The new Obama Presidential administration would like to allocate $825,000,000,000.00 to help rescue the United States economy. On the receiving end are new government spending programs and tax cuts. In addition, Obama will put his new Secretary of the Treasury to work examining the list of banks requesting bailout funds and decide who will get a handout as a continuation of TARP (the Troubled Asset Relief Program) initiated by Bush.
Before the government attempts to bail anyone else out or hand out tax cuts, it should take care of its own needs, first, by making up deficits in state budgets and investing in state-sponsored government projects.
Remember the wise words of the airline attendant: “Be sure to put on your own oxygen mask first before assisting others.” Otherwise, you might suffocate while attempting to tighten the yellow rubber strap on your squirming child’s mask and then you’ll both die.
Dozens of states have already stripped their budgets to the bare bones. Despite valiant efforts, states need money NOW to continue operation of schools, law enforcement, road maintenance, pensions, and countless important and essential programs. If our local governments cannot afford to operate, they are in danger of collapse. If this happens, we are all done for.
Fortunately, the Obama administration does intend to spend some money helping to bail out state governments. According to a January 25, 2009 article in the The Christian Science Monitor, roughly $241 billion of Obama’s stimulus package will be allocated to states to help them rescue their budgets by funding $87 billion in Medicaid programs, $120 billion in education, $4 billion in law enforcement, and $30 billion in roads and infrastructure.
However, state budget deficits are predicted to total at least $350 billion over the course of 2009 to 2011, according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities (CBPP). And that’s with all the cuts to “non-essential” services.
Why are state governments in trouble? They haven’t been able to collect as much revenue as expected, either from taxes, sales of lottery tickets, fees, other sources big and small and, SURPRISE!... low to zero dividends on investments. Yes, even local governments invest in the risky stock market.
Whenever a local government faces a deficit, we all hear about the cuts in education. “No instruments for the band,” or “We’ll have to cut the wrestling team.” Such dire predictions always garner sympathy at election time so that governments can get their local tax levies passed.
However, there is much more at stake this time than just new uniforms for the football team. A lot of private companies depend on the guarantee of local government spending for their own survival when times are lean.
For instance, when a state must cut a building program, someone on the other end is suffering. There’s the engineering firm in Texas and the architecture firm in New York who was counting on the job and now must lay off their own workers. There’s the local contractor who must tell their masons that they’re sorry, the job was cancelled, but, “You won’t get unemployment because you weren’t an employee.” There’s the supplier who already put in the order for steel I-beams from Pittsburg and limestone from Idaho. Cancelled. Then, there’s the manufacturer who won’t be moving to your state after all. “We’ll just keep outsourcing to China where the government has built all the necessary buildings, roads and docks we need, not to mention the cheap labor.”
When a state must cut funds to museums and parks, they are in danger of falling into disrepair, or worse, closing down completely. The seasonal employee who counted on the summer job cleaning cabins might not be able to afford tuition at Ohio University next year. The hotels and restaurants who depend on tourism to Yosemite will lose customers. The gift shops at Cape Hatteras will lose sales and stop ordering cutesy molded light houses from the artist who makes them in Seattle.
When a state must cut funds, the effects are far reaching. Jobs are lost far and wide across the nation. You may not care that Montana needs new rest areas built on I-90 because you never plan to go there. However, perhaps the door manufacturer in your local state of Utah was counting on getting the supply contract.
Other countries invest in their citizens in infrastructure and free education. Other countries now have the jobs which used to belong to our own citizens.
It’s time we invested at home. Let’s heal ourselves first before trying to heal anyone else.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
How to Not Layoff a Worker
Last week, my mother was laid off from her “very” part time job at a non-profit organization. Mom had started working there 25 years ago after the kids were nearly grown, working part-time to full-time as needed. Mom built her life around her job and made many close friends among her coworkers with whom she spent a lot of time off the job.
After many years and many budget cuts, Mom was now the only remaining person working in her department who performed her specific duties. Although she was paid to work only 12 hours a week, Mom put in an extra 12 to 20 hours per week in volunteer time doing what she truly loved. She liked to joke that she was “cheap” labor.
On top of Mom’s volunteer contributions, she also supported the non-profit financially, buying gifts for all of us at Christmas from the non-profit run shop and donating money to special programs.
Mom assumed her job would always be safe. She was sadly mistaken.
Her employer, the non-profit, held a meeting one day where they told their shocked and dismayed staff that all part-time help and some full-time help would be “separated.” Mom tried to negotiate even fewer paid hours via her supervisor, who told her that the “powers that be” were not interested. She was told to pack up her personal things and collect her last pay check.
“But, you’re welcome to continue volunteering,” said the receptionist who handed her the check. “That’s the plan – to shift most of the work to volunteers to save money,” she said.
“Humph!” said Mom as she boxed up all the materials she had purchased with her own money and not sought for reimbursement.
Mom wasn’t upset that there was no warning. She was upset that the decision to lay her off was all done out of her control; that the method seemed cold and inhuman; and more importantly, that it seemed unnecessary. She loved her company, loved her job, and would have gone right on putting in tons of hours for free if she’d felt respected. However, she felt she was being treated as a Social Security number, just another “part time” status employee sent to the slaughter house – and not treated the way she saw herself – as an intelligent and important, incremental part of the non-profit’s operation.
Mom decided she would eventually go back to volunteering, but at the competing non-profit instead.
I told my mother that her old employers are idiots.
On March 20, 2003, after several months of threats to invade Iraq and take down Saddam Hussein, President G.W. Bush ordered the “shock and awe” bombing of Iraq. We were now going to war.
