, thousands of people have moved from welfare to work. For the first time in history, our country is working together to change a dysfunctional welfare system that has slowly destroyed generations of American families, and at the core of this quiet revolution are inspiring stories of courage and perseverance. Tomorrow, former welfare recipients, politicians, Fortune 100 CEOs, small business owners, and community leaders who represent these stories will be joining President Clinton in Chicago in a demonstration of what can happen when you have the courage and opportunity to change your life.

My boss, Eli Segal, who started the Welfare to Work Partnership at the President’s request, told the White House that I would be the ideal person to moderate the town hall meeting with President Clinton and in twenty-four hours I will have my opportunity.

The final touches are taking place and the empty warehouse at Navy Pier on Lake Michigan in Chicago is starting to resemble a venue befitting the president of the United States. The stage reminds me of one of those old Roman gladiator movies where two guys are fighting down in a pit with the fans cheering from above. It is a circular arena, surrounded by ten rows of bleachers, where cabinet secretaries, governors, mayors, and those who have moved from welfare to work will be waiting their turn to tell their success stories. Two sixty-foot banners reading welfare mothers make responsible workers and welfare to work is a program that creates independence hang from the rafters behind the stage. A huge camera riser faces the stage prepared for the television cameras and national media. Thousands of chairs line the warehouse floor while pigeons watch from the rafters above.

Looking up, I notice three rows of floodlights. It is a hot August day and I am already perspiring through my sports shirt. I am sure that with the lights shining down tomorrow, it will be even hotter. There are four sixteen-foot television screens placed strategically throughout the audience so the people way in back will have no problem seeing me sweat.

A little more than two years ago, I had come to the Welfare to Work Partnership, an organization which helps welfare recipients find jobs, as an Executive on Loan from UPS. A year later, I was promoted to chief operating officer. When I first came to Washington, I was hoping to get close enough to the president so I could get a picture with him. My ninety-three-year-old grandmother in Philadelphia would have gotten a kick out of that.

I had never dreamed I’d be sharing a stage with the president of the United States. But as the rehearsal progressed, I began to wonder if I might not have been better off with just a picture.

“No,” shouted Sharon, the White House staffer in charge of the event, when I asked if I could use the podium after the president. “No one can stand behind a podium with a presidential seal after the president. That’s the way it is.”

Sharon reminded me of an army sergeant. It was obvious she was good at her job. Her voice was thunderous and her manner forbidding. She was a no-nonsense woman and had her own idea of how the event should run. The only thing she lacked was an understanding of what it was like to be on welfare.

But still, I understood her predicament. Her job was to make sure that the president looked good. Welfare reform was the president’s idea. He had worked with Congress to push the legislation through and this was his time. Who the heck was I?

“A prop,” a colleague suggested, trying to build my confidence. “A simple prop.”

My role, as Sharon described it, was to walk on stage after the president introduced me, shake his hand, and recite the first welfare-to-work success story—Wendy Waxler, a former welfare recipient with a disabled child. After Wendy told her story, President Clinton would make a few appropriate comments and then I would introduce the next participant. There were to be seventeen participants in all.

There would be two seats on the stage—one for the president and one for me. My instructions were clear. If the president chose to sit, I should sit as well. If he decided to walk around the stage, I should just stand. If he wanted to use a handheld microphone then that’s what I, too, would have to use. If he walked across the stage I was to make sure I didn’t wind up in front of him. And I should never have my back to the president. And, I should also never turn my back to the audience. It was like playing the political version of Simon Says.

Sharon covered every possible scenario. As with all presidential events, nothing would be left to chance. The event was beautifully choreographed, the stories would be inspiring, and the president would be at his usual best. But as Sharon kept defining my own role, I became more and more uncomfortable.

Sharon told me that in addition to reciting the success stories, my job would be to keep the program moving on schedule. That meant that I might even have to cut the president off.

The program was to run ninety minutes, not one minute more. At ninety minutes, the Secret Service would give me the cue and the program would end. Anyone who hadn’t spoken would be excluded. Former welfare recipients, who had flown all the way to Chicago to tell the president their stories might not get a chance to speak. And in order to avoid this, I had better be prepared to say:

“Uh, excuse me, Mr. President, but you seem to be rambling on too long. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop right there. No hard feelings? Okay?” I could not imagine me ever doing that. What I had was an impossible task. I couldn’t get all the stories in, keep the president at bay, and yet not cut him off, not get in front of him and also not walk behind him, maintain eye contact with the president without turning my back on the guests. I couldn’t do it. Even as I look back now, I’m convinced that it can’t be done. It was your classic Washington scenario, where you are told, “we have a ninety-minute speech and we want you to get it done in forty. Don’t leave out any words and make sure you speak slowly.”

I took a deep breath.

“Sure, it will be difficult,” I told myself. “But I’ve been through tougher times. This is a great opportunity and I must make it work.”

I abandoned that resolve when Sharon handed me the final script. As I went through it, two things struck me. One, it was well written—every story was clear and concise. Two, I couldn’t read that script because it wasn’t me.

“I thought I was up here because I was a person who had lived this and worked this,” I protested. “Where is all that in this script?”

“The president will take care of all that in his introduction,” Sharon assured me. “Whatever you do, don’t ad lib; every word is in there for a purpose. You have to trust us.”

“But surely I can’t say something that is not me,” I persisted.

