Abstract
As a direct result of the 1995 welfare reform legislation, some metropolitan areas relocated women on their welfare rolls through a process called “Greyhound therapy.” Many of these women ended up in rural areas that were not only unprepared to meet their specific needs but also not receptive to their presence. This article tells the story of these women, who were moved almost two hundred miles from a large Pennsylvania city to a small town in a rural region.
Keywords
Williamsport, a city in central Pennsylvania, is far from Talley’s Corner (Liebow 1967) and Germantown (Anderson 1999). Its population, which barely exceeds thirty thousand, is predominantly white, educated, and employed. Recently, however, it has experienced an influx of impoverished ex-urbanites, including welfare recipients and former offenders. These migrants are U.S. citizens and come from the East Coast, many from Philadelphia. Some heard that Williamsport had good jobs and inexpensive housing. But others did not choose to move there. They believe they were coerced to move by a welfare system that lost faith in them and wished them elsewhere. Nonetheless, they have made a life here, some for the better, others not. This article tells their stories, exploring why they came here and how they have adjusted. It is also the story of Williamsport, which, in response to this influx, became a very different sort of place from what its lifelong residents once thought it was.
I first heard the term “influx” the day after I arrived to teach at Lycoming College. Apparently my residual southern accent was audible as I was shopping for appliances and the salesperson asked me where I was from. Newcomers are not unusual and can easily be identified from their lost looks as they wander around in an unfamiliar grocery store, the out-of-state license plates on their cars, and the slow speed at which they drive around town figuring out where they are and how to get where they want to go. My move to Williamsport was the last of six major relocations, so being the newbie in town was something I had experienced before. What felt new was the immediate stigmatization I experienced as an outsider. In the local vernacular, I was part of the influx. I wasn’t homegrown; I didn’t belong. To be part of the influx meant you were not trusted and that you would be blamed for any negative changes that occurred in the community, regardless of whether you were at fault. Gradually, I was treated as an exception because others knew that a job at the local private college had brought me to town.
The term influx was initially applied by longtime residents to the predominantly white men who arrived in Williamsport as clients of drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs in the mid-1980s. It eventually encompassed anyone who moved to Williamsport, especially those who were not gainfully employed. Over the past two decades, the term came to mean the movement of African Americans from New York City, Trenton, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., and, in particular, Philadelphia into the community. 1
The current influx is composed primarily of black men, but at times it included a substantial number of women. When black men arrived in Williamsport as clients of the city’s rehabilitation centers, they were more likely than their white counterparts to stay after completing the program, and their families often joined them. Having husbands or partners here pulled black women to Williamsport. A significant push factor was the passage of the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act (PRWORA) of 1996, which replaced Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) with Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF). TANF included a mandatory employment program for anyone receiving funds for two years and placed a lifetime limit of five years on federal benefits. The combination of the training requirements for the employment program and the time limit led some welfare offices to send some families to areas that were perceived to have better opportunities and/or more lax welfare practices. Those human services workers put in the position to relocate families, as well as those whose lives were turned upside-down by this policy, called it Greyhound therapy. As welfare recipients moved from urban areas to rural ones as a result of this therapy, some became part of the influx in Williamsport.
Urban welfare offices were unprepared for the PRWORA training requirements. There were not enough services to go around, and many recipients were at risk of using up their federal eligibility without the education and skills required to enter the labor force. State guidelines for TANF varied. Some allowed indefinite continuation of state funding, while others provided food stamps and housing vouchers but limited cash assistance. Some imposed stricter requirements on the continuous receipt of any welfare funds. Cash assistance programs varied the least; PRWORA allowed welfare recipients to continue receiving cash assistance while they were in training or education programs. But the money dwindled over time and as their hours of paid employment increased.
Some caseworkers, worried that their clients would be unable to enter training programs before their eligibility for federal funds ended, apparently believed that finding a way to stretch those dollars made the most sense. 2 A dollar goes further in rural areas than it does in large cities, and more training opportunities might be available where recipients were less concentrated. The solution was Greyhound therapy. Women were told that either their benefits were ending in their current location or that they would be better off in a semirural area, so they and their children were advised to move elsewhere. Elsewhere included Williamsport.
