Blissful ignorance. That’s what it is to go through life unaware that people around you – walking down the sidewalk, parked next to you at McDonalds, living in an apartment just down the street – are hungry.
Hunger leapt into the news this week when it became clear that the Trump administration would refuse to use some $6 billion in USDA contingency funds to pay SNAP nutrition benefits to recipients when regular funding for the program runs out on Saturday. You’ve probably seen the stories: USDA, in violation of the Hatch Act, incidentally, put up an intentionally false statement on its website that Democrats had “voted 12 times not to fund the food stamp program,” blaming the votes by Senate Democrats not to reopen the government on their wanting to “hold out for healthcare for illegal aliens and gender mutilation procedures” rather than provide food for hungry Americans. The Obamacare supplements that Democrats are holding out to keep funded have nothing to do with providing health care to “illegal aliens,” who are ineligible, or gender affirming care which is not covered by the Affordable Care Act.
Republicans just can’t help themselves. They make everything about immigration and “transexual for all,” as Trump continually calls anything having to do with any sort of departure from his executive order that there are only two genders, male and female, and fuck anyone who was born or believes differently.
It’s not about immigration and gender. It’s about hunger, and the fact is, if the USDA does not agree to follow the law and provide emergency funding for SNAP, or the Senate refuses to vote for an emergency bill that would fund the program, or if 23 states led by Democratic governors do not succeed with a lawsuit filed today that would force the expenditure of contingency funds for SNAP, 42 million Americans will fall into what is euphemistically called food insecurity on Saturday.
It’s not food insecurity. It’s hunger. About 16 million of those receiving SNAP benefits are children. Another 8.5 million are elderly, and about 4 million are adults with disabilities. Those people are among the 42 million who will begin going without adequate food on Saturday, or they will have to start making decisions about where they will cut their budget, like skipping rent or utilities, to leave money for food.
I’ve never gone hungry -- not as a child, not as a young adult, not in middle age, and not now as I cruise through my “senior” years. But it doesn’t take much trouble in one’s life to become one of those who experience the gnawing terror of not having enough to eat. You might get laid off from a job, you might not be able to find a job, you might get in a car accident and have injuries that prevent you from working, or you might have just gotten out of prison and don’t have a place to live or a way to make a living, or you might be elderly and on Social Security and run out of money near the end of the month after paying your rent and utilities and grocery bills earlier in the month.
Or you might be a soldier in the Army who is not paid enough to make rent and car and insurance and utility payments and have enough left over to buy warm winter clothing for your wife and children and yourself…and buy enough food for your family until your next payday.
That is indeed a thing. Lower ranking members of the armed services, especially if they are assigned to a military post that is in a high cost of living area like Washington D.C. or Los Angeles or even Kansas City or Chicago, are not paid enough to live on. They are eligible for SNAP and something called Family Subsistence Supplemental Allowance (FSSA) to help raise their income to 130 percent of the federal poverty level for the area in which they live.
That’s right: Military pay is low enough that it just barely reaches federal poverty levels in many areas of the country. A private first class in the army with less than 3 years’ service earns about $2,700 a month in base pay. A private with dependents – a wife or husband and children – also earns about $1,600 per month in housing allowance. The base pay for a private first class is just about equal to the federal poverty level in the area around the Pentagon in Northern Virginia. Miliary housing allowance pushes it over, but not by much.
When I was in the army in Colorado in 1969 and 1970, privates and other low-ranking enlisted men were paid just below and just over $100 a month. It was a different time. You could rent a trailer for $50 a month, an apartment for a little more than that. In my platoon, I had enlisted soldiers, most of whom had just returned from Vietnam, who had wives and one or two children who had to live off the post at Fort Carson and make do on that money. I had no idea how they were doing it. Every day, it got to be 5 p.m., they got in their cars and went home to their families.
I was a platoon leader, and as one of my extra duties, I was the mess officer in charge of the mess hall. One day, one of my cooks approached me after work. He had been a Hells Angel before being drafted and had belonged to a very rough chapter in Riverside, California, east of Los Angeles. His Hells Angels chapter, like many others, was in the illegal business of manufacturing and selling methamphetamine. He had a wife and child, lived in an apartment off post. That day, he told me his wife had left him and took their daughter, who was 2 or 3 years old, went back to Riverside, had linked up with his Angels chapter, and was now the “old lady” of a rival member who had become the head of the Angels chapter.
A friend had sent him a letter telling him that hepatitis was running through the chapter due to intravenous meth use. He was afraid his wife and child were going to come down with the disease. He was desperate to get them to come back to Colorado, but his wife wouldn’t listen to him. She was tired of living in poverty as the wife of a low-ranking cook in the army.
He asked me if I would call her and help talk her into coming back to Colorado Springs. That night, he came to the trailer where I lived just south of Fort Carson, and we called his wife. I can’t remember what I said to her on the phone, but somehow, I talked her into returning to her husband. She agreed to take a Greyhound bus from Riverside back to Colorado, but neither she or her husband had the money for a ticket. The next morning, the cook and I went to Western Union, and I wired her $25 for a bus ticket.
A few days later, she was back in Colorado, living with the soldier in their rundown apartment off post. To thank me for helping him, the soldier, by now a corporal, invited me to dinner at their apartment. I showed up to find that the menu being served was exactly the same as the one in the mess hall that day – chicken and potatoes and canned green beans. The dishware and tableware