Just like so many Seattle-based businesses around me, my own business came to a screeching halt. Since I extended credit and billed my clients after the work was done, I relied on them to pay me in a reasonably timely manner so that I could pay my own businesses’ bills. Usually, there were a few stragglers: about 10% of customers on average paid late and some never paid at all and had to be sent to collections. However, in April of 2003, only 25% of my clients had paid for services provided for them from January through March. In other words, 75% were late with their payments. I began to panic.
I had always paid myself last out of whatever was left after paying my staff and the bills – it seemed the fairest way to operate. It also helped me gain the respect of my employees and those in the business world. If there was more money leftover, I stashed it away for a rainy day. When revenue fell short, I made up the difference with savings and never took out business loans, so that I had no business debt.
Despite having done everything correctly, I was now faced with a serious cash flow deficit. I sat down my employees to tell them the bad news. “We’re running out of savings. Old customers aren’t paying their bills. New customers aren’t placing orders. Due to the lack of demand for work, we’re going to have to lay off production workers if money doesn’t start rolling in very soon.”
I did not expect the amazing transformation that occurred within my own staff. Sabrina, the office assistant who was usually quite obstinate, suddenly became quite helpful and got on the phone calling customers to remind them to pay their bills. The sales staff who had whined about the bad economy suddenly began to make sales again, and also were able to personally collect many of the unpaid bills. I had tears in my eyes – I was so impressed with all of their contributions to save the business.
Sabrina later came to me. “I took another job at night so you can cut my hours if you want,” she said.
“Why would you do that? You know your job is safe,” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “I don’t want to see Mitch get laid off.” Mitch was her friend and unfortunately, the first on the chopping block due to his low seniority.
In the end, the business was saved. Everyone got to keep their job. However, Mitch and Sabrina, young and inexperienced in the work world, both left soon after since they were concerned about their job stability. The business began to do well again and flourished and prospered better than ever before as new staff members, some who were seasoned experts laid off by my competitors, filled Mitch’s and Sabrina’s former positions.
Looking back on the experience, I realize that the reason my staff rallied together to save the company was because they viewed it as their own company, not a business which I technically owned. Their pride in their jobs, their sense of ownership, their camaraderie and friendship among each other was their motivation for keeping the company intact. The long hours and hard work I invested was an example to them. My openness showed my sincerity.
I gave them the power to save their own jobs and they came through.
After many years and many budget cuts, Mom was now the only remaining person working in her department who performed her specific duties. Although she was paid to work only 12 hours a week, Mom put in an extra 12 to 20 hours per week in volunteer time doing what she truly loved. She liked to joke that she was “cheap” labor.
On top of Mom’s volunteer contributions, she also supported the non-profit financially, buying gifts for all of us at Christmas from the non-profit run shop and donating money to special programs.
Mom assumed her job would always be safe. She was sadly mistaken.
Her employer, the non-profit, held a meeting one day where they told their shocked and dismayed staff that all part-time help and some full-time help would be “separated.” Mom tried to negotiate even fewer paid hours via her supervisor, who told her that the “powers that be” were not interested. She was told to pack up her personal things and collect her last pay check.
“But, you’re welcome to continue volunteering,” said the receptionist who handed her the check. “That’s the plan – to shift most of the work to volunteers to save money,” she said.
“Humph!” said Mom as she boxed up all the materials she had purchased with her own money and not sought for reimbursement.
Mom wasn’t upset that there was no warning. She was upset that the decision to lay her off was all done out of her control; that the method seemed cold and inhuman; and more importantly, that it seemed unnecessary. She loved her company, loved her job, and would have gone right on putting in tons of hours for free if she’d felt respected. However, she felt she was being treated as a Social Security number, just another “part time” status employee sent to the slaughter house – and not treated the way she saw herself – as an intelligent and important, incremental part of the non-profit’s operation.
Mom decided she would eventually go back to volunteering, but at the competing non-profit instead.
I told my mother that her old employers are idiots.
On March 20, 2003, after several months of threats to invade Iraq and take down Saddam Hussein, President G.W. Bush ordered the “shock and awe” bombing of Iraq. We were now going to war.
Just like so many Seattle-based businesses around me, my own business came to a screeching halt. Since I extended credit and billed my clients after the work was done, I relied on them to pay me in a reasonably timely manner so that I could pay my own businesses’ bills. Usually, there were a few stragglers: about 10% of customers on average paid late and some never paid at all and had to be sent to collections. However, in April of 2003, only 25% of my clients had paid for services provided for them from January through March. In other words, 75% were late with their payments. I began to panic.
I had always paid myself last out of whatever was left after paying my staff and the bills – it seemed the fairest way to operate. It also helped me gain the respect of my employees and those in the business world. If there was more money leftover, I stashed it away for a rainy day. When revenue fell short, I made up the difference with savings and never took out business loans, so that I had no business debt.
Despite having done everything correctly, I was now faced with a serious cash flow deficit. I sat down my employees to tell them the bad news. “We’re running out of savings. Old customers aren’t paying their bills. New customers aren’t placing orders. Due to the lack of demand for work, we’re going to have to lay off production workers if money doesn’t start rolling in very soon.”
I did not expect the amazing transformation that occurred within my own staff. Sabrina, the office assistant who was usually quite obstinate, suddenly became quite helpful and got on the phone calling customers to remind them to pay their bills. The sales staff who had whined about the bad economy suddenly began to make sales again, and also were able to personally collect many of the unpaid bills. I had tears in my eyes – I was so impressed with all of their contributions to save the business.
Sabrina later came to me. “I took another job at night so you can cut my hours if you want,” she said.
“Why would you do that? You know your job is safe,” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “I don’t want to see Mitch get laid off.” Mitch was her friend and unfortunately, the first on the chopping block due to his low seniority.
In the end, the business was saved. Everyone got to keep their job. However, Mitch and Sabrina, young and inexperienced in the work world, both left soon after since they were concerned about their job stability. The business began to do well again and flourished and prospered better than ever before as new staff members, some who were seasoned experts laid off by my competitors, filled Mitch’s and Sabrina’s former positions.