Greyhound Therapy Clients in Williamsport
It was easy to find women 3 who were part of the influx. In 2005, I began working with a group that came to be known as Partnership Lycoming formed by concerned community members committed to creating positive change in Williamsport. In an effort to listen to and engage citizens, Partnership Lycoming ran focus groups. In those discussions I began to hear a familiar story of involuntary migrants who found themselves in Williamsport, derided by community members as “influx” and seeking a way out of the welfare system that forced them to move somewhere they were not welcome. A year later, I set out to talk with these women, to walk through their day with them and see their lives in motion, almost 10 years after their relocation. Over the next 15 months, I interviewed women in their homes outside of typical work hours. These unstructured interviews lasted at least an hour. Seven women allowed me to observe their families over a period of three months. I took notes during interviews and recorded field notes after each observation session.
Focus group members had the opportunity to let me know privately whether they were willing to talk further about their experiences in and perspectives on Williamsport. The first black women 4 I interviewed came from the focus groups, and I recruited others through snowball sampling. A total of 84 black female residents were interviewed. Just 20 were native to Williamsport. Most (62) received some form of welfare assistance between 1995 and 2000. Fewer than half (33) continued to receive some form of welfare assistance, either through their own status or on behalf of their children or grandchildren. More than half (47) said that their welfare caseworker encouraged them to move to Williamsport; these are the women who experienced Greyhound therapy. Of the 47 respondents who felt pushed to migrate to Williamsport, 23 completed high school and another 8 completed a high school equivalency program. All are black, all have children, and half have grandchildren. Just 14 are fully employed, 6 are paying a mortgage, and 3 own cars. Most are between 35 and 55 years old; 10 of them are older.
I learned a great deal from these women. Their dialogue is an important addition to the work that focuses on the perspective of the welfare recipient (Altman and Goldberg 2007; Butler and Nevin 1997; Latimer 2008; Seccombe 1999; Tickamyer et al. 2000). What began as interviews turned into discussions about marginalization, the impact of federal policy on day-to-day lives, childcare, justice, surveillance, and racism. The seven women who gave even more of their time and let me observe their daily lives wanted their voices to be heard. Although moving to Williamsport was an important part of the conversation, it was just the tip of the iceberg.
Moving to Williamsport
For the sixty-four respondents who moved to Williamsport, reasons for moving varied, from getting transferred to wanting to be close to family in the area. The most shocking—and most frequent—reason for relocation was that a welfare caseworker in an urban area pushed them to move. From the stories of the forty-seven respondents who identified this as the primary reason for their move, three main themes emerged. Either they felt that there was nothing keeping them in the city, there was a promise of a better life they simply could not resist, or they felt pushed into the move.
Seven women believed that there was nothing left for them in the city. They had no tangible reason to stay. They had no relatives or jobs there and no assurance that their situation would ever improve. Tanya 5 recounted her migration story:
I’d go in every Monday morning just to see if there was something Beverly [her caseworker] could do. She was a nice lady and she wanted to help me but she kept telling me that I wasn’t going to get nowhere living the way I was living. I knew she was right but I didn’t want to leave home. I thought that maybe one day it would change, you know, I’d find a way out on my own. But then they cut my money. They dropped me down to less than $400 a month and I couldn’t do anything with that. So Beverly talked to me one day and told me about Williamsport. She said there was more money there and everything cost less. I don’t have family in the city except my kids and they’d go with me, so why not go? I heard there was housing and jobs and better schools and no crime. So I came here.
The hint of something better may have been an incentive, but the real reason to move was that Tanya had nothing to lose or leave behind. Gloria was in a similar position:
I felt like packing my bags the first day I learned about Williamsport. I didn’t know where it was or how I was going to get here, but I knew I wanted to leave the city. There was nothing there for me. I had one child and one on the way, their fathers didn’t want us, my mom didn’t want to help me. I had no one. I had no job and not enough money to make the rent. Why wouldn’t I go? There was nothing to look back on; it was just the right thing to do at the right time. I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t happened that way.
