Do you remember when Bush said "The economy is getting better"?
Category: News and Politics
Blue Collar, Bare Cupboards
Reliance on food pantries has grown in Alvadore, Ore., as well as in other small towns across the country.
Ten
miles outside Eugene in west central Oregon, little wooden houses and
mobile homes make up the town of Alvadore. The homes are too far apart
to give the town—population 1,358—the appearance of a city, yet too
close together for it to come off as true countryside. Old,
domestically manufactured cars line the streets, as well as a few
rundown mom-and-pop convenience stores.
Small
farmers, mill workers and construction people live here. And they work
hard—or at least they do when they can get employment. There’s a dry
nuts and prunes plant just outside town, as well as a Country Coach
facility that manufactures motor homes. Many of the residents hold down
several jobs to make ends meet. Yet for an increasing number of people
in Alvadore, getting a paycheck—or even several paychecks—is not the
same as earning enough to put food on the table.
Schools
throughout the counties of central Oregon, the state’s hunger belt,
report that kids come to classes hungry on Mondays—and endure the long
summer vacation months when no free school lunches exist.
Alvadore,
like many dilapidated towns in modern-day America, is at the wrong end
of an array of economic changes—from globalization to higher energy
costs—and many of its citizens are falling through the social safety
net. The result: increased hunger.
Payday loans and food boxes
Many
of the town’s residents turn to the corner of 8th and B Streets, where
the large wooden Alvadore Christian Church stands. On the fourth
Thursday of each month, a sign is staked in the churchyard: Food Pantry.
During
the winter months, around 40 families show up to receive bread,
muffins, applesauce, canned soups, canned vegetables and other staples.
In the summers the number of families served increases.
In
one corner of the church is a table of food provided by the U.S.
Department of Agriculture (USDA). The rest—the vast majority—comes from
donations by the local community. It’s a model that works during flush
times, but it isn’t a particularly effective way of feeding the hungry
during down times, when more people are struggling to make ends meet
and fewer are able to donate food to charity.
Becky
Darnall, 34, volunteers at the pantry and also relies on the food boxes
from it. She says that when the pantry first opened two years ago, "we
had 26-to-28 families. Within the last six months, it’s gone up to 40."
Becky’s
husband is a cook at a restaurant in nearby Springfield. In 2006, he
earned $24,000. Last year, $27,000. This year, with a pay raise, he
hopes to earn $30,000. As for Becky, she works part time as house-help
for one of her neighbors, which brings in $8 an hour.
They
have three kids, are raising a nephew and are living in a 30-year-old
mobile home with a leaky roof and dubious electrical wiring. They drive
an old Chevy Blazer with a malfunctioning engine that they cannot
afford to repair, and that reduces the vehicle’s fuel efficiency to a
ludicrous—and prohibitively expensive—seven miles per gallon. Becky’s
husband spends $15 per day just driving to and from work.
Until
this year, the family was unable to afford co-payments on the health
insurance offered through her husband’s work. As a result, the Darnalls
were saddled with $1,000 in emergency room bills when Becky came down
with asthmatic bronchitis last year. The bills got sent to a collection
agency, and the family is now struggling to pay them off. This past
November, Becky’s husband needed an MRI, which landed the family with
an additional $1,200 to pay off.
"We can
get by," Becky says cautiously, "but the difference between
volunteering [at the church] and not is vegetable soup with macaroni
thrown in. … It’s more like a real dinner."
Before
she started coming to the pantry, she says her family jumped through
hoops to qualify for food stamps, and still ended up with hardly enough
food to survive. "There were a few times it was really tight. But we
got by."
At first, Becky says, they
borrowed from friends. Then they started borrowing against their future
income. "The payday loan thing, which is a nightmare," she says,
referring to the practice many low-income Americans have resorted to in
recent years of borrowing against their paychecks in order to make it
through the last days of the pay period. It’s an exploitative—and
usurious—financial trap that, over the years, has contributed to the
economic crippling of America’s poor.