Looking back on the experience, I realize that the reason my staff rallied together to save the company was because they viewed it as their own company, not a business which I technically owned. Their pride in their jobs, their sense of ownership, their camaraderie and friendship among each other was their motivation for keeping the company intact. The long hours and hard work I invested was an example to them. My openness showed my sincerity.
I gave them the power to save their own jobs and they came through.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
In Honor of Dr. King –
Real Change One Child at a Time
Despite being very young, I remember when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was tragically shot down in 1968. For several years afterwards, a special sadness overwhelmed many of the members of our segregated community in western North Carolina. Many feared that the hope for change had died with Dr. King.
As a preschooler, I followed my stay-at-home mother around in her daily duties, typical of middle and upper class white suburban families in North Carolina. A few days after Martin Luther King’s assassination, my mother took me grocery shopping at our local A & P. Crusty remnants of hard packed snow clung to the sides of the road, so I lifted my vinyl boots carefully over the icy curbs, clinging to my mother’s hand so that I wouldn’t fall. In my very low frame of vision, I saw before me the bottom of a thick brown wool coat, blue-black stockings, and dull black leather work shoes. As I made my way onto the brightly painted yellow curb, I looked up to see the kind face of a black woman, worn older with work, her eyes filled with tears. She was standing on the curb waiting for the bus. No doubt, she worked as a maid for one of the families in the predominantly white neighborhood.
“Why are you crying?” I asked her. I was perpetually curious.
She struggled to answer while my mother tried to lead me away from her, “Don’t bother her,” she said under her breath.
“Don’t cry,” I reasoned with the woman, “It’s a happy day today. It’s my birthday,” I told her.
“It’s your birthday?” she asked as she wiped away her tears, smiling gently at me.
“Yes,” I said, “So don’t be sad.”
“Well, happy birthday,” smiled the woman.
My mother jerked me away into the store and later scolded me for being so free-spirited as to talk with strangers.
I was too young to understand the significance of the conversation. Despite the tragic death of Dr. King, hope was not lost. For among the old southern white families who once owned slaves and later employed black servants; among the racist white families who persecuted Dr. King, his beliefs, and those of his race; from the loins of white supremacists who went to church on Sunday morning and held lynchings on Sunday afternoons; there would be children born who would grow up color-blind and help make possible the very changes Dr. King had dreamed of.
My mother, vanilla white in every way, was raised with servants, the daughter of a card carrying KKK leader in the south. Her grandfather, my great grandfather, gained notoriety when he introduced legislation to keep blacks from owning land and henceforth getting the right to vote in the county where he lived. His work inspired a new branch of the NAACP formed to fight his efforts. Several decades after his death, his estate was purchased, then leveled to make room for Section 8 housing bearing his name so that the very people he put down in his lifetime would have a helping hand up after his death — a fitting tribute.
However, I was shielded from all of that personal family history for I was never told of it and had to learn it the “modern” way: via the internet, many, many years later.
Times had changed. It was the 1960s, the time of peace and love and equal rights protests. My parents, intellectuals, had decided to raise their children without passing on their own racist belief systems in an attempt to protect us from the persecution visited upon those who displayed their racist views publicly. My mother still held her views, but kept them closely guarded, only to reveal them in subtle ways through her personal choices in where she shopped, worshiped, and approved or disapproved of her children’s friends.
The first year I entered public school was also coincidentally the first year of integration in the county where I lived, although no one bothered to tell me. Amidst all of the turmoil in politics, I was clueless – just a little kid starting first grade. Girls were still required by school policy to wear skirts and dresses, but not pants, so I wore a hand-me-down – my older sister’s neon colored “peace” miniskirt.
Sitting beside me in class was a cute little boy named Robert who brought to school with him a miniature set of tools his father had given him. It had a tiny hammer, saw and screwdriver. I told Robert he should bring some wood to school so we can make something with his tools.
Since it was our first day of school, Robert’s brothers and sisters met him after class let out and laughed and cheered as we boarded our buses. I sat on my bus and looked out the window at his happy family. Robert saw me and pointed me out, so his older brother lifted Robert up onto his shoulders. He asked me to make a fist, so I did, which he then bumped through the open window — my first “fist bump.”
“Black power,” he said.
“Black power,” I said back.
We continued to all bump fists and yell “black power” and everyone cheered and laughed.
A few months later, I asked my mother if I could bring my new friend Robert home on the bus to play with me after school. I brought other friends home all the time. My mother said yes and the next day, we arrived. Mom took one look at Robert and asked us to play in the front yard.
“But you never let me play in the front yard,” I said. Traffic was heavy on the street where we lived and a neighbor’s son had been killed only a few years before. Mom and Dad spanked us if they caught us playing out front.
“Just stay away from the road,” said my mother quickly and went back inside.
A few minutes later, my mother came back outside and told me that Robert’s mother was coming to get him.
“But he just got here!” I whined.
Robert and I played “jump on a crack” on the front walk for a few minutes until his mother arrived. The next day at school, our teacher separated us and said that I had to make new friends. I cried and cried and watched with envy as Robert’s new seatmate got to play with Robert’s miniature toolset.
Fortunately, most of my childhood proceeded without drama. Many of my very best friends in grade school were minorities, though I didn’t understand what that meant. Looking through my child-sized eyes, everyone seemed to have skin with shades of different colors. Nancy had pale gray skin and was Japanese. Judy had olive-bluish skin and was Jewish. Theresa had ruddy skin and was Russian. Yumie had coppery skin and was Korean. Kelly had honey colored skin which I thoroughly envied, the result of being a mixture of English, German and a bit Cherokee. Christy was striking with clear beige skin, black eyes, and white blond Norwegian hair. I was vanilla. We girls were a very colorful group.
