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    Do Taxpayers Need Marriage Workshops? Rabbi Stephen Baars is here from the government to help your love life.

    Ohanian Comment: OK,
    this is outside the ordinary realm of what we
    deal with on this site. But it definitely
    is pertinent to the theme of overall
    corruption in the Bush administration in
    general and to their reading policy in
    particular.

    So read about Rabbi Baars, one of the many
    unlikely foot soldiers executing one of
    President George W. Bush's few big domestic
    policy initiatives. You may think this belongs
    over in The Eggplant, but truth is always
    stranger than fiction.

    Your tax dollars at work.


    by Stephanie Mencimer

    Stephen Baars has a few impediments to
    connecting with his current audience. Among
    them: He's a redheaded white guy. He's a rabbi.
    And he has a British accent.

    None of these was a big problem when Baars was
    offering his "Bliss" marriage enhancement
    seminars to suburban Jews in Bethesda,
    Maryland. But in 2006, much to his surprise,
    the Department of Health and Human Services
    awarded him a five-year, $500,000-a-year
    "Healthy Marriage" grant. His federally
    mandated mission: to bring down the divorce
    rate in Washington, DC, whose population is
    more than 55 percent black and 20 percent poor.
    So for the past two years or so, Baars has been
    running ads in local papers and on black radio
    stations to entice couples to drop by his
    office in a gritty area just north of the
    Capitol and "create relationships that win!"

    On a warm Thursday night in May, Baars, dressed
    in a gray suit and yarmulke, is sitting alone
    in his third-floor conference room, awaiting
    some bliss seekers. He understands that
    achieving his federal grant's goal is "a tough
    nut to crack." "When you're dealing with that
    degree of poverty, it's very hard for people to
    take this seriously," he says. "I read many
    black magazines," he adds—but even so, the
    cultural disconnect can be daunting. "Twenty or
    thirty percent of the people who come here
    can't deal with it."

    Baars says his course usually draws 8 or 10
    people a night. He acknowledges that many of
    them aren't married, just looking for
    relationship advice. "We've even had gay
    people." Tonight, though, 45 minutes after
    start time, not even one straight person has
    shown up to get Bliss.

    Rabbi Baars is just one of the many unlikely
    foot soldiers executing one of President George
    W. Bush's few big domestic policy initiatives.
    From its earliest days, the administration has
    insisted that marriage is not just a sacred
    institution, but a powerful way to restore
    family values, reduce poverty, and protect
    children. Announcing the creation of Marriage
    Protection Week in October 2003, Bush cited
    findings that "children raised in households
    headed by married parents fare better than
    children who grow up in other family
    structures." More than a not-so-subtle dig at
    gay marriage, it was a reaffirmation that the
    federal government was now in the business of
    "helping couples build successful marriages."

    In early 2001, Bush appointed Wade Horn, a
    conservative psychologist, as the nation's
    first marriage czar. Horn spent the next six
    years as the Department of Health and Human
    Services assistant secretary for children and
    families, making sure federal programs from
    Head Start to welfare were doing their part to
    get the wedding bells pealing. Previously, Horn
    had been one of the leading figures in the
    marriage movement—an offshoot of the family-
    values camp that sought to defend the
    traditional family from the destructive
    influence of women's libbers and single moms.
    As the president of the National Fatherhood
    Initiative, Horn attacked what he called the
    "we hate marriage" elites and infuriated
    women's groups by defending the Southern
    Baptist Convention's proclamation that women
    should "submit" to their husbands' "servant
    leadership." Horn believed that federal poverty
    programs should be vehicles for marriage
    promotion, proposing in a 1997 article that the
    government boost the marriage rate in poor
    neighborhoods by prohibiting unmarried people
    from taking advantage of programs like Head
    Start and public housing.

    Once confirmed, Horn toned down his rhetoric,
    but plowed ahead in transforming federal
    poverty programs into vehicles for marriage
    promotion. During his first three years, the
    Administration for Children and Families took
    $62 million budgeted for anti-poverty programs
    and gave it instead to a host of new, largely
    faith-based organizations to implement new
    marriage-promotion programs. That diversion
    included $20 million from the block grant that
    funds local agencies that do everything from
    run Head Start programs to provide heating
    assistance to seniors. The agency also shifted
    $27 million in research money from studying
    things like whether people who are cut from
    welfare rolls get jobs to measuring how these
    new programs affect "marital satisfaction."