“You just stick to the script,” Sharon said bluntly. “Bring a sheet of paper, or three-by-five-inch note cards, and just read it as written. Listen, all you have to do is read the questions as we have written them, let the president make his comment, and then you go to the next person.”

Sharon explained that there were times when someone like me might experience stage fright, go off on a tangent, or call the president Bill, or cause some other kind of embarrassment to the president. “It’s our job to make sure that doesn’t happen,” she said.

After she got done with me, Sharon turned to the other participants.

The speakers at the town hall were a mixture of welfare-to-work success stories. Corporate executives, service providers, and elected officials. The rehearsal was mainly for the participants who used to be on welfare—the others had representatives to take last-minute notes.

The first person was Wendy Waxler, an account associate for Xerox. According to the script, Wendy’s key message was that she was on welfare because she had to take care of her disabled child.

I read the first question as it was written in the script: “So, Wendy, it must be exciting to be at a fax processing center. How has your family’s life changed since you got the job?”

“Well, it is exciting,” Wendy answered proudly. “My daughter is three years . . .”

“What about your daughter?” Sharon interrupted. “Isn’t there something about your daughter that you want to tell us?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Wendy. “She has a disability.”

“No,” corrected Sharon. “Not a disability. A handicap. She has a handicap.”

“Okay, she has a handicap,” repeated Wendy, the pride gone from her face.

The next person was Rena Burns, who had grown up on welfare with a single mother. Without a college education, Rena had started her own business and now hired people off welfare. Earlier in the day, Rena had told me a great story about a former welfare recipient who had worked for her as a receptionist. The woman, who didn’t have a high-school education, asked Rena why her company didn’t bid on a particular project.

“We are a small company and don’t have the resources to respond to every request for a proposal,” Rena explained.

The former welfare recipient had asked if she could try in her spare time. A month later, they got the account. Today the woman works exclusively on finding new business. I was anxious for Rena to tell that story at the town hall.

But Sharon’s script was explicit. “I’m a small company without a human resources department, yet I can still successfully hire people off welfare,” Rena said on cue.

“Don’t forget to mention that you won the Small Business Association Award,” prompted Sharon.

“Rena, why don’t you tell us about some of your workers,” I said, ignoring the script.

Sharon cut me off. “No Rena. That was perfect. Right on schedule.”

And so it went. Tiffany Smith, a UPS package sorter went on too long. Antoinette Patrick, a pharmacy technician at CVS, focused on the wrong aspect of her job.

“Please,” Sharon cut in, “just stick to the script.”

Bill Simmons was next. He was the CEO of Masterlube in Billings, Montana. He hired welfare recipients with substance-abuse problems. Once hired, he prepared them for more lucrative jobs in other fields. It was an inspiring story because most businesses try to reduce employee turnover to lower training costs. Bill understood that it wasn’t everyone’s dream to change oil. For substance abusers, however, it was a good place to gain work experience. His former employees had gone on to become accountants and office managers. One young lady was a Ph.D., another worked in a bank, and yet another worked for a consulting firm in Washington, D.C. He celebrated their success on a “wall of fame” outside his office.

One of his employees was Tyler Left Hand, a Native American who had made the decision to leave the reservation to provide for his daughter. As the script had it, Tyler represented a father who was taking responsibility for his child—something fathers of welfare children didn’t always do. But Tyler wanted to speak about his experience leaving the reservation.

“My family disowned me,” he said. “They would have preferred that I stayed on welfare and on the reservation.”

“We don’t want any of that in here,” said Sharon.

By the time we got to Maria Mercado, she was so nervous tears were running down her face. Maria was a Hispanic woman who had worked as a merchandising sales associate at Marshall’s, an affiliate of TJX. She represented someone who had received industry-based training at Goodwill, a national service provider. Basically, Goodwill had taught her how to be a salesperson before she got to TJX. So her first day on the job, she was ready to work. It was a great example of how businesses can team up with community-based organizations.

But Sharon was only concerned about the length of the program, and when Maria started crying, the White House staff wondered whether it might not be better if she was only seen on stage, but not heard.

“Well, let’s hear her story,” I said, disgusted that that option had even been broached. The atmosphere got so tense that Maria couldn’t open her mouth, and the tears continued to stream down her face.

At this point, it was obvious that things were not going well and so we took a break. The problem was that Sharon and I had different perspectives. Sharon was putting on a show. She saw the town hall participants as mere actors, representing the people who had moved from welfare to work. I was more engaged because I saw them as real people who had made the great leap from total dependence to absolute independence, from living on handouts to honest work.

For my part, I was getting less and less excited about this “opportunity.” I knew that I couldn’t do well reading, unless I was reading my own work. I knew I couldn’t speak passionately unless I was speaking from the heart. I knew that if I read the script as it stood, I would be doing an injustice to myself, to Eli, and to every other participant in the event, including the president.

To Sharon, I’m sure I seemed argumentative and probably unreasonable, but the truth is that I believed there were people out there that were just waiting for me to fail. The president was going to introduce me as a former welfare recipient. So if I stood up and mixed up my words, stuttered, or seemed nervous, in my mind I would be telling the thousands of people in the audience and the millions more who watched on television that welfare recipients were not smart enough to be with the president. I could already hear people talking: “See, people on welfare are not capable of something like this.”

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Excerpted from No Free Lunch: One Man's Journey from Welfare to the American Dream by Rodney Carroll, Gary Karton
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