Despite literal centuries of a belief in white supremacy, the trend had been broken. Desegregation of schools had worked. My parents experiment to not pass on their own prejudices had worked. I was truly color-blind.
After several years of marriage, I still have to remind myself that my husband is considered to be a minority.
My hope for the future of this country is that everyone will someday stop seeing the giant color swatch of history behind the person, but instead celebrate the beautiful and diverse packages in which we have each been blessed. I am not pure white. You are not pure black. Our skin has been dyed in a vast array of colors in beautiful shades and hues, a palette of artistry by God, our maker.
Dr. King – Thank you for having a dream.
As a preschooler, I followed my stay-at-home mother around in her daily duties, typical of middle and upper class white suburban families in North Carolina. A few days after Martin Luther King’s assassination, my mother took me grocery shopping at our local A & P. Crusty remnants of hard packed snow clung to the sides of the road, so I lifted my vinyl boots carefully over the icy curbs, clinging to my mother’s hand so that I wouldn’t fall. In my very low frame of vision, I saw before me the bottom of a thick brown wool coat, blue-black stockings, and dull black leather work shoes. As I made my way onto the brightly painted yellow curb, I looked up to see the kind face of a black woman, worn older with work, her eyes filled with tears. She was standing on the curb waiting for the bus. No doubt, she worked as a maid for one of the families in the predominantly white neighborhood.
“Why are you crying?” I asked her. I was perpetually curious.
She struggled to answer while my mother tried to lead me away from her, “Don’t bother her,” she said under her breath.
“Don’t cry,” I reasoned with the woman, “It’s a happy day today. It’s my birthday,” I told her.
“It’s your birthday?” she asked as she wiped away her tears, smiling gently at me.
“Yes,” I said, “So don’t be sad.”
“Well, happy birthday,” smiled the woman.
My mother jerked me away into the store and later scolded me for being so free-spirited as to talk with strangers.
I was too young to understand the significance of the conversation. Despite the tragic death of Dr. King, hope was not lost. For among the old southern white families who once owned slaves and later employed black servants; among the racist white families who persecuted Dr. King, his beliefs, and those of his race; from the loins of white supremacists who went to church on Sunday morning and held lynchings on Sunday afternoons; there would be children born who would grow up color-blind and help make possible the very changes Dr. King had dreamed of.
My mother, vanilla white in every way, was raised with servants, the daughter of a card carrying KKK leader in the south. Her grandfather, my great grandfather, gained notoriety when he introduced legislation to keep blacks from owning land and henceforth getting the right to vote in the county where he lived. His work inspired a new branch of the NAACP formed to fight his efforts. Several decades after his death, his estate was purchased, then leveled to make room for Section 8 housing bearing his name so that the very people he put down in his lifetime would have a helping hand up after his death — a fitting tribute.
However, I was shielded from all of that personal family history for I was never told of it and had to learn it the “modern” way: via the internet, many, many years later.
Times had changed. It was the 1960s, the time of peace and love and equal rights protests. My parents, intellectuals, had decided to raise their children without passing on their own racist belief systems in an attempt to protect us from the persecution visited upon those who displayed their racist views publicly. My mother still held her views, but kept them closely guarded, only to reveal them in subtle ways through her personal choices in where she shopped, worshiped, and approved or disapproved of her children’s friends.
The first year I entered public school was also coincidentally the first year of integration in the county where I lived, although no one bothered to tell me. Amidst all of the turmoil in politics, I was clueless – just a little kid starting first grade. Girls were still required by school policy to wear skirts and dresses, but not pants, so I wore a hand-me-down – my older sister’s neon colored “peace” miniskirt.
Sitting beside me in class was a cute little boy named Robert who brought to school with him a miniature set of tools his father had given him. It had a tiny hammer, saw and screwdriver. I told Robert he should bring some wood to school so we can make something with his tools.
Since it was our first day of school, Robert’s brothers and sisters met him after class let out and laughed and cheered as we boarded our buses. I sat on my bus and looked out the window at his happy family. Robert saw me and pointed me out, so his older brother lifted Robert up onto his shoulders. He asked me to make a fist, so I did, which he then bumped through the open window — my first “fist bump.”
“Black power,” he said.
“Black power,” I said back.
We continued to all bump fists and yell “black power” and everyone cheered and laughed.
A few months later, I asked my mother if I could bring my new friend Robert home on the bus to play with me after school. I brought other friends home all the time. My mother said yes and the next day, we arrived. Mom took one look at Robert and asked us to play in the front yard.
“But you never let me play in the front yard,” I said. Traffic was heavy on the street where we lived and a neighbor’s son had been killed only a few years before. Mom and Dad spanked us if they caught us playing out front.
“Just stay away from the road,” said my mother quickly and went back inside.
A few minutes later, my mother came back outside and told me that Robert’s mother was coming to get him.
“But he just got here!” I whined.
Robert and I played “jump on a crack” on the front walk for a few minutes until his mother arrived. The next day at school, our teacher separated us and said that I had to make new friends. I cried and cried and watched with envy as Robert’s new seatmate got to play with Robert’s miniature toolset.
Fortunately, most of my childhood proceeded without drama. Many of my very best friends in grade school were minorities, though I didn’t understand what that meant. Looking through my child-sized eyes, everyone seemed to have skin with shades of different colors. Nancy had pale gray skin and was Japanese. Judy had olive-bluish skin and was Jewish. Theresa had ruddy skin and was Russian. Yumie had coppery skin and was Korean. Kelly had honey colored skin which I thoroughly envied, the result of being a mixture of English, German and a bit Cherokee. Christy was striking with clear beige skin, black eyes, and white blond Norwegian hair. I was vanilla. We girls were a very colorful group.
