COLUMBUS: Since March, the Akron Beacon Journal has reported on the mounting financial pressures facing the middle class — fewer good-paying jobs with secure retirement plans and the climbing costs of higher education and health care.

While facts and figures provided the foundation, we told the stories primarily through the eyes of people like you.

The project — the American Dream: Hanging by a Thread — continues today with an exploration of the role government can play in addressing these problems.

But instead of sending reporters, we asked three of the people profiled in the Beacon Journal series to voice their concerns directly to public officials who make public policy.

Reporters arranged the meetings for this month and sat in as the three area residents explained in their own words how life in the middle class is changing.

They didn't ask for help for themselves, nor were they looking for promises of simple solutions.

They just wanted to be heard.

The question remains: Were they understood?

Social-services worker discusses with governor a lifetime of college debt

Jennifer Samardak, 33, is paid by Summit County to represent and protect the rights of children involved in court cases. In a story published in April, Samardak explained how money she borrowed for her college education will not be paid off until she is 60.

Samardak sat down with Gov. Ted Strickland to talk about the escalating costs of college, student debt and the paradox of the need for people to go into the social service fields that demand degrees but pay relatively low salaries.

''I have a house, I have three cats, I have a dog, I have a car, I have a phone, I have a working television, I have running water, I have utilities. There's food in my refrigerator. I have a two-and-a-half-car garage. I have nice neighbors, a good front yard.''

She said all this to Strickland at a Gatling-gun pace.

Only a few minutes earlier, upon meeting Strickland for the first time, she was reserved and honest.

''I'm exceedingly nervous,'' she confessed.

''Why?'' Strickland asked.

''Because you're an important person,'' Samardak said.

''OK, I'm going to do something politically incorrect here,'' Strickland said just before inching closer and reassuringly taking Samardak's hands in his.

They were seated next to each other at a cozy round table in the governor's office.

This is the table where Strickland meets with big shots like legislative leaders, chief executives, education officials, utility presidents. This is the democratic with a small ''d'' table that Strickland installed in the office to ensure no one was considered more important than any other. And this is the symbolic table whose deep brown polished wood reflects the mirrored faces of everyone who takes a seat.

Here is the striking thing about the conversation that was scheduled for 45 minutes, but went on in typical Strickland fashion for an extra half-hour: The governor and Samardak were like those mirrored images in the wood.

In listening to her story, and knowing the governor's history, there is a realization that under different circumstances, Samardak could be the governor and Strickland, the college graduate working in the social services, embracing the job and lamenting the debt run up to complete his degrees.

Strickland chose a similar career path for similar reasons at a different time in a different setting and, as Robert Frost once said, ''that has made all the difference.''

They have much in common.

Strickland lived in a chicken coop for a time with his seven brothers and sisters on Duck Run in Scioto County. Samardak spent a summer living in a tent in Jellystone Park, thinking she was camping because her mother did not tell her and her sister that they were homeless.

Both have lived the American dream, rising from humble backgrounds to obtain undergraduate and graduate degrees.

Strickland started his career as a psychologist working for low wages, taking three meals a day for 10 years with the abused, neglected and abandoned children he counseled in a children's home. Each day, Samardak protects the rights of children in the courts, embracing the challenging and rewarding job although she is paid far less than others with master's degrees.

If Strickland didn't know this going into the conversation, he realized it soon enough.

And there is something else he knew before the conversation, but understood even more after talking to Samardak: Her story, which so easily could be his story, is far too common.

The price of dreams

It is the profound tale of the price of dreams, of the need for a college education that has grown so expensive that the sad irony is students from middle-class families, almost without exception, must assume mounds of debt and mortgage their future for a chance, not a guarantee, at financial security.

Samardak tells the governor she played the flute and studied music as an undergraduate, and for two years thereafter worked making bagels before going back to school.

''I work in social work, which historically and currently gets paid less than most professions. I have a master's degree and I'm really making less than if I had a bachelor's degree in business or something else,'' Samardak said.

''It's a choice that I made. I knew this was going to be something I would have to think about for the rest of my life.''

Samardak is saddled with long-term debt. She still owes $49,000 in college loans. Each month, she pays $320 and those payments will go on for another 27 years.

''It's kind of like I'm paying to live my life,'' Samardak told the governor.

''How old are you?,'' he asked.

''I'm 33.''

''So if you were to pay the minimum, you would be 60,'' Strickland said.

''That's a long time,'' Samardak responded.

''That is a long time,'' Strickland said.

''That's a very long time,'' she emphasized.

''I assume your situation is not all that different from a lot of other students,'' Strickland noted.