"It
took us almost a year to get out of it," Becky acknowledges. "But
without it, we’d have been S.O.L," she says, laughing bitterly.
The
Darnalls have been married 17 years, but only in the last year have
they had to decide, month to month, which bills to pay and which
services will get shut off.
"And my husband’s worked the whole time," Becky says. "We didn’t sit back and live off the system."
JELL-O, but no fruit
Across
America, close to 40 million people are listed as being "food
insecure," according to the USDA. That means that even if they don’t
actually go hungry, they constantly worry about how to put food on the
table.
The Darnalls fit this category.
So, too, does 83-year-old widow Helen Wagy, a retired laundress who
worked for 35 years and now receives $912 a month in Social
Security—her entire retirement income. Wagy lives in a mobile home in
the town of Corvallis, Ore. She gets boxes of food from a group known
as Gleaners that gathers unpicked produce from local fields and
persuades supermarkets to donate produce that is damaged or has
exceeded sell-by dates.
"I have rent to
pay, electricity to pay, telephone to pay and the luxury of a TV to
pay," Wagy says, bundled in a fleece jacket and purple trousers, as she
sits in a chilly wooden building owned by the city’s park department,
in a little park off the highway. The building—not much more than a
shack crammed with fridges and freezers—serves as a distribution point
for Gleaners.
Her friend Roberta
Coulter chips in. Without Gleaners, she explains, "I’d probably lose a
lot of weight. They help me very much. Without them, I could make the
JELL-O but I wouldn’t have the fruit."
And they are the lucky ones.
Of
the nearly 40 million who fear going hungry, an estimated 11
million-plus Americans occasionally miss meals, according to the USDA.
They include many adults in a family who sacrifice their own portions
to ensure their children are fed.
In most countries, such people would be defined as being "hungry." Bush’s America uses a more Orwellian term.
In
2006, the USDA instructed government agencies to no longer refer to
this group as being hungry. The change came about after a Committee on
National Statistics of the National Academies reported it could not
conclusively determine whether people who couldn’t afford to buy food
actually experienced "discomfort, illness, weakness or pain that goes
beyond the usual uneasy sensation."
As
a result, the 11 million Americans who cannot afford to stock their
houses with food are now classfied as experiencing "very low food
security."
In the decades since the
Great Depression of the 1930s, this category would have been made up
largely of the long-term unemployed, the homeless, perhaps the mentally
ill and other marginalized groups.
These
days, however, increasingly it is the working poor—whose wages have
stagnated, whose cost of living has gone up with higher gas, food and
healthcare expenses, and whose time is now spent standing in line at
food banks.
A 21st century depression
Over
the past decade, the percentage of food bank clients in Oregon who are
members of a family with at least one person employed has gone from 30
percent to 47 percent—an increase that translates into tens of
thousands of Oregon families.
But this
problem is not exclusive to Oregon, where the local economy has been
decimated by the collapse of the timber industry, and the threat of
going to bed hungry absent the aid of food charities is constant.
Throughout
the United States, a startlingly raw form of poverty has entrenched
itself within the bottom tier of the economy. In Appalachia, where
hunger has never been far from the surface, states such as Virginia and
Tennessee continue to see high levels of hunger.
In parts of Texas, especially border regions dotted with the colonias of immigrant populations, food insecurity swells.
In
a belt of rural counties in eastern New Mexico and western Oklahoma,
empty bellies are endemic, as they are in in California’s San Joaquin
Delta, one of the most fertile agricultural centers in the world.
A
decade ago, Oregon had the highest level of hunger of any state. So,
the state government got serious about the problem, channeling
resources to help poor Oregonians access the federal food stamp program
and encouraging an expansion of private food charities.
Gov.