    That was just the beginning. The
    administration's ultimate goal was to dedicate
    a significant chunk of the $16.5 billion
    federal welfare budget to marriage promotion.
    When the 1996 welfare reform bill came up for
    reauthorization in Congress in 2002, the White
    House sought to divert $300 million a year from
    the Temporary Assistance for Needy Families
    program into its marriage initiatives. It also
    wanted to force tanf (i.e., welfare) recipients
    to attend marriage-promotion classes as a "work
    activity," and sanction them if they didn't.
    "We used to joke, 'Does dating count?'" says
    Kate Kahan, a former staffer for Sen. Max
    Baucus (D-Mont.) who worked on the bill. "The
    focus was so much on the certificate of
    marriage," she says. "It was so ideological and
    disconnected from what was happening on the
    ground with families."

    The White House eventually won much of the
    battle to make welfare more marriage minded—in
    large part, says Kahan, because Democrats never
    really figured out how to fight back. Many
    liberal members of Congress were genuinely
    concerned about the disintegration of low-
    income families, particularly the fact that 70
    percent of black children are born out of
    wedlock. And of course, no one wanted to come
    out against marriage. The final welfare bill,
    passed in 2006, provided no new money for
    family assistance, but it set aside $100
    million a year for creating new marriage
    programs.


    that's how the federal government started
    helping Americans put a little sizzle back in
    their love lives. Taxpayers are now paying for
    Brownsville, Texas, residents to attend island
    retreats where they can discover "how to keep
    the romance alive." They're paying for couples
    massage classes, date nights, and "sexual
    enhancement" workshops in Clearfield,
    Pennsylvania; a "sweetheart dinner dance" in
    Sacramento; courses on deciphering your
    spouse's "love language" in Wyoming; and "10
    Great Dates" seminars in dozens of cities.

    According to the federally funded National
    Healthy Marriage Resource Center, a third of
    the grantees whom the Healthy Marriage
    Initiative rushed to fund have no previous
    experience in marriage education. Many of the
    rest are marriage entrepreneurs—motivational
    speakers with businesses that sell seminars,
    books, CDs, and videos. Among them is Dr. Susan
    Heitler, a Denver psychotherapist who created
    an online video game in which a middle-class
    African American couple bickers over the
    flowers for its upcoming wedding. Click the
    wrong answer, and Heitler appears on-screen to
    gently correct you—and pitch her book, Power of
    Two: Secrets to a Strong & Loving Marriage.
    Mark Gungor, a minister in Green Bay,
    Wisconsin, has received a $265,000 annual grant
    to present his "Laugh Your Way to a Better
    Marriage" seminars to Hispanics around the
    country. Chris Ferrell, who translates the
    sessions into Spanish, says his boss always
    wanted to get in touch with his Latino roots.
    In 2006, acf awarded a $548,000 annual grant to
    Granato Counseling Services to offer its FIT
    Relationships™ program to low-income married
    couples with children in Washington, DC. Unable
    to find enough married parents in a city where
    more than 90 percent of poor women with kids
    are single, the program expanded to the
    Virginia suburbs. There, explains company
    founder Laura Granato, it now tries to reach
    recent Hispanic immigrants—some of the same
    people that the administration has tried to
    deport.

    Some state social service agencies have gotten
    marriage money, as have some old-line anti-
    poverty organizations that have tacked marriage
    programs on to their existing services. And a
    good chunk of the funding has gone to anti-
    abortion and pro-abstinence groups, as well as
    right-wing Christian organizations that lobby
    against gay marriage.While the marriage money
    comes from welfare, it's not actually required
    to go toward serving low-income people. Nor
    does the federal government require Healthy
    Marriage grantees to show much in the way of
    progress. Programs aren't required to track
    their participants' marital fortunes. When
    asked if any of the programs are working,
    Theodora Ooms, a consultant to the National
    Healthy Marriage Resource Center, responds,
    "What do you mean by working?" Ooms says that
    sometimes the measure of an effective marriage
    education program is a couple that decides not
    to tie the knot.