As he had done throughout the conversation, the governor asked questions and it was clear he was listening intently. When Samardak talked about her family, the governor discerned correctly that she has no brothers, and when she mentioned early on she was a flautist, and later talked about making bagels before going to grad school, Strickland quipped, ''Weren't you able to find work playing the flute?''

When she told him she delivers pizza for two days every other week, the governor wanted to know whether the tips are good, the job intimidating or dangerous.

Now he asks and is told Samardak was in college in 1993-95.

''As you painfully probably are aware, we had a 10-year stretch where the average tuition increase was 9 percent a year and you do that for 10 years and that's compounded,'' Strickland said.

''Ohio had become 47 percent more costly than the national average. The state basically withdrew a commitment to higher education. It came at a time when you were going to school.''

Strickland said he froze tuition at state universities in his first budget passed in 2007 and increased state funding to the schools and for grants and scholarships.

This would sound like a first-term governor making excuses, except it is true. Starting with Gov. George Voinovich, and during Gov. Bob Taft's eight years in office, there were reductions in state aid for universities, passing along the costs of higher education to middle-class families and students.

There is an established link between college attendance and the amount of money someone will earn over a lifetime, but Samardak and Strickland chose careers that demand degrees in fields that pay less in return.

So, when Samardak talks about her struggle at times to continue working with children instead of pursuing work that would pay more, Strickland sees himself, as a younger man, as he described it, during ''those days when you had a couple of pair of blue jeans and some cheap shirts.''

And when asked whether he would choose the same career path if the price of a college education meant years of debt, Strickland reflected for a moment and then said, ''it would have been very difficult, I think. I almost, I think it's very doubtful that I would have gone back for my Ph.D. if I didn't have the opportunity to teach and not get tuition.''

The talk turned to potential solutions and Strickland suggested a program could be developed to forgive loans to students in lower-paying social-service jobs in return for years of service to Ohio.

''We have done that with medical professionals,'' the governor said. ''Physicians who will practice in underserved areas can get significant reductions in their student loans.

''What if you could have your loan reduced $2,000 for each year you've served?'' Strickland asked Samardak.

''Something like that would be helpful,'' Samardak responded.

''It could also be an incentive to continue to do the work that is of benefit to society,'' Strickland said, reassuring Samardak and at the same time, himself.

Cancer survivor's mom, lawmaker on same page in discussing insurance

In July, the Beacon Journal told the story of Christine Gurbis, a young college graduate who was working full time for a bank when she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Because of her illness, Gurbis could no longer work full time. When she left her job, her monthly health insurance premiums jumped from $22 to as high as $810. Her parents postponed retirement and spent about $150,000 of their own money to help with medical bills.

Her mother, Mary Kay Gurbis, sat down with the chairman of the Ohio House Insurance Committee, state Rep. William Batchelder, R-Medina, to share her daughter's story.

Mary Kay Gurbis is both a mother and a businesswoman.

As a mom, she experienced knee-buckling shock and fear after learning her 24-year-old daughter Christine was diagnosed with cancer.

She wanted the best care for Christine, the latest technology, the finest doctors, the swiftest recovery. Money, well, it was no object, theoretically.

As a businesswoman, Gurbis thought differently. In this world, away from the memories of doll-houses and first dates and graduations and young adulthood, Gurbis was a realist.

She ran a small insurance business for more than two decades, most recently offering automobile warranties. She met weekly payrolls, paid taxes and watched as health insurance premiums rose and rose.

Gurbis knew it was a struggle and an accomplishment just to keep the doors open every day.

She grew to understand that parenting and business were not so different.

You have a dream. At first, there is hope and the quixotic sense that everything will be perfect. Then the dream awakens and you get into it and suddenly your world is filled with triumphs and defeats. There are the daily grind, the planning, the surprises, some welcomed, others unwanted, the setbacks and the growth.

Through it all, you persevere, willing yourself to keep going, to keep it all alive.

This is the story Gurbis brought and the dichotomy she represented in sitting down with state Rep. Batchelder over a cup of coffee at a local bookstore.

After a few seconds and three or four shared sentences, Gurbis and Batchelder realized they are kindred spirits, conversing in ''insurance-ese.''

''The monies are always correct. You don't miss a 4x4 because they're VIN decoded,'' she told him before becoming self-aware and stating, ''We're speaking another language.'' Batchelder's explosive laugh burst from his throat.

But their bond goes deeper. Gurbis and Batchelder are parents of grown children and understand that your worries may change, but they do not lessen as your child ages.