Twenty-nine women spoke of the positive things that might happen because of the move to Williamsport: a job, or a better job; a house of her own; and support services that would help her and her family adjust to a new life that was completely different than the one she was leaving behind. Rhonda said,
I miss the city. I left because it got bad there and I just couldn’t raise my kids there. My boy’s gone back there now, he said it’s harder here but he just doesn’t know yet how hard it is there. I was getting more support from welfare there, but it didn’t go far and when Alice [her caseworker] told me about Williamsport, she made it sound like paradise—not with gold streets or anything but, you know, a better life. The way she talked, there were jobs and houses and really good things for me and my kids just waiting for us to come and take it. Course, it wasn’t like that at all. There are jobs, but there’s the bad stuff too. Small town folk didn’t want us here; I didn’t know it was like that. But I don’t think Alice did either.
In hoping to live where there was less crime, more service provision, increased job opportunities, and perhaps a slower pace, the women believed their caseworkers’ assurances of something better. Stephanie emphasized the positive, though she knew she would miss her family.
She [her caseworker] just made it sound so good. I didn’t have a job and I knew I’d have to leave my mom and sisters, but I had the babies and no one was gonna be there for my babies but me. We were living with nine people in a walk-up. That makes me laugh now. Here I am with my own house, but it’s just as crowded. But then I just knew I wanted something more, something I could give my kids. I wouldn’t have had that there, I knew it then, it just wasn’t going to happen for me there. The things she told me, they didn’t all happen the way I thought they would, but it’s better than I would have had there. I’m sure of that.
The remaining eleven women did not believe they had much of a choice in the decision to move. If they stayed in the city, they would have had to go without welfare benefits. None would commit to saying they were threatened by their caseworkers in any way with loss of services or funding, but they all said that they felt abandoned by a system that had no room for them and by caseworkers who were overworked and frustrated by both the system and their clients. Caseworkers who had lost patience strongly encouraged their clients to move out of their jurisdiction. Suzanne explained,
Oh Lord, that woman [her caseworker] had it out for me from the very beginning. She didn’t think I was doing right by my son, she didn’t think I could find a job. Even when I got my GED she didn’t help me with none of that. And when she started spouting off about Williamsport I knew she thought I was a lost cause. Who wants to move from the city to this place? I mean it’s fine now, I wouldn’t go back, but I wouldn’t have come at all if it hadn’t been for her not wanting to help me there.
Pauline had a similar experience:
I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t know no one here and all I knew about Williamsport was that there were hicks here and they didn’t like us blacks. Why would I want to live here? But I didn’t have a choice. My caseworker, she was nice at first, and then when my son, well he got into some trouble, she just gave up on me. She said there was really nothing she could do for me, and it felt like she just wanted me to leave. She still met with me and all, but it wasn’t the same. We never were ones to chat too much, but she’d go on about her kids every once in a while and all that stopped. She told me about Williamsport a couple of times and then the last time we met she told me that she’d arranged for me to have transportation down here. And it was done. Nothing more I could do about it.
Both those who felt they had been coerced and those who said they were strongly encouraged to move spoke of their caseworker as the decision-maker regarding their move to Williamsport. Most commented that initially they were angry about the move but eventually learned to accept it. Many remarked that, though they had been distrustful of the system before their move to Williamsport, the experience of moving without being allowed to make this important decision for themselves made them feel that the system was in total control of their lives. They frequently referred to the welfare system as “Big Brother” or a “trickster” and described it as “sneaky” and “untrustworthy”; some even used the racially charged term “master.” The experience changed their understanding of how they fit into the welfare system, and as a result their responses to the system and its agents were transformed.