    If Democrats had proposed spending hundreds of
    millions of dollars on a social program whose
    only measure of success was whether its
    beneficiaries were happy in love, they would
    have been laughed out of town. But Republicans
    have stuck by Healthy Marriage, for better or
    for worse. "It's only $100 million a year,"
    says Ron Haskins, a senior fellow at the
    Brookings Institution and the former senior
    adviser for welfare policy at the Bush White
    House. And, he adds, "If we had the marriage
    rate that we had in the 1970s, the poverty rate
    would fall 30 percent."

    That questionable statistic has convinced some
    liberals to get on the marriage bandwagon.
    Robert Lerman, an economist at the Urban
    Institute, says the disintegration of the
    American family is having a devastating effect
    on poor children, and it's "long past time that
    we took the family structure issue more
    seriously."

    However, marriage advocates have not satisfied
    critics who claim that marriage is a product—
    not a cause—of financial security. After all,
    one poor person married to another poor person
    equals two poor people. A 2004 study by the
    University of Tennessee's Center for Business
    and Economic Research found that single moms on
    welfare who got married were in fact no better
    off financially than those who stayed single,
    and their children didn't fare any better
    either. In fact, poor women who never got
    married were often better off than those who
    got married and then divorced. For instance,
    welfare recipients whose marriages ended during
    the study were twice as likely to have their
    power cut off and twice as likely to move in
    with other people because they couldn't afford
    housing than women who remained single.

    Even if marriage is a bona fide anti-poverty
    tool, there is virtually no research indicating
    how, precisely, the government might get poor
    people to embrace it. The only social program
    that's ever demonstrated an increase in the
    marriage rate of poor women with children
    caused it by accident. Started in 1994, the
    Minnesota Family Investment Program allowed
    women to keep more of their welfare benefits
    when they went to work, rather than cutting
    them off. During the three-year experiment and
    for a few years afterward, black women's
    divorce rate fell 70 percent. The positive
    effects on kids also continued for several
    years.

    Minnesota's experience suggests that President
    Bush wasn't entirely wrong to think that the
    government can play a positive role in
    stabilizing families. Yet it also showed that
    strengthening poor families requires something
    quite simple: money, which the administration
    has been extremely reluctant to allocate. For
    seven straight years, it has proposed freezing
    federal child care funding; if Congress
    approves the continued freeze, an estimated
    200,000 kids will lose their child care slots
    next year. Bush has also twice vetoed a bill
    that would have expanded the State Child Health
    Insurance Program (schip) to include more poor
    working families. And since 2004, budget cuts
    have eliminated more than 150,000 housing
    vouchers for poor families; only one-quarter of
    eligible families now get housing assistance.

    All of which may help explain why the marriage
    president's legacy includes an out-of-wedlock
    birthrate that stands at nearly 40 percent, an
    all-time high.


    one year ago, Donald and Octavia Knight were
    living in a dank basement in a drug-infested,
    crime-ridden Baltimore neighborhood. The space
    often flooded, and it crawled with rats. Though
    Octavia was nine months pregnant, they slept on
    crates. Despite their dire circumstances, on
    June 24, 2007, they got married—with no
    prompting from President Bush. "We were in
    love," laughs Donald. Two weeks later, Tavien
    Donald Knight was born, the only baby they know
    whose parents are married to each other.

    From the start, the Knights' marriage faced
    long odds. Octavia, now 22, only finished 11th
    grade. Donald, 49, got his high school diploma
    while he was in prison in the 1980s. Both
    worked, but their earnings fell well below the
    federal poverty line of $17,170 a year for a
    family of three. Tavien's birth nearly derailed
    their relationship. The baby was born with
    light skin; Donald is dark skinned. "I went a
    little Jerry Springer," he confesses.

    Before they left the hospital with their
    newborn, the Knights were recruited into the
    Baltimore Building Strong Families program, one
    of the Healthy Marriage Initiative's showcase
    projects. Unlike the work done by many of the
    newer marriage grantees, Building Strong
    Families is based on actual research. Social
    scientists have found that more than 80 percent
    of unwed, low-income parents were in a romantic
    relationship at the time of their babies'
    birth; while many hoped to marry, most split up
    soon afterward. Those studies suggest that
    supporting parents at this critical time might
    keep men more involved in their kids' lives.