They also share a philosophical affinity, trusting in the free market and rejecting the idea that government can or should solve all problems.

''The car business is having its downs right now, but I think sometimes, it's like with housing, there has to be a little bit of a shake-up with some things. The best are surviving, some of the marginal ones are not,'' she told him.

He agreed.

''That's probably as it has to be.''

Batchelder is an old-school state lawmaker. First elected when the country was still at war with Vietnam, he chairs the powerful Ohio House Insurance Committee, so he examines the toughest health-care questions facing the country and the middle class.

Who should be covered and how, where should deductibles be set, how much should employees pay in monthly premiums, what can be done to bring costs down without limiting accessibility?

These are the larger issues Batchelder grapples with and the same ones that Gurbis, as a businesswoman, has faced, but she was here to talk about the personal side of insurance. She was here to tell Batchelder about her daughter and cancer.

Christine was full time at National City Bank when she was diagnosed.

''We were prepared for the surgeries. We were prepared for the things we had to do, not totally, but the medical community was pretty good about telling us what to expect,'' she said. ''What we were not prepared for, was, not only was her cancer an unusual one, but she didn't accept the normal treatments.''

Christine was not reacting well to the medicines, so her doctors tried more and different prescriptions that lengthened the time of recovery and added greatly to the overall bill.

As a National City employee, Christine paid about $22 a month for her health insurance premium. When she became weaker and could no longer work, she continued group health insurance through the government's COBRA provisions, but her premium increased to more than $320 a month.

When that ended after 18 months, once again by law, she was allowed to stay with COBRA, but as an independent insuree with two pre-existing health conditions. Her monthly premium eventually grew to $820.

The bills were coming in at the same time Christine was no longer able to earn an income.

''They can change it on you and they did. They took the percentages from 10 to 20 percent and they took the deductible up,'' her mother said. ''As long as we paid the premium, they had to keep her.''

''I was unaware that you could raise a COBRA that much,'' Batchelder said.

Gurbis explained that in the first 18 months, the only increases occurred when National City renewed the company's plans.

''Once she's off (the company), then it can jump dramatically and it did,'' she told him.

Even then, the COBRA insurance was not enough to cover everything Christine needed.

''Did you end up with a lot of out-of-pocket because of the things that weren't covered?'' Batchelder asked.

''Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah. First, she's our daughter. Secondly, she's a young woman with a lot of potential. We wanted to get her back to being able to live a full, normal, productive life. If it wasn't going to be covered, we covered it. Her dad and I said this is one thing that we do,'' Gurbis said.

Batchelder responded, ''There's nothing more basic.''

She agreed.

''There's no discussion on this one. You would regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't do something that you could have done,'' she said.

The Gurbises postponed their retirement and a vacation home to pay for about $150,000 in uncovered medical expenses.

Doing what's required

As she told this to Batchelder, there was no rancor or anger in her voice or demeanor. At times, her tone softened and her eyes moistened ever so slightly as she talked about the strength her daughter demonstrated or the depression and listlessness she felt from the myriad of prescriptions and being dealt a blow so young.

But it was clear that Christine did everything needed to hold up her end of the middle-class social contract. She earned a college degree, went to work full time, became a tax-paying member of society and paid into the company health plan.

Batchelder noted the contract ensures ''you don't live a life of quiet desperation.''

Then Christine got sick and the security she thought was there disappeared. She was fortunate to have a family who helped.

Gurbis doesn't believe her daughter was treated unfairly by the insurance companies.

''I've worked very hard to never think of it as fair or unfair,'' Gurbis said. ''Was it fair for her to pay more with COBRA? Under the system we have now, it was fair.'' She paid what the company would have paid.

Gurbis, the mom and businesswoman who spent her own savings on her daughter, pointed out the social contract has limits.

''Does that mean that someone can go into a doctor and get the visit covered with no cost? I don't think that is part of the contract. Does it mean you can get all your prescriptions for $5? I don't think that is part of the contract,'' she said.

Batchelder commended her and her husband.

''With this family, you were all willing to stick up for your daughter and do what had to be done for her, but there are other families that won't or can't,'' Batchelder said. ''You're unique. You understand insurance, you've been an employer. . . . .''

''Some people say, 'Wasn't this depressing and wasn't this awful?' This certainly was not a good time. This is my child,'' Gurbis said.

''You've got to look at all sides. Insurance has to make money. You can't take in $1 and pay out $1.50. You can't do that. To be all upset, this is not covered and that is covered, it's not a personal thing. You've got to look at the bigger picture. Does this make sense for the bigger number of people?''

