I didn’t tell the producers from Eye to Eye with Connie Chung that I needed welfare so I wouldn’t go back to being a stripper to pay my rent.
It was May of 1995, and I was in my final weeks of college in Spokane, Washington, where I studied Natural Resources Management. I took up to 23 credits each term in my quest to get three different Associate of Applied Science degrees in two years. I graduated with 131 honor roll credits.
A single parent of a 3-year-old, I relied on the Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) program—commonly known as welfare—to survive while I studied to give us a chance at a better future. I received a small monthly check ($350), food-stamps ($75), and a childcare stipend (paid directly to the state-approved daycare) so my son could be cared for while I took classes.
Money was tight. I had taken my clothes off in a peep-show setting (behind a glass window) in my early adult years until I got pregnant at 19. After my son was born, I still worked for a short while. Without a college education, I couldn’t find a regular job that paid enough to support us while covering childcare costs.
Picking up a few shifts on the stage would have helped immensely, but when my toddler son pulled one of my lace garters from my duffel bag and walked over to me with it, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke and sweat contrasted with the innocent scent of baby shampoo, and waves of nausea overcame me. I promised myself I would never go back.
Obtaining welfare wasn’t easy. There were many hoops to jump through to get aid. Despite popular and political belief, nobody was easily handing out money. Regular forms for food-stamps, forms for the monthly check, forms for healthcare, and forms for childcare were required—so many that it felt like additional homework. This was before the internet or any availability of online or computer entry.
I lived in a constant state of mental and physical exhaustion. Each day fell short in time for me to tick off everything required of me. Late nights rocking a sick little boy until the children’s acetaminophen kicked in and he slept, led to later nights of studying. Mornings arrived too soon.
There was little tolerance for missed appointments or deadlines. You had to work to get help—and I needed help to survive—so I did what was required. At times, I had to scrape together coins for a gallon of gas or bus fare to ensure I made it to the Social Services office across town and then back to school in time for classes.
I had a great relationship with my caseworker, Mike. He’d call me directly and remind me about upcoming deadlines. At every appointment, he praised my progress and encouraged me to keep going. When I was getting a job in the field for the summer between terms, he found additional resources and offered me a $200 stipend to pay for my required Red Wing leather work boots. I still wear those boots today.
When Mike called me in the spring of 1995 to ask if I’d be willing to be interviewed for Eye to Eye with Connie Chung on an episode to show success stories about people who used the AFDC, I listened. I couldn't say we were friends, but we respected each other. It would have been easy to assume this call was a prank and hang up the phone, but I didn’t.
“They reached out to our office asking about clients who are succeeding on the program, and you are the first person I thought of, Michele.” I could hear a smile in his voice. “You are doing great.”
For a moment, I just sat there holding the phone. Most people only seemed interested in welfare recipients when they wanted to criticize them.
Mike knew I was only a couple of weeks from graduating with a job already lined up with the Forest Service in Montana, and a place to rent secured. We both knew I was very close to fully supporting myself and that I looked forward to leaving welfare dependency and never looking back.
“Thank you, Mike.” I paused, still trying to understand. “Are you sure they want to talk to me?”
“I recommended you, Michele. There is so much controversy around the program, they want to show that not everyone is abusing the system.”
The idea that he, my caseworker, believed in me seemed impossible.
In the 1990s, American politics was such that public assistance programs were under attack. Conservatives argued that the recipients of welfare had become trapped in a cycle of poverty and that the system was set up to encourage women to have more children out of wedlock just to get more money. From 1994 to 1996—when the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act was enacted—laws were debated, presented, vetoed, and sent back to committees to work on again.
Eye to Eye with Connie Chung wanted to show another side to the story.
I considered his words. “Okay. If I say yes, what happens next?”
“With your permission, I will give the producers your phone number. They will call with the rest of the details.”
I agreed to do it, but I kept the news to myself. I didn’t want to be embarrassed if it ended up being too good to be true. I struggled with my place at school; a woman getting perfect scores in small engine repair and forestry classes tended to draw competition and scorn from several older loggers who didn’t like the classroom competition from a woman.
To my surprise, the producers called me a few days later and asked several questions about my situation and my upcoming plans. I told them the truth.
I had my son out of wedlock when I was 19. His father broke up with me before he was born.
I used the welfare program to survive, including helping to pay for housing and food.
I attended college to get a degree to work in the natural resources field, worked the previous summer for the Forest Service, and was returning to that job after graduation.
I was an honor student at the top of my class, having taken up to 23 credits per term, and would graduate with 3 AA degrees in only a couple of weeks.
I intended to leave the welfare system and never return.
What I didn’t tell them—or my caseworker, Mike—was that I was on welfare so I wouldn’t have to return to being a stripper. It was the secret I kept from everyone.
The CBS team said they’d take the answers back to the team and be in touch. I was excited, but still kept quiet about it.
A few days later, they called with the final details: they’d be on campus in two days for interviews and filming. I gave them the main phone number of the college, the directions to find my building, and my class schedule.
At the end of the class day before shooting was to begin, I let my teachers and classmates know so they wouldn’t be surprised when the crew showed up. Some were excited for me, others were skeptical. I understood—it sounded too good to be true to me, too.
When I got to campus the next day and they hadn’t arrived, my heart raced. I kept looking for someone who might belong to a camera crew. By my second class, the CBS team still hadn’t shown up. I wondered if they had gotten lost somewhere on campus. I used a break between classes to head to the main office. Nobody had seen them. The afternoon classes crawled by as dread set in.
By the end of the day, a male classmate sneered, “What happened to Connie Chung, Michele?” My face crimson, I had no answer. I wished I'd never told anyone.
I didn’t hear from CBS that day, or ever again. I called Mike, and he hadn’t heard anything either. I wondered if it had all been some strange dream—or a cruel joke. Returning to class the next day was difficult.
A few days later, the headlines broke that CBS had fired Connie Chung from her position on the CBS Evening News and canceled Eye to Eye with Connie Chung. My fifteen minutes of fame didn’t arrive because of political controversy and poor ratings.
While I was embarrassed, life moved on. A week later, I graduated with honors. I never went back to public assistance. I never returned to stripping. I grew up. My son grew up.
My career has included jobs in the legal, government, education, healthcare, and agriculture industries. My son has a successful career and family life, too. I went on to have two daughters who are forging their way in the world as young adults. We wouldn’t be where we are today—including happily contributing our share of federal taxes back to the systems to help others—if I hadn’t received the help I needed decades ago.
No camera crew ever came to interview me or showcase how the system could work. They never told my story. But the welfare program did exactly what it was designed to do: it helped me lace up my boots and gave me the chance to study, work hard, and build a life I could never have reached on my own.
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