Oddly enough, though, all of these women felt that their caseworkers’ decision did not have a negative impact on their relationships with their caseworkers in Williamsport. But it is uncommon for welfare recipients to have much face-to-face interaction with welfare staff. Claudia said, “I met my caseworker when I first moved to Williamsport in 1998. I haven’t even been in the office since 2000, though. It’s fine with me. They don’t bother me, I don’t bother them. But don’t you know it, they’re still watching me and getting into my business.” This notion that the system is keeping tabs on her is reminiscent of John Gilliom’s (2001) work on surveillance in his study of women on welfare in Appalachia. Caseworkers no longer do home inspections. Most contact between recipients and caseworkers occurs over the phone or through online reporting. Though still invasive, the process of welfare provision is indirect. This situation contrasts sharply with the direct relationships women had with caseworkers before moving to Williamsport. In fact, Greyhound therapy represents the most assertive form of intervention. Not only did the system define what resources would be provided, it also determined where women could utilize those resources. Forcing women to move was the ultimate form of control. Paula recalled,
I didn’t want to be here. It was hard for years. I told her [the caseworker] when I left I didn’t want to leave. I thought it was a really bad dream and I’d be back in the city in less than a month. But I was still here after a month and then after a year. And then I was just here. How dare she do this to me! What a stupid stupid stupid idea. It should be my choice to stay and have to figure out how to live without welfare money. Where do they get off saying that I have to go live somewhere else? Yeah, I guess I’m still angry about it. Didn’t really know that ’til now. I’ll always wonder how my life could have been different if I didn’t get stuck in this place.
DeeDee expressed a similar view.
Really, was there a choice in this? I say no and I get no money. I look back now and realize I probably did have a choice. But it didn’t feel that way then. They told me who could live in my house; they told me what food I could buy with the money they gave me. So then they tell me I have to move. I’ve done everything they told me to do before, why would I do any different then? They were supposed to help me and they decided that sending me away was helping me. It worked then, but it wouldn’t work now.
These women spoke of feeling abandoned by a system that was supposed to be working in their best interest. It seems ludicrous that anyone would argue that shipping them out of the place they called home was for the benefit of the clients. Joy explained,
The first time I heard the words Greyhound therapy I thought it was some kind of help they gave those Greyhound dogs after racing for years, or maybe the way they use the dogs to help with kids and old people. I didn’t know they were talking about me, what they were doing to me. The idea that I needed therapy and that the kind of therapy I needed was to be put on a bus and shipped out of town, well, that’s just plain idiotic. Who thought of that? But in the moment I didn’t have time to be angry about it or to even fight it. I just got on the bus.
A Day in the Life
The seven women who invited me to be a part of their lives for three months—Shirley, Caroline, Sue, Ann, Sara, Louise, and Lynn—all felt strongly that the system that was supposed to provide them with opportunities defined and limited the opportunities they were allowed. As I accompanied them through their daily lives, I began to better understand marginalization and inequality. In the interest of space, this article focuses on two of the seven women: Louise and Shirley.
Louise
Louise was 34 years old when I met her in 2007. She moved to Williamsport in 1999 at the age of 26, with her three sons, aged 10, 4, and 2; and her 8-year-old daughter. She was informed by her caseworker that her welfare benefits were limited and no training opportunities were available. She said, “I was at the end of my rope, and here she tells me there’s no rope to be had. I had four children. What was I going to do, tell her no and hope for the best? She told me Williamsport was my only hope, and I believed her.” Louise had never been out of the city she was born in until she moved to Williamsport. After eight years in her new community, she has finished a two-year college degree and works as a secretary for a manufacturing company. But she admits it was not easy. Having been raised in the city, she was still not accustomed to what she calls “rural ways.”
One bright spring day, Louise and I went grocery shopping with her 16-year-old daughter, Marie. Louise said that the grocery store is a constant reminder of what she lost in the move. “Back there I’d go to the store and see maybe one white person in the entire place. Here I’m sometimes the only black person in here. I can get any item I want or need in this store, but I can’t get the feeling of being with people who are like me.” This sense of discomfort never left her whenever she went to the store. The problem was not just the absence of black people; it was also the overwhelming presence of rural whites. She was constantly forced to deal with a culture she never felt comfortable with. “I’m never anonymous. I stand out in every crowd I’m in. And then, what’s worse, I’m ignored. No one wants to talk to the black woman in the crowd.” She is not unhappy, however. Her home was a lively place filled with active teenagers. Her life was consumed by her children. It was with her children that she saw the positive side of the move to Williamsport.