    The centerpiece of Building Strong Families is
    a support group for new parents that meets
    weekly for six months, teaching couples a
    variety of skills from conflict resolution to
    money management—standard marriage education
    stuff, tailored to poor, black Baltimoreans.
    The program provides free dinner, child care,
    and transportation. Caseworkers visit
    participants at home to help with housing,
    child care, health insurance, and other
    services; the visits continue for six months
    after they finish the program. Even if the
    participants don't get married—and most won't—
    the hope is that they will do a better job of
    raising their kids together. As of June, there
    had been a grand total of 8 weddings among the
    680 or so couples that had been through the
    program in the past three years.

    The Knights have attended nearly every one of
    their classes. Donald says that the program,
    with its focus on navigating domestic disputes,
    helped him work through the crisis that
    followed Tavien's birth. (It helped that the
    baby soon became the spitting image of his
    dad.)

    On a rainy Wednesday night in May, a Building
    Strong Families van delivers the Knights and
    their 10-month-old son to the program's office
    in Sandtown-Winchester, a neighborhood that
    frequently served as the backdrop for The Wire.
    After leaving Tavien in child care, the couple
    joins six other people for a session on
    managing money. Two women are here solo because
    the fathers of their babies are now in prison;
    one says she hopes the classes will help her
    choose a better mate in the future.

    Afra Vance White, the program director, starts
    the discussion by asking, "Is money a cause of
    stress in your relationship?" Donald Knight
    volunteers that he needs to get a new job, but
    needs child care to make that happen. Vance
    White asks whether the couple has tried to get
    a subsidized child care voucher; Donald says
    the paperwork is too complicated. He doesn't
    mention that Octavia actually received a
    voucher after the baby was born. But once she
    got a $6.30 an hour job at Burger King, social
    services cut her off, saying she was making
    enough to support her family and pay her own
    child care bill. The cost of child care would
    consume more than half of her weekly paycheck,
    so taking care of Tavien has fallen to Donald,
    leaving him earning $100 a week as a church
    janitor.

    Six months of group therapy seems like a thin
    shell protecting the Knights' marriage from the
    ravages of poverty. Though they've moved to a
    new, rat-free apartment in a quieter
    neighborhood, they don't have health insurance.
    (Tavien only recently got coverage.) And the
    child care problem remains a huge obstacle to
    any hopes of upward mobility. "We're married,"
    Donald says, "but we're still broke."


    back at his still-empty office, Rabbi Baars
    does Bliss for an audience of one—me—with the
    poise of someone who has flopped in front of a
    crowd. (He took a class in stand-up comedy at
    ucla and once performed at the Improv in Santa
    Monica.) His yarmulke keeps falling off as he
    gets into his material, which is thoughtful and
    occasionally funny. Baars likes to quote Woody
    Allen: "Sex is like pizza: When it's good, it's
    really good, and when it's bad, it's still
    pretty good."

    An hour and 15 minutes after the session was
    supposed to start, a black woman in a turquoise
    tank top comes up the stairs and collapses into
    a chair. Chan Taylor says she heard about the
    seminar on the radio. "I need Bliss because
    right now I'm getting blistered," she says with
    a hearty laugh. Taylor wants to know if Baars
    will talk about "what happens if we marry frogs
    and turn them into princes and they hop away?"
    At a loss for an answer, Baars chuckles
    nervously.

    Taylor isn't married, nor does she have a
    boyfriend. Her two children are grown, placing
    her squarely outside Healthy Marriage's target
    group. But she hopes to be a good wife someday
    and asks Baars if his class will teach her "how
    to pick the right person." Baars gently tells
    her no, and refers her to his dating program,
    Bliss for Singles.

    I ask Baars if he's saved anyone's marriage. He
    insists that he has, but admits that progress
    is difficult to document. "It's hard to measure
    if you're happily married," he says. "Is it
    achieving the government's goal of reducing
    poverty? That I can't answer."

    — Stephanie Mencimer
    Mother Jones
    2008-09-02


    INDEX OF OUTRAGES

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