Batchelder said lawmakers and government leaders continue to wrestle with health insurance issues.

Batchelder believes the key to addressing escalating insurance and medical costs is to fundamentally change the system by increasing deductibles and making coverage portable. Portability would allow individuals to maintain health-care coverage after breaks in employment regardless of changes in medical conditions.

''We continue with this very low initial coverage, but there's an awful lot of middle-class families who can afford a $5,000 deductible or a $10,000 deductible, and then you wouldn't have the insurance companies paying out all this money,'' he told her.

Gurbis responded, ''They don't have to pay for aspirin, they really don't.''

He countered that portability is difficult because laws passed in Ohio may not cross state lines.

''I think portability is crucial. I'm not sure what we can do in a state,'' he said. ''We can't mandate what another state does. I would like to carry that through with the (Ohio Department of Insurance) director.''

Gurbis told Batchelder that portability would benefit employees and employers alike because many people stay with a company for the insurance, but that limits the individual.

But like the social contract, portability must have limits.

''It can be good coverage, but it can't be the Rolls Royce. It should be transportation, not the chauffeur,'' she said.

''If we could take it off of the employer's back. America has always been a powerful country because people could do what they were best at, and when you tell people they can't because they have to stay here to keep insurance coverage, I think we're limiting our potential.''

Pair who could be 'you' talks with Ohio's director of job, family services

In March, the Beacon Journal told the story of a woman and her husband who filed for bankruptcy. They asked to be kept anonymous to protect their privacy, and for this reason were referred to as the familiar ''you.''

The first sentence of that story was, ''This could be you,'' because the financial uncertainty of the middle class is, in essence, everyone's story.

The couple sat down with Helen Jones-Kelley, director of the Ohio Department of Job and Family Services, to talk about why the woman's unemployment claims were denied, how she missed out on $10,816 in benefits and the role that played in her subsequent bankruptcy.

They continued their request for anonymity.

And their story still could be you.

It is two years after you first lost your job, 19 months since you realized the money was all gone and you and your spouse had no choice but to file for bankruptcy.

You have a new job, a fresh start, but the pain is still there, a little duller perhaps, but still there.

On this day, you are walking into Crave. It is one of those ultra chic, urban restaurants where the owners and chefs always appear one step ahead of the rest of us on the latest food and drink trends.

Crave is so — cool. Inside the door, to the left of the hostess station, the owners have hung a diaphanous fabric to separate the diners from the entryway. You see the figures of people, but their faces are obscured by a gossamer effect.

Amid the din, as forks clink and knives clank across plates, you hear the soft laughter and idle chatter of faceless people enjoying themselves.

It is a charged atmosphere, full of customers confident enough to order an extra round, an elaborate dessert or an after-dinner coffee because at this moment, they have money in their pocket, perhaps some savings in the bank and their next paycheck is coming.

Unfortunately, you know it is a false sense of security. Each of them could be you.

You are not going to eat here. Your new job pays $20,000 less than the old one. Your credit rating will be on life support for at least two years following the bankruptcy. You have a son who just started school. There is little money for essentials and none for frills.

You and your husband follow the hostess to a back room. An optimistic waiter approaches and places two curved tumblers filled with water, ice and a lemon slice before you. Is there a twinge of disappointment in his face when you interrupted to say, ''No, thank you, we won't be dining''?

Helen Jones-Kelley enters the room with aplomb and sits across from you.

As the director of the Ohio Department of Job and Family Services, she oversees the largest agency in state government, a massive bureaucracy with an annual budget of about $18 billion.

As large as it is, the agency's customers file in one at a time because they are down on their luck, out of work, on welfare, in need of food stamps, in need of help.

The agency played no small part in your bankruptcy. You will get to that soon enough. At this moment, you are exchanging polite niceties with Jones-Kelley. She is leaning forward in her seat, her elbows are on the table, her hands clasped, her eyes meet and lock on yours. She is listening. Government is listening. The head of the largest agency in government is listening — to you.

So you tell her your story, in abridged form. You have questions for her and ideas, but first you want her to know what you went through and why your story matters.

You lost your job with MNBA, received severance and began looking for work immediately. With your college education and financial experience, you were not overly concerned, but then months passed before you found a position with another mortgage company.

The two days you spent in training left you wondering what you had gotten yourself into.

''We were told to lie to people on the phone. We were told to say whatever we needed to say to get them to sign the documents, to get the business and deal with the consequences later,'' you tell Jones-Kelley.

''Tell them we can get any interest rate they wanted. Basically, there was just a lot of unethical things we were being told to do and I asked them about this during the orientation. I was told that is how we do things here.''