Despite literal centuries of a belief in white supremacy, the trend had been broken. Desegregation of schools had worked. My parents experiment to not pass on their own prejudices had worked. I was truly color-blind.
After several years of marriage, I still have to remind myself that my husband is considered to be a minority.
My hope for the future of this country is that everyone will someday stop seeing the giant color swatch of history behind the person, but instead celebrate the beautiful and diverse packages in which we have each been blessed. I am not pure white. You are not pure black. Our skin has been dyed in a vast array of colors in beautiful shades and hues, a palette of artistry by God, our maker.
Dr. King – Thank you for having a dream.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Obama needs to stop hiring his friends
Despite an initial professional approach, Obama has committed a cardinal sin of management – he’s attempting to “do favors” by appointing friends and debtees to some of the most important and critical positions in the non-profit corporation he’s been elected to manage, the United States of America.
Obama’s recent selection of Timothy Geithner as Secretary of the Treasury is a disaster in the making. Geithner’s previous involvement in the Federal Governments decision to axe Lehman Brothers, but bailout AIG is suspicious. The bailout was poorly executed, unfair, and expensive for taxpayers and Lehman Brothers investors. The current news that Geithner also did not pay self-employment taxes for several years is only the icing on the cake.
Obama should suck it up, leave his ego at the door, and find someone untainted and exceptionally brilliant to be the Secretary of the Treasury, a position which includes oversight of the I.R.S.
Why did Obama choose Geithner? Perhaps because Geithner’s father helped Obama’s mother work on an oversees community project. According to a Wikipedia article, Geithner’s father, Peter Geithner, oversaw the Ford Foundation's microfinance programs in Indonesia developed by Obama’s mother, Ann Dunham-Soetoro during the early 1980s.
Perhaps Obama chose Geithner because he supported his campaign. Did he?
Perhaps it was Geithner’s characteristically calm demeanor in the face of crisis or his long resume. I’ve been in the business world long enough to see incompetents calmly land positions of authority simply because of their swagger. Look at George W. Bush as the perfect example. Sometimes it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Connections plus infinitesimal self-confidence equals a big promotion.
DISHONESTY OR IGNORANCE?
Obama’s recent selection of Timothy Geithner as Secretary of the Treasury is a disaster in the making. Geithner’s previous involvement in the Federal Governments decision to axe Lehman Brothers, but bailout AIG is suspicious. The bailout was poorly executed, unfair, and expensive for taxpayers and Lehman Brothers investors. The current news that Geithner also did not pay self-employment taxes for several years is only the icing on the cake.
Obama should suck it up, leave his ego at the door, and find someone untainted and exceptionally brilliant to be the Secretary of the Treasury, a position which includes oversight of the I.R.S.
Why did Obama choose Geithner? Perhaps because Geithner’s father helped Obama’s mother work on an oversees community project. According to a Wikipedia article, Geithner’s father, Peter Geithner, oversaw the Ford Foundation's microfinance programs in Indonesia developed by Obama’s mother, Ann Dunham-Soetoro during the early 1980s.
Perhaps Obama chose Geithner because he supported his campaign. Did he?
Perhaps it was Geithner’s characteristically calm demeanor in the face of crisis or his long resume. I’ve been in the business world long enough to see incompetents calmly land positions of authority simply because of their swagger. Look at George W. Bush as the perfect example. Sometimes it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Connections plus infinitesimal self-confidence equals a big promotion.
DISHONESTY OR IGNORANCE?
Geithner himself failed to pay his own self-employment taxes for several years. A New York Times article dated January 14, 2009, reports that Geithner admitted he recently paid $48,268 in total unpaid taxes and fines. The Obama administration calls this an “honest” mistake. What’s “honest” about it?
Since Geithner was hired as an independent contractor, his employer would have been required to submit a 1099 form to him, clearly marking “non-employee compensation” in box 7. Geithner would have understood that he needed to report this. It would not have taken the I.R.S. long to catch up with Geithner since his employer would have submitted a copy of the 1099 to them as well.
Geithner’s employer, the International Monetary Fund, said they did supply him with quarterly wage reports including information on taxes due. Since the IMF is based in Washington, D.C. and not in another country, I assume that these were proper wage earning statements as required by US Federal law.
Even if Geithner’s employer fell down on the job and did not give him a 1099, he still should have been keeping track of his personal income. If Geithner was hired as a corporation or company so that a 1099 was not required, he still should have reported this income. Sadly, the I.R.S. would not necessarily know it was not reported unless either the employer or Geithner were audited. A 2006 audit turned up unpaid taxes for 2003 and 2004. Obama’s vetting team found that Geithner owed more unpaid taxes for 2001 and 2002.
Did Geithner do his own taxes? According to the New York Times, he hired an accountant who told him he was exempt from paying self-employment taxes. Who is this accountant? Where did he go to school and get his certification? Where is he now? What’s his excuse? I want to hear from him or her.
THE ULTIMATE TAX LOOPHOLE – DON’T REPORT IT
Since Geithner was hired as an independent contractor, his employer would have been required to submit a 1099 form to him, clearly marking “non-employee compensation” in box 7. Geithner would have understood that he needed to report this. It would not have taken the I.R.S. long to catch up with Geithner since his employer would have submitted a copy of the 1099 to them as well.
Geithner’s employer, the International Monetary Fund, said they did supply him with quarterly wage reports including information on taxes due. Since the IMF is based in Washington, D.C. and not in another country, I assume that these were proper wage earning statements as required by US Federal law.
Even if Geithner’s employer fell down on the job and did not give him a 1099, he still should have been keeping track of his personal income. If Geithner was hired as a corporation or company so that a 1099 was not required, he still should have reported this income. Sadly, the I.R.S. would not necessarily know it was not reported unless either the employer or Geithner were audited. A 2006 audit turned up unpaid taxes for 2003 and 2004. Obama’s vetting team found that Geithner owed more unpaid taxes for 2001 and 2002.