Ted Kulongoski, who set up a Hunger Relief Task Force after taking
office, went so far as to live on food stamps for a couple weeks,
limiting his food expenditure to $21 per week (or $1 per meal), the
average amount allotted per food stamp recipient in the state, as a
public relations gimmick intended to focus attention on the problem.
"It
was an incredible challenge for us," says Erinn Kelley-Siel, the
governor’s human services adviser. "Too many Oregonians are having to
rely on food banks to supplement emergency needs and are relying on
food stamps as primary sources of food."
Oregon’s
numbers improved, but they did so mainly through a reduction in hunger
in the big cities. In rural areas like Benton County, the problem grew
worse.
In 2000, the state classified
11.2 percent of rural residents as being "food insecure." Four years
later, that number had grown to 13.6 percent of all rural residents.
But
after years of overall progress, the return of economic hard times
means that hunger statewide has started to edge up once again,
following a path seen in almost every state in the country.
In
two of the hardest hit counties, Linn and Benton, food bank workers
estimate that 42,000 people received food boxes in 2007. And, unlike
the Portland metro area to the north, these counties have small
populations.
Statewide, 11.9 percent of
Oregonians are now classified as being "food insecure." Nationally, the
figure is 11.4 percent. Surveys by food banks and food pantries
consistently find that high utility bills, gas prices and healthcare
costs, along with job loss and inadequate food stamp coverage, are
pushing more and more working Americans into reliance on private food
charities. Volunteers’ anecdotes back up these findings.
Yet
even as the need has grown, federal government has drastically cut both
funding and food contributions to food banks. In 2000, food banks
nationwide received $250 million in federal funds through Title IV of
the farm bill. Today, that number is $140 million.
A
generation ago, at the high watermark of USDA subsidies for food banks,
90 percent of the food these organizations received came from the
federal government. These days a food bank such as Oregon’s huge FOOD
for Lane County storage facility, based out of a strip mall a couple
miles from downtown Eugene, receives only 12 percent of its food from
the feds.
An hour’s drive to the north,
in the town of Corvallis, the falloff in federal aid has been even more
dramatic. As recently as 1987, 85 percent of the food received, and
distributed, by the Linn-Benton County Food Share came from the USDA.
In 2008, that number is 6 percent, says Ryan McCambridge, director of
the Linn-Benton County Food Share, in the central Oregon city of
Corvallis.
"We make up the difference and
the shortfall by literally begging it from our communities—local
businesses, farmers, food drives, grocery stores. Everyone and anyone,"
says Denise Griewisch, FOOD for Lane County’s executive director. It
is, she explains, akin to a "voluntary tithe" on the local population.
Farmers,
Griewisch notes, are producing less food, as they divert more land to
growing corn for biofuels, meaning that, since 2003, the government has
been able to purchase less surplus. What food is produced is now
costing more and is often ending up on the export market, snapped up by
consumers in other countries with their own food production shortfalls.
To
add a final twist, new computer programs allow supermarkets to
calculate inventory more effectively, which means that supermarkets
have less excess produce to donate to food pantries.
Statewide,
the Oregon Food Bank has seen its supply of food dwindle by 3 million
pounds a year since 2005, according to its Chief Executive Officer
Rachel Bristol. As a result, the size of food boxes is being cut in
some locations, down from a five-to-seven day supply to a mere three
days.
This past year, says Griewisch,
food contributions to FOOD for Lane County were down in every donation
category. And that’s a problem, given that 3 percent to 5 percent of
Lane County’s 338,000 residents eat a food box meal on any given day,
according to the organization’s estimates, and 20 percent of county
residents are food insecure at some point during the year.
"For
a lot of folks, the emergency food box system was set up to respond to
family emergencies," says McCambridge of the Linn-Benton County Food
Share. "Over the last eight to nine years, instead of emergencies,
people are relying on food boxes to a greater extent. It’s really
becoming a supplement to incomes. The biggest demographic is folks who
have jobs and can’t make enough to make ends meet."
