Editor’s note: An iteration of this essay was previously published by the author on her Substack, “Midwest Mexican.” We have reproduced it here, with consent.
Not too long ago, I mingled with some of the most celebrated chefs in the nation at the James Beard Awards in Chicago, enjoying cocktails and sampling hors d’oeuvres under the enchanting lights of Union Station. In my profession as a food journalist, such scenes are quite familiar. I frequently get to be among the first to experience the menu at a new eatery. My schedule quickly fills with pop-ups and tasting events, dinners where each dish resembles a small performance.
However, this fall, I found myself checking the balance on my Bridge Card (Michigan’s counterpart of SNAP, previously known as food stamps) as the federal government faced a shutdown and the USDA cautioned that benefits for November would not be distributed, impacting 1.4 million Michiganders, or about 42 million individuals nationwide. (That equals approximately 1 in 8 individuals.)
My last payment was on October 17, and I won’t be waiting to see if I’ll have food next month. I consider myself fortunate, as a natural-born citizen whose first language is English, with a college education and no dependents. I am employed in an intellectually stimulating, highly competitive field. When I was let go by one of the largest food magazines in the country earlier this year, I was provided with a generous severance package that delayed my need for aid. More recently, my freelance work has started to pick up again, so this temporary support is on the verge of ending anyway. My only major expenses now are the credit card charges I accumulated from those upscale dining experiences I once referred to as “research.”
Nevertheless, during these past couple of months I’ve been utilizing SNAP, and this situation feels increasingly typical for individuals like me. What was once a temporary safety net for the working poor has transformed into a lifeline for a rising class of professionals caught between the facade of achievement and the precariousness of contemporary employment.
This isn’t my first experience relying on food assistance. As a child, some of my earliest recollections involve my family depending on food stamps or the kindness of a local food pantry. Those instances left a subtle, yet profound mark—the awkward blend of appreciation and irritation that accompanied bringing home unremarkable cans of pork product or peanut butter. Or the burning embarrassment I felt when sent to the corner store with a booklet of food stamps, uncertain of its worth, to hand to the scrutinizing man behind the counter so I could buy a carton of milk.