Telling the story to Jones-Kelley brings it all back and you hear the tone of your voice dropping.

''By the end of the second day, I realized I couldn't live with myself with this job. The next morning, I sent the supervisor and the training person an e-mail and said I'm sorry, I cannot take this position, I'm not going to continue with the job and I explained to them exactly why.

''They even told us the first day that usually out of a class of 30 people, they end up with four or five people that end up staying and becoming full time, and I can understand why.''

You walked away from the job and with your severance almost depleted, you filed for unemployment. You tell Jones-Kelley this is where her agency comes in, and how it became difficult to find someone who would listen, let alone understand.

Jobless claim denied

The unemployment agency denied your claim because you left the job voluntarily. You lost nearly $11,000 in benefits and politely, in an understated manner, you tell Jones-Kelley that this was a factor in your slide into bankruptcy.

For two days of orientation — 16 hours — you were paid $5 an hour minus taxes. The company split your hours into two paychecks and you netted around $20 for each.

Your husband, sitting to your right, interjects, ''For $20, we lost. . . . ''

You complete his thought, ''you know. . . . ''

She has been listening to you intently for more than 10 minutes.

''I guess I'm struggling with this because you did what you should have done,'' Jones-Kelley says.

''You've got to be able to look yourself in the mirror and know you're not taking advantage of other people.''

You tell her you appealed the decision to deny unemployment benefits, and she asks if you took a third step to file with the Unemployment Compensation Advisory Council.

You didn't. You express frustration with the bureaucracy.

''It's not like they teach a class in high school, Unemployment 100, or what to do when you lose a job,'' you explain.

''When I was talking to people on the phone, I could almost see them in my mind looking at the computer, trying to figure out which box to check. She would read things to me and ask, 'Do you think it is more this or more this?' There should have been another category.''

Your husband has been listening as intently as Jones-Kelley, but this is his story, too, and he explains it was a bureaucratic nightmare.

Jones-Kelley agrees there is no class designed to teach people how to deal with unemployment.

''You hope the circumstances never occur, but when it does, the last thing you need is for the bureaucracy to be a bureaucracy,'' she says.

You tell her, ''Losing a job is so destructive to your ego anyway. To try to justify losing your job to someone on the phone or in person is difficult. I know you see that a lot and I know you understand that or you wouldn't be in the position you're in.''

And then she says something to you that makes you choke up just a little.

Jones-Kelley leans forward and looks you in the eyes and says, ''The thing I can offer here, knowing that you did what you were supposed to do, because I now sit in the seat as the director of this department and as a citizen of this state, I owe you an apology on behalf of this department because you did everything you were supposed to do and we failed you.''

And you believe her. You believe she is sincere.

You know there are people who will say Jones-Kelley is only saying what she thinks should be said in front of you and the newspaper, but that doesn't matter because cynicism is quicksand and you are moving forward with your life.

This meeting is not about the past. You told your story for the future. Anyone in the middle class, who lives basically paycheck to paycheck, could be in your position, and there is no guarantee you won't be in a financial jam a second time.

''I want you to know that I appreciate you saying that, the apology. I'm not so concerned for myself, but for other people that might be going through it now because things are getting worse. Unemployment is going up and I'm concerned about people that right now are out there and are going to be applying and I just don't want them to have to deal with that,'' you tell Jones-Kelley.

The din from the restaurant is still there, abuzz in the background, but for you and your husband and Jones-Kelley, it has all been blocked out, so it seems eerily quiet when your husband's soft voice belies his strong emotion.

''I don't want to be overly critical. You're saying all the right things, but at the bottom rung of the ladder, there's something else going on, that disconnect. How do you fix that?''

Jones-Kelley says Ohio is only one of 12 with a state-supervised county-administered system, so the people that you talked to do not work directly for her.

''We influence, we develop policy,'' Jones-Kelley says, adding that she is a teacher who will return to Columbus and use your story to push to improve customer relations.

Once again, you believe her. You have to, because believing means continuing, trying. You could not have gone through losing your job, your unemployment benefits and filing for bankruptcy without believing you could get through it and make a new life.

You would not have sat down with her if this was only about you.

Jones-Kelley departs and you take comfort in knowing that you may have helped someone you will never meet, someone, like you, who is anonymous at the moment.

You leave Crave knowing he or she could be as near as one of the faceless figures dining behind the gossamer.

Dennis J. Willard can be reached at 614-224-1613 or dwillard@thebeaconjournal.com.
Beacon Journal staff writer David Giffels contributed to this story.