Did Geithner do his own taxes? According to the New York Times, he hired an accountant who told him he was exempt from paying self-employment taxes. Who is this accountant? Where did he go to school and get his certification? Where is he now? What’s his excuse? I want to hear from him or her.
THE ULTIMATE TAX LOOPHOLE – DON’T REPORT IT
Failing to pay self-employment taxes is epidemic. According to an October 11, 2007 report from the Treasury Inspector General for Tax Administration, unreported self-employment taxes are estimated to total $39 billion. The report said the lack of this revenue is eroding our failing Social Security and Medicare programs.
Before I ever met him, my husband was employed as a contractor by the newspaper where he worked. At the time, hiring workers as contractors rather than giving them the status of employee was a good way for companies to cut costs by passing the extra tax burden on to their employees. This means that when you file your taxes, you basically pay double the social security and medicare tax that you would pay as an “official” employee, or 15.3% instead of 7.65%.
Hiring workers as contractors for regular hours over long periods of time is now illegal in most states, primarily because unions have interceded, fighting on behalf of the workers for the right to be an “employee,” a protected status. Only employees can collect unemployment benefits. Contractors cannot. Only employees can collect insurance disability from their employer if they are injured on the job. Contractors cannot.
Being hired as a contractor also gives employees a false sense of income. You might think you’re getting a good wage at $25 per hour from one company while another offers you only $24 per hour, but will deduct taxes. In the end, the job paying $25 actually pays only $23 per hour after you pay the extra self-employment taxes.
Like Geithner, my future husband also did not pay his self-employment taxes. He paid for it later in stiff fines, about forty percent over what he owed when the IRS caught up with him a few years after the taxes were due. My future husband says he was clueless that he had to pay these taxes and didn’t receive 1099s. But, my husband is a journalist, not an accountant and I can testify that he is horrible with math. He is also not the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York or a contracted employer for the IMF, a company involved in the surveillance and “monitoring of economic and financial developments,” according to their website.
Geithner is.
Either Geithner is ignorant of tax law or dishonest. Either reason should disqualify him from our country’s highest position of tax authority.
Before I ever met him, my husband was employed as a contractor by the newspaper where he worked. At the time, hiring workers as contractors rather than giving them the status of employee was a good way for companies to cut costs by passing the extra tax burden on to their employees. This means that when you file your taxes, you basically pay double the social security and medicare tax that you would pay as an “official” employee, or 15.3% instead of 7.65%.
Hiring workers as contractors for regular hours over long periods of time is now illegal in most states, primarily because unions have interceded, fighting on behalf of the workers for the right to be an “employee,” a protected status. Only employees can collect unemployment benefits. Contractors cannot. Only employees can collect insurance disability from their employer if they are injured on the job. Contractors cannot.
Being hired as a contractor also gives employees a false sense of income. You might think you’re getting a good wage at $25 per hour from one company while another offers you only $24 per hour, but will deduct taxes. In the end, the job paying $25 actually pays only $23 per hour after you pay the extra self-employment taxes.
Like Geithner, my future husband also did not pay his self-employment taxes. He paid for it later in stiff fines, about forty percent over what he owed when the IRS caught up with him a few years after the taxes were due. My future husband says he was clueless that he had to pay these taxes and didn’t receive 1099s. But, my husband is a journalist, not an accountant and I can testify that he is horrible with math. He is also not the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York or a contracted employer for the IMF, a company involved in the surveillance and “monitoring of economic and financial developments,” according to their website.
Geithner is.
Either Geithner is ignorant of tax law or dishonest. Either reason should disqualify him from our country’s highest position of tax authority.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Ultra Conservative Coulter is Foolish to Not Embrace Single Mothers
This morning on the Today Show on NBC, ultra conservative author, Ann Coulter announced that she wrote in her new book, Guilty – Liberal Victims and Their Assault on America, that most of our society’s problems would be solved if women were not allowed to raise their children without a husband. Her reasoning was based on a statistic that says that 70 percent of all crimes are committed by people who were raised by single mothers. She feels that children of single mothers are victims of liberal values.
I don’t plan to read the book, not because I agree or disagree with Coulter’s views, but because I prefer to do other activities in my spare time. I did, however, listen to Ann Coulter speak on the Today show on her opinions of single motherhood twice, once to Matt Lauer in the early slot and a second time to Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb in the late slot.
Ms. Coulter, before you ostracize single mothers, think about the possible ramifications. Aren’t you possibly giving pregnant women an incentive to get abortions rather than face intense criticism? Teenagers already suffer unbelievably high amounts of embarrassment just for wearing the wrong brand of jeans. If you think accusing them of breeding criminals is going to encourage a pregnant teen to marry the father or put their child up for adoption, think again. She’s going straight for the clinic before anyone’s the wiser, and her parents and the father’s parents are going to be happy to give her the money.
My problem with the “right to lifer’s” has always been: Put your support where your mouth is. If you’re going to outlaw or stop abortions, you need to throw some support to single mothers. Give them free rent in a church-run dormitory or apartment. Supply them with baby food, clothing, and diapers. Pay their medical bills. Help them feel accepted and part of your church family. You never know, maybe they’ll meet a fine, upstanding man in your congregation and get married and have lots more babies that will fill your church each Sunday.
Consider my childhood friend Sarah who I grew up with in North Carolina. Within her family is a case study of unplanned pregnancies with tragic results.
