The human toll of suspending SNAP

Angel Goodwin is used to working remotely, processing applications for Medicaid and the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, or pop. People would sometimes scream at her on the phone. “I’ve been called every name except Son of God,” she said, but it was worse when they were crying. “Especially the elderly. They’ll be approved for like thirty dollars a month, and they’ll get Social Security for nine hundred and forty-three dollars. They’ll be like, ‘Honey, I can’t — I don’t know what I’m going to do, I don’t have anyone.'” Goodwin, a single mother with an eleven-year-old son, also received pop benefits. “They don’t know I’m in the same boat,” she said.

Earlier this year, Goodwin began to feel pain running down her shoulder, likely the result of repetitive computer work. At the beginning of October, I took short-term disability leave. Then, at the end of the month, she logged into it pop Calculate and see an alarming notification: November benefits won’t come. She and her son had already cut back in order to live on short-term disability benefits, which “wasn’t great at all,” she said. Now they have to make do with less, even as food prices rise every week. “Personally, my faith will always outweigh my fear,” she said. “But it’s at a scary stage now.”

Amid the prolonged government shutdown, which is now the longest in American history, pop Benefits have become a political football. In previous shutdowns, emergency funds were used to cover the program that serves about forty-two million Americans. But the Trump administration refused to do so. A number of states have stepped in to cover this gap, or to provide additional funds to food banks; Texas, which has a multibillion-dollar rainy day fund, did none of that. (The HEB grocery store chain, arguably the state’s second tier of social services, has donated $6 million to food banks.) At the end of October, a federal judge ordered the administration to continue operating. pop Payments. But, after several days, there was nothing in Goodwin’s store pop account; The administration said the November payments will only be partial, and it is not clear when the money will arrive.

Goodwin, who grew up in South Carolina, had what she described as a “pretty rough childhood.” In her early twenties, she cut ties with her family, finding herself with a young child and no real support system. She slept on friends’ couches, and then, when she felt her welcome was wearing out, she slept in her car. Homelessness was okay — “you meet wonderful people on the streets, people with wisdom,” she said — but she wanted her son to have a more stable life. She got a job on the night shift at a gas station, and earned enough money to move to a hotel where she was paid her weekly wage. It took two years to save enough to cover a deposit to rent a small apartment. “I didn’t have any furniture, no sofa or anything like that, just a few frying pans that I had at the hotel,” she said. “We were almost sleeping on the floor. We were literally starting from scratch.” When she felt overwhelmed, she prayed to God to guide her. She began dreaming of Texas, where the shape of the state appeared in unexpected places. In her journal, she asked God if this was what he really wanted her to do, since she had never left South Carolina before. Yes was the answer she received, so she started looking for apartments online. Right now, she was working remotely as a customer service representative at a bank, but she needed more money to fund the move. On YouTube, I learned about retail arbitrage, which is basically buying discounted items in bulk and then reselling them on Amazon at a higher price. The scheme eventually stopped working, but by then she had saved enough money to cover the deposit on an apartment in Houston. Two years ago, I moved into a renovated two-bedroom house with pale gray walls and a bright, narrow kitchen. Her days were spent working and homeschooling her son.

On the morning of November 3, the third day of no popGoodwin put her son in the car and drove twenty-five minutes to West Houston Help Ministries, a nonprofit social services organization, which was hosting a special food distribution event for pop Recipients. When I arrived, at about 9 o’clock I amA line of cars snaked down the building, and volunteers in neon vests directed traffic. Nationally, fourteen percent of families are considered food insecure. In Harris County, which includes Houston, the number is closer to forty percent. Hit There has been a marked increase in need since the lockdown began on October 1. “We’ve been focused on food, but we’ve also seen an increase in evictions — it’s crisis upon crisis,” said Nessa Jaffion, a social worker and senior case manager at HitHe told me. “The interesting thing is that while we have always had people at or below the poverty line, this is the middle class.” Most recently, the organization provided assistance to an IRS employee and a single mother who was days away from being evicted. “People who were not affected before are now being affected,” Javion said. A retired woman waiting in line told me she had thought about growing her own food. “I have a small balcony. Maybe I can grow some beans?” She said.