When illness means no paycheck
Juan
Cortez-Villa is a 30-year-old father of four, who lives in Eugene and
works full time in a local wheat-packaging mill. Before that, he worked
at another mill, in Medford. He wears a puffy gray jacket to protect
himself from the winter cold, a white baseball cap, jeans and heavy
boots. On his face is a thin goatee.
Juan
earns $13.25 per hour, and, after taxes, brings home $1,800 per month.
His income places the family above the poverty line. But between the
money he sends back to his mother in Mexico, the rent, his utility
bills and soaring medical expenses, Juan has found it harder to stay
afloat. At the end of every month, there’s always a shortfall.
Juan
would need "$15, $16 an hour" to overcome the gap, he explains through
a translator in a community center in Eugene known as Centro.
Since
the rent and utility bills must be paid, his family regularly goes
short on food. When he’s gotten sick and had to take unpaid leave from
the mill, the family has ended up with nothing.
"I
was unable to do anything," he says, "get any help. Some person gave me
a phone number to this place [Centro]. I had no food for eight days,
with my sons and wife." He pauses, and qualifies his statement. "Just a
little food. A friend gave me eggs, tortillas. I felt sad for myself,
was crying. It’s bad for my family. I was scared because I didn’t know
how to look for help."
Immigrants, mainly
Latino, make up 4.6 percent of Lane County’s population, and more than
one-quarter of Latinos in the county live at, or below, the poverty
level.
Statewide, according to the
Northwest Federation of Community Organizations, nearly half of Latino
adults experience food insecurity. Throw in a medical emergency, and
all the ingredients are present for people to go hungry.
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
At
the Catholic Community Services center in the working-class town of
Springfield, a 15 minute drive from Eugene, you can see a line snaking
outside the one-time church on any given Monday, Wednesday or Friday
morning.
Young and old, male and
female, they wait patiently for the doors to open and for staff members
to place their names into a database. Then they enter the food pantry
and fill their boxes with whatever food has been donated that week.
"On
a slow day, we’ll serve 80-to-100 people," says Joe Softich, 61, the
church’s food program manager. "Toward the end of the month, I expect
to do at least 140 families, maybe 180."
Softich
is a skinny, gray-haired man, his somewhat gaunt face covered by a
thick beard. He grew up in a grocery store in the copper-company town
of Anaconda, Mont., studied microbiology, Russian and religion in
college in the ’60s, and decided long ago that feeding the hungry was
his calling in life.
He shows me freezers
full of meat and vegetables, boxes of beans and fruit, peanut butter
and cartons of milk. "We see so much need. You hear these stories day
after day. You need something to sustain you beyond feeling good about
what you do. It’s a delicate thing, to be able to help in a way that
isn’t demeaning."
Softich estimates that 13,330 Springfield residents received food from Catholic Community Services last year.
"We
ran out of food three days ago," says Angela Oliver, 38, a one-time
drug addict who got clean and recently moved back from Washington State
to Oregon to live with her sister and her sister’s four children. "We
have a few things in the freezer meat-wise, but I’m pretty much a
vegetarian," she says. "We have no milk for the little ones, no
vegetables, no bread."
Three of the
four children get free lunches from school, Oliver says, and the
fourth, the youngest, lives with her grandmother. "The kids don’t go
hungry. They eat before I do, [but] there wasn’t seconds. There was
just enough for everyone." She adds: "If there was no food bank, I
honestly don’t know what I would do. We couldn’t even scrounge dimes up
right now."
To be poor in America has
never been easy. But to be poor in Bush’s America is devastating. The
federal government has turned its back on—and has made it clear it
doesn’t take responsibility for—those who are unable to make it on
their own.
Sasha Abramsky is a freelance
journalist and the author of the recently published American Furies:
Crime, Punishment and Vengeance in the Age of Mass Imprisonment
(Beacon). He is also a senior fellow of democracy at Demos, a New
York-based think tank.