Sarah’s oldest sister, Laura, became pregnant in her freshman year of college at a state run school in the late 1970’s. Jim, the father of the baby, did the right thing, proposed, and Laura accepted. Laura then took Jim home to meet her parents one weekend. Unfortunately, Laura’s parents didn’t like Jim since his family was poor and they felt he was beneath their social class. Jim was also graduating and leaving for an Army assignment at the end of the school year, so that Laura would have to drop out of college to raise the child. Laura’s parents didn’t want to see their young, pretty daughter throw her future away, so they convinced her to have an abortion. Early Saturday morning despite Jim’s protests, Laura’s parents quietly drove her to the doctor. Jim drove home in tears. Laura’s parents then took her out of the “hillbilly” college and put her in a fancy private university.
Unfortunately, Laura became pregnant again four years later in her senior year of college. This time, she insisted on going through with the pregnancy. The wealthy father of the baby, Andrew, had no intention of marrying Laura even though they had dated for two years in college and were considered an item. Andrew accused her of sleeping around, so Laura insisted on a paternity test. Even after proving that Andrew was the father, he relinquished all rights to the baby, claimed unemployment (he was a student) and would not give child support. Laura had to apply for state support.
Laura’s father was livid with her for continuing the pregnancy and literally threw her out of the house by not allowing her to return to her parents home after the end of the school year. Laura’s mother stood by her husband, since he is so strong willed and violent (It’s amazing how well such secrets are kept hidden behind the doors of upper and middle class white families). Laura’s parents’ primary argument against keeping the child was social embarrassment.
Fortunately, Laura’s grandmother took her in and enjoyed taking care of her little granddaughter while Laura worked two part time jobs at minimum wage to keep her head above water. So much for that expensive private university degree!
Laura’s younger sister, Beth, also got pregnant around this time, but after seeing what happened to Laura, she quietly went to a clinic without telling a soul. (I heard about it many, many years later after the dust had settled.)
My friend Sarah, the youngest of the three sisters, got pregnant years later in her freshman year of college. She visited me over the Christmas holidays while we were both home from college to ask for advice. We got a drugstore test which showed positive. She was worried her father would kill her and was too scared to talk to anyone in her family, especially Laura, who would be happy to pass the “shame” torch and have some of the attention taken off herself.
Sarah’s boyfriend Marvin, the father of the baby, had no ability to provide support, being just a kid himself. I rode with her to visit Marvin at his parents house, a nice home in a good neighborhood. He told her it was her decision – she could keep it or she could have an abortion. “I’m not going to marry you or be able to support you,” he said. He was not afraid to tell his parents who firmly said in front of me and Sarah, “No, we don’t want nothing to do with a baby.”
I had no idea how to help. Sarah was all alone.
What Sarah really wanted to do was have the baby knowing full well that her parents would disown her and cut off her financial support. Laura was still slaving away at two part time jobs with WIC food to supplement her meager income. Sarah didn’t want that. She also didn’t want to put her baby up for adoption since she felt she would regret it later. Instead, she wanted to keep the baby and get help in the form of a place to live near campus and childcare, so she could stay in school to finish her degree on a scholarship.
When Sarah returned to her college campus after the holidays, she went to Planned Parenthood to confirm her pregnancy. She was now 7 weeks along. If she was to have an abortion, she wanted to do it by the 9th week before the baby looked human, so she went ahead and made the appointment. She had two weeks to change her mind.
Sarah walked around the outskirts of campus (these were the B.I, Before Internet days) looking for brochures and fliers in the library and churches offering help to unwed mothers. Two churches told her they would be happy to take the baby off her hands. “No,” she said.
By the 9th week, Sarah had not found any help. She and Marvin walked to the clinic together.
Years later, we all got together with some other friends at a baby shower for Beth, now married, and heard each other’s stories, discussing the plight of the unwed mother. Regarding abortions, you were damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Despite warnings that abortion causes infertility, all three sisters, Laura, Beth, and Sarah, got married, got pregnant again, and had children. All of us knew countless other children of southern white church-going families who had done the very same thing, all afraid that they would be shamed by their communities and disowned by their families for embarrassing them. I think the only reason it didn’t happen to me is because I can’t have children.
It would be easy to assume that the men in this story are liberals because they all advocated for abortion. Such is not the case. All are southerners and card carrying, church-going, self-righteous, right wing conservatives who vote Republican at every election.
It’s also easy to assume that only poor white trash and blacks get pregnant out of wedlock. That’s the stigma. That’s the shame. Such is not the case. It seems just about every sexually active teenager from my day, the days before birth control was made readily available, got pregnant. The truth is, the rich white families took their pregnant daughters to get abortions; passed grandchildren off as their own late-in-life surprises; or sent their children away to secretly have the babies which were then adopted away.
The poor families already had so many skeletons spilling out of the closet, a pregnant teenager made no difference. They had no shame, so they had their babies out of wedlock for all the world to see. Yes, perhaps some of their children became criminals. However, I don’t think this is a symptom of being the child of a single mother. I think this is evidence that there are a greater number of poor young women who have kids out of wedlock than middle or upper class young women.
By ostracizing the single mother by suggesting that the odds are in favor that she is 70% likely to breed a criminal, you are only adding fuel to the “shame” fire. This will no doubt result in even more abortions.
Isn’t that the goal – end abortions?
I don’t plan to read the book, not because I agree or disagree with Coulter’s views, but because I prefer to do other activities in my spare time. I did, however, listen to Ann Coulter speak on the Today show on her opinions of single motherhood twice, once to Matt Lauer in the early slot and a second time to Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb in the late slot.
Ms. Coulter, before you ostracize single mothers, think about the possible ramifications. Aren’t you possibly giving pregnant women an incentive to get abortions rather than face intense criticism? Teenagers already suffer unbelievably high amounts of embarrassment just for wearing the wrong brand of jeans. If you think accusing them of breeding criminals is going to encourage a pregnant teen to marry the father or put their child up for adoption, think again. She’s going straight for the clinic before anyone’s the wiser, and her parents and the father’s parents are going to be happy to give her the money.