When my babies were little, the best I hoped for them was that they survived their childhood. I thought then that if my sons didn’t get shot and my daughter didn’t get pregnant, then I could say I’d done my job as their mama. But there’s so much more than that. I’m not saying that Williamsport offers them more opportunity than the city. I’m saying that my view changed. My daughter not getting pregnant at 16 like I did and her not having four babies without an education, well, that’s just not a good enough goal anymore.
Her oldest son, Jason, is 22 and works at the same manufacturing plant his mother has been working at for the past 10 years. Marie, now 20, is starting her third year at the local community college. Her younger boys, Carter and William, are typical teenagers who keep her on her toes. Moving to Williamsport was not her choice, but given the positive outcomes for her children, she is not sure she would change things if she could. Other women feel differently.
Shirley
In 1997, when Shirley stepped off a Greyhound bus in Williamsport, she was 42 years old. She had been on welfare all her life, as a child in the home of her mother and siblings, as a parent herself at 19, and as a grandmother when she rode that bus to Williamsport. I met her 9 years later in 2006. She was living in one side of a duplex with her daughter and three grandchildren. They had two bedrooms; the grandchildren slept in one room, her daughter in the other, and Shirley slept on the couch. She was 51 years old then. Her grandson, who moved to Williamsport with her, had returned to the city and lost his life at the age of 17. She pieced jobs together when her welfare benefits fluctuated. But her benefits did not disappear, as she had feared when her caseworker convinced her to get on the bus and move to Williamsport. She said, “I would love to see her again and tell her how wrong she was. But you know, I’m ok with it all. Life is difficult, but I’ve got a good life here. I don’t want to think about how things might be different. I did what had to be done at the time things had to be done. So that’s that.”
Unlike Louise, Shirley found her niche in Williamsport. She recalled that the day after she arrived she started making friends. On our first outing, she took me to a women’s meeting at her church. She led the singing, read Bible passages, and organized the next month’s luncheon. Shirley was pleased that the move to Williamsport enabled her to stay home and take care of her grandchildren. As they grew up, she filled her time with volunteer activities. “I stay busy. I don’t have time to have a job. I do a lot for my community. I’m comfortable here.” Interestingly enough, Shirley defines her community as the west side of Williamsport, where there is the highest concentration of African Americans. In fact, she said that almost all of her interactions are with black people. “It was an important part of me feeling better about being here; I have to be surrounded by people who are like me, especially since it feels like most of the people in Williamsport would prefer me not to be here.”
Conclusion
Both Louise and Shirley felt they were labeled “influx” upon arrival. Louise still feels this way every day. She believes that her children have been treated as influx as well, even though they have lived in Williamsport for most of their lives. Shirley, too, felt that people thought she was part of the influx in the beginning, but now she has integrated herself into the community. At the same time, she believes that her grandson returned to the city because he did not feel accepted in Williamsport, and unfortunately that move proved fatal.
What of Williamsport? As people in need of social services are pushed out of metropolitan areas into rural areas, Williamsport and other small towns are pushed beyond their capacity. Their limited resources are stretched, and providing welfare services and benefits diminishes what is available for longtime residents. Like many economically declining towns and cities across the United States, Williamsport is struggling to meet the demands of the homegrown population as well as taking on the troubles of larger cities. Just as many welfare recipients felt duped into moving, pushed to make a change with promises that did not pan out, Williamsport is pushed as well. Perhaps it is trying too hard to hang on to a stigmatizing identifier of outsiders that no longer works, if it ever really did.
Footnotes
This research was supported by grants provided by Phi Kappa Phi as well as a Lycoming College Professional Development Grant.