by Tom Corbett
That is the short story. The longer story is much more fascinating. Back in Madison, after licking our wounds and boring anyone who would listen with our near-death experience in the field, we began to get serious about what we had learned. In our minds, there remained a desperate need for good data to document what was being done, and to use as feedback for systems design, accountability, and management improvement purposes.
Well, it was on my mind at least. Peter had the good sense to leave to do real social work. As his civil service probationary period came to an end, he submitted a letter saying that the employment probation process was a two-way street and the department had failed. Since they did callously put him in harm’s way, I did see his point. And despite my own efforts to get him killed, we became good friends. He even served as best man at my wedding. Later, it hit me that this was his perfect revenge for the hell I had put him through. In the end, though, I forgave him for facilitating my marriage ceremony.
Decades later, when I resigned from my university position, Peter and his lovely wife, Sue, showed up. We had not seen each another in many years. I expressed surprise that he was there. “Well,” he replied, “I was there at the beginning, and I thought I would be there at the end.” I think near-death experiences help you bond at a closer level. On a serious note, I thought Peter an amazing character. Over time, he would take sabbaticals or even leave jobs to run off and climb the highest peaks in the world, including Everest. His two daughters are named Logan and McKinley, after the two mountains he had climbed just before their births.
But I digress again. Back to the longer story. I began talking up the fact that we could no longer run modern service and welfare programs with pen and paper technologies from the nineteenth century. We needed state-of-the-art automation to exploit computer technologies that were growing in sophistication by the day. I managed to convince some lower level colleagues that automated systems management was the wave of the future. Upper management was not so easily convinced. We became such pains in the butt that they formally shut us down. Get back to doing your real jobs, we were told.
We were so stubborn back then. We had all the zealous conviction that only the young and foolish possess. We could not meet at work or during normal work hours, so we started meeting in our homes after work and on the weekends. This kind of dedication takes an advanced form of idiocy. Obviously, given that management had not sanctioned our vision, our lobbying could not be overt. We had to be quite subtle. Eventually, we found a champion for our cause, a smart and charismatic young manager named Bernard (Bernie) Stumbras. He had now risen far enough in the bureaucracy to make a difference. He had one condition, we would start by automating the three major welfare programs—AFDC, Food Stamps, and Medicaid. Oh goody, I thought, now I can torture welfare case workers for a while.
As we began, we had no idea how utterly difficult and transformative this project would be. By the end, welfare administration looked nothing like it was at the beginning. Despite the challenges, and the emotional and personal toll this exacted on some people, Wisconsin would once again blaze the trail into a new era of public sector management. I only got to board this train for the early part of the journey, but it was an exciting trip indeed.
I remember several fun tasks. Yes, perhaps my idea of fun is just a bit odd. I recall scouring each required federal and state report to identify information redundancy. Rather than collecting the same data many times to complete separate reporting requirement, we would collect data once and use it multiple times for many purposes. Nothing is easy, though, and seemingly similar data often was defined slightly differently for distinct reports.
I recall doing county level agency site visits around the state to document how local staff currently completed mandated reporting requirements. We also hoped to assess how the new system might help locals in the future. This was a version of the old refrain that “we are from Madison and we are here to help you.” People were polite, but I could see the cynicism in their expressions. “Help us? Sure, when pigs fill the sky and the Stanley Cup is contested on an ice rink somewhere in hell.”
I recall working on what was called the “combined” application form. Previously, applicants had to negotiate three separate forms and three distinct application processes to get a complete menu of help. In the future, there would be one form and one process with calculations and key decisions done by computer. Efficiency would rise, and the practice of abusive discretion would decrease. This was to be bureaucratic heaven. Well, that was the plan anyways.
Alas, pitfalls abounded. One day, we were sitting around a big conference table doing the final review of the combined application form. I personally did not think it was as innovative as my one-page box-filled form for social workers, but I may be just a bit biased. In any case, excitement prevailed around the table. Another milestone was about to be achieved. In addition, the length of the document appeared reasonable, which was just a bit of a surprise. We could sense the finish line was in sight.
Then someone said, “Wait, something is wrong here. The AFDC and Food Stamp programs use different accounting units.” That is, in some instances you needed to aggregate information for separate sets of people within the household to determine eligibility and benefits for each program. This meant that we had to collect data at the individual and not the family or household level. We had been used to the latter approach and initially designed the application form accordingly.
By collecting personal information at the individual level, we could aggregate the data based on different groups within the household to conform the rules governing each program. That small wrinkle should have been obvious to us; but we were, after all, trying something that no one else had done. After what seemed like a very long pause to let the bad news soak in, someone moaned, “Well, back to the drawing board.” Wow, sometimes it takes a two-by-four upside the head to see the obvious.
We finally got it right. Technical contractors had been brought in to help with the effort. They kept arguing for things that would make the form even longer. For example, they wanted a separate question (to be asked of each adult and older child member of the household) for each conceivable source of income, no matter how unlikely it might occur in the real world. “How about a question on whether they have any winnings from the Irish Sweepstakes?” they would suggest. I would groan, seeing an application growing to fifty pages or more…a tome that might well dissuade less educated or desperate applicants to give up despite their need. Though I won a number of these battles, the final product ultimately topped out at some thirty-seven pages.
One final task proved the most vexing; this really was a group project, not a solo effort. An automated case management system could brook no ambiguity. Each decision point had to be binary, yes or no. There could be none of the professional discretion central to the AFDC program of former years. Early on, caseworkers were expected to use their judgment to determine if a family was “fit” for support or worthy of public largesse. While assessing fitness had been was frowned upon by the 1970s, a lot of fuzzy language persisted.
I recall sitting in long meetings where the group would plow through page after page trying to decide whether a “may” should be turned into a “yes” or a “no.” These could be marathon sessions with many a dispute dotting long afternoons while we poured over tedious manual material. These sessions became an enervating ordeal as the afternoon sun turned the pre-airconditioned depression-era cement mausoleum called the State Office Building (SOB) into a furnace. You can well imagine that many thought the acronym SOB stood for the people working inside the building and not the building itself.
Sometime after I left state service, what was known as the Computer Reporting Network or CRN was unveiled. The system profoundly transformed the administration of welfare. Case level data was entered by workers in seventy-two different counties. The system crunched the data and determined eligibility and benefits for the three major programs simultaneously. Client notices
and worker reminder messages were spit out effortlessly. Reports were routinely generated without labor intensive effort by the locals.
I still remember visiting one county in the early days of the project. I asked what they did to complete various required reports. A bubbly clerk showed me a huge (a very huge) notebook kind of thing with a lot of colored ribbons running through it. What is this I asked? She then launched into an exhaustive description of how she used the different color ribbons to navigate the data to find what was needed for each state and federally-mandated report. I kept nodding despite being totally lost. At the end, she proudly mentioned that she bought all her ribbons after Christmas when they were at half price. I put on my best Irish smile and said, “That is great. But when we get the new system up, you won’t have to do all that anymore, the reports will be completed automatically.” My optimistic words did not have the intended effect. She looked crestfallen. My image of myself as a savior on a white horse existed only in my own mind.
The impact went way beyond administrative efficiencies. People were affected as well. Caseworkers were stripped of any remaining professional judgment. They became more like clerks who simply collected and entered data. Once, they had been more like social workers, making real decisions. Now, they tended to function as cops defending the integrity of the public purse. Many could still recall the time when a caseworker managed relatively few cases with each demanding personal scrutiny and attention. Caseload numbers now multiplied by factors of two and three and four. Overhead costs plummeted in Wisconsin, reaching less than 5 percent of total expenditures at one point, best in the nation as I recall.
One consequence of the power of technology jumped out at us. About half the counties never had what were known as an AFDC-U case on their rolls. The U stood for unemployed parent. These were cases where two adults with children could get benefits if the breadwinner had lost their employment. Eligibility for this special program required a recent work history and an adult (typically the male) who would accept any work available.
In addition, there were no child care issues since there was always an adult in the home to care for the children. For a variety of reasons, the AFDC-U caseload numbers were always much lower than the lone-parent caseload. Still, to never have such a case in a county raised suspicions. After CRN went into effect, these cases popped up all over the state. Many county boards and directors simply disapproved of the program and previously had found ways to deny or discourage applicants. In one small county, for example, a director was known to send the male in every applicant family to a friend of his who ran a chicken farm, and always needed someone to pluck the chickens. It was horrendous work that paid little but, if refused, was an immediate excuse to declare the family ineligible for AFDC-U help. Now, with a computer located in Madison making the decisions, it was more difficult for them to advance their private agendas.
My training (housetraining if you will) perhaps can be described as a series of epiphanies throughout my early professional life. I clearly remember one from this period. I was working with a small planning group. We were struggling to come up with a conceptual framework for collecting and organizing a set of data…a classic policy wonk concern though the specifics of this specific project now escape me after so many years. I recall vividly preferring an organizing framework that was shared by no one else in the group. This was not my first isolated and lonely stand. This time, though, I was certain I was correct. I dug in and kept arguing my position. Now, I am wrong a lot, but this was not one of those times. Still, despite my brilliance, I was overruled by the others who were just as adamant that I was full of crap. What was I missing?
Shortly thereafter, we brought the plan to the big man, Bernard Stumbras, whom I mentioned earlier. As the others explained the agreed upon framework to Bernie (as he was universally known), I sat silently. Okay, perhaps I was pouting just a bit. But I noticed he was silent and his brow was furrowed. Hmm, I thought, maybe he sees the same problem that I did. When he finally spoke up, he essentially laid out the conceptual approach for which I had been arguing. Yes, vindication! I was elated and just a bit puffed up with a slight case of excess hubris.
Then, without a beat, the others began to nod and say things like, “Oh, that is brilliant, why didn’t we think of that?” For a moment I was stunned. “That is exactly what I had been arguing all morning, really for the past week.” Of course, I made this complaint only to myself. I was paralyzed with disbelief that they could not see what they were doing, pivoting 180 degrees without missing a beat. And then the epiphany hit. Where you sit really does mean more than where you stand. The lesson learned made the aggravation of the day well worth it. Besides, if ever I made any progress toward sitting at a higher bureaucratic elevation, I now knew that I would suddenly turn brilliant without changing one whit.
In any case, I really was sorry that I did not have an opportunity to see CRN through to the finish. After all, in an indirect way it all started with my near-death experience trying to turn social workers into bureaucrats. Apparently, good things can emerge from the most desperate of situations.
I must have become a veteran bureaucrat at some point since I was asked to break-in a new employee one day. I took this responsibility seriously and gave his orientation to the place my best shot. At lunchtime I asked if he wanted to join me, but he begged off saying he had errands to run. We agreed to get together right after the break. When he failed to show I looked around for a bit before noticing a note left on his desk. He was resigning…after four hours! What happened, I wondered? Did I offend him? Did I emit some strange body odor? It usually takes people at least a week before they realize they cannot stand me. Perhaps he was a quick learner. His only expressed reason was that he could see the job was not for him. I remained sure it was me. In any case, I noticed that they never assigned another new employee to me for the initial orientation.
At another point, I managed to get myself elected as the union representative of the research and statistics bargaining unit. State employees had won expanded bargaining rights, and in 1975, five bargaining units represented by AFSCME (the Association of Federal, State, County, and Municipal Employees) were locked in a contentious set of negotiations with the state. Of the five bargaining units, the intrepid band of researchers and statisticians were virtually a joke. In no way were we going to bring the State to its knees. On the other hand, the public safety unit (state cops, prison guards, the capitol police and the like) had real clout even without carrying their guns into the negotiating sessions.
I have racked what is left of my brain to recall how I managed to let myself get trapped into this position but cannot. I certainly did not seek it out. Now, there are many things I liked about unions, having grown up in a union household. I was not, though, exactly a true believer. The public safety unit I mentioned above, for example, felt that seniority was a nonnegotiable principle. The longer you were there, the more protected you were and the more perks you should enjoy. In addition, they argued for stringent work rules. If you were a box-filler and the other guy was a box-emptier, no boss could tell you to empty a box, ever.
My little unit thought of themselves as professionals. We wanted more flexibility and respect. I strongly suspected, however, that it was not prudent to confront the prison guards. They were big and tended to drool on occasion and to snarl a lot. But it was the occasional growl that really put me on edge. And, of course, most of them were used to carrying weapons. Still, I loved it when we sat around singing “Solidarity Forever.” I kept looking for a barricade to defend.
For me, as someone who loves to observe life, seeing the negotiating process from the inside was priceless. Two vignettes deserve mention. One day, the union heads told us to pack a bag since we were going to D.C. to see Jerry Wurf, the head of AFCSME and a power in the union world. He was impressive, I must admit. I can still see him expressing shock and outrage that a great Democrat like then Governor Patrick Lucey was not bargaining in good faith. I took
this to mean that the governor was not caving into all the union demands.
As promised, Wurf arrived in Madison to meet with the governor. After the pleasantries, he launched into an attack. “How could you, as someone who was elected by the working men and women of Wisconsin, treat hardworking public servants with such cavalier disregard…” and on he went, as the governor’s face turned deeper shades of red. But to his credit, Pat Lucey remained civil throughout. I cannot imagine President Trump remaining so composed. All in all, this was a pretty good exposure to hardball politics.
A couple more candy counters caught my attention before I headed out the door for that mile journey down State Street, transitioning from government to the academy. One candy counter involved one final tweak to the AFDC QC system, but a tweak with interesting consequences. The size of our small state-level QC unit (not including the field reviewers) was small…about three or four people. It was time to utilize computer technology to increase the efficiency of our small band. When I started, I would use a card reading machine located with the computer nerds after hours and on weekends when no one else was using it. That now seemed silly. What we needed was our own computer terminal. Then, we could directly enter data and analyze it during the working day. It seemed so sensible.