My problem with the “right to lifer’s” has always been: Put your support where your mouth is. If you’re going to outlaw or stop abortions, you need to throw some support to single mothers. Give them free rent in a church-run dormitory or apartment. Supply them with baby food, clothing, and diapers. Pay their medical bills. Help them feel accepted and part of your church family. You never know, maybe they’ll meet a fine, upstanding man in your congregation and get married and have lots more babies that will fill your church each Sunday.
Consider my childhood friend Sarah who I grew up with in North Carolina. Within her family is a case study of unplanned pregnancies with tragic results.
Sarah’s oldest sister, Laura, became pregnant in her freshman year of college at a state run school in the late 1970’s. Jim, the father of the baby, did the right thing, proposed, and Laura accepted. Laura then took Jim home to meet her parents one weekend. Unfortunately, Laura’s parents didn’t like Jim since his family was poor and they felt he was beneath their social class. Jim was also graduating and leaving for an Army assignment at the end of the school year, so that Laura would have to drop out of college to raise the child. Laura’s parents didn’t want to see their young, pretty daughter throw her future away, so they convinced her to have an abortion. Early Saturday morning despite Jim’s protests, Laura’s parents quietly drove her to the doctor. Jim drove home in tears. Laura’s parents then took her out of the “hillbilly” college and put her in a fancy private university.
Unfortunately, Laura became pregnant again four years later in her senior year of college. This time, she insisted on going through with the pregnancy. The wealthy father of the baby, Andrew, had no intention of marrying Laura even though they had dated for two years in college and were considered an item. Andrew accused her of sleeping around, so Laura insisted on a paternity test. Even after proving that Andrew was the father, he relinquished all rights to the baby, claimed unemployment (he was a student) and would not give child support. Laura had to apply for state support.
Laura’s father was livid with her for continuing the pregnancy and literally threw her out of the house by not allowing her to return to her parents home after the end of the school year. Laura’s mother stood by her husband, since he is so strong willed and violent (It’s amazing how well such secrets are kept hidden behind the doors of upper and middle class white families). Laura’s parents’ primary argument against keeping the child was social embarrassment.
Fortunately, Laura’s grandmother took her in and enjoyed taking care of her little granddaughter while Laura worked two part time jobs at minimum wage to keep her head above water. So much for that expensive private university degree!
Laura’s younger sister, Beth, also got pregnant around this time, but after seeing what happened to Laura, she quietly went to a clinic without telling a soul. (I heard about it many, many years later after the dust had settled.)
My friend Sarah, the youngest of the three sisters, got pregnant years later in her freshman year of college. She visited me over the Christmas holidays while we were both home from college to ask for advice. We got a drugstore test which showed positive. She was worried her father would kill her and was too scared to talk to anyone in her family, especially Laura, who would be happy to pass the “shame” torch and have some of the attention taken off herself.
Sarah’s boyfriend Marvin, the father of the baby, had no ability to provide support, being just a kid himself. I rode with her to visit Marvin at his parents house, a nice home in a good neighborhood. He told her it was her decision – she could keep it or she could have an abortion. “I’m not going to marry you or be able to support you,” he said. He was not afraid to tell his parents who firmly said in front of me and Sarah, “No, we don’t want nothing to do with a baby.”
I had no idea how to help. Sarah was all alone.
What Sarah really wanted to do was have the baby knowing full well that her parents would disown her and cut off her financial support. Laura was still slaving away at two part time jobs with WIC food to supplement her meager income. Sarah didn’t want that. She also didn’t want to put her baby up for adoption since she felt she would regret it later. Instead, she wanted to keep the baby and get help in the form of a place to live near campus and childcare, so she could stay in school to finish her degree on a scholarship.
When Sarah returned to her college campus after the holidays, she went to Planned Parenthood to confirm her pregnancy. She was now 7 weeks along. If she was to have an abortion, she wanted to do it by the 9th week before the baby looked human, so she went ahead and made the appointment. She had two weeks to change her mind.
Sarah walked around the outskirts of campus (these were the B.I, Before Internet days) looking for brochures and fliers in the library and churches offering help to unwed mothers. Two churches told her they would be happy to take the baby off her hands. “No,” she said.
By the 9th week, Sarah had not found any help. She and Marvin walked to the clinic together.
Years later, we all got together with some other friends at a baby shower for Beth, now married, and heard each other’s stories, discussing the plight of the unwed mother. Regarding abortions, you were damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Despite warnings that abortion causes infertility, all three sisters, Laura, Beth, and Sarah, got married, got pregnant again, and had children. All of us knew countless other children of southern white church-going families who had done the very same thing, all afraid that they would be shamed by their communities and disowned by their families for embarrassing them. I think the only reason it didn’t happen to me is because I can’t have children.
It would be easy to assume that the men in this story are liberals because they all advocated for abortion. Such is not the case. All are southerners and card carrying, church-going, self-righteous, right wing conservatives who vote Republican at every election.
It’s also easy to assume that only poor white trash and blacks get pregnant out of wedlock. That’s the stigma. That’s the shame. Such is not the case. It seems just about every sexually active teenager from my day, the days before birth control was made readily available, got pregnant. The truth is, the rich white families took their pregnant daughters to get abortions; passed grandchildren off as their own late-in-life surprises; or sent their children away to secretly have the babies which were then adopted away.
The poor families already had so many skeletons spilling out of the closet, a pregnant teenager made no difference. They had no shame, so they had their babies out of wedlock for all the world to see. Yes, perhaps some of their children became criminals. However, I don’t think this is a symptom of being the child of a single mother. I think this is evidence that there are a greater number of poor young women who have kids out of wedlock than middle or upper class young women.
By ostracizing the single mother by suggesting that the odds are in favor that she is 70% likely to breed a criminal, you are only adding fuel to the “shame” fire. This will no doubt result in even more abortions.
Isn’t that the goal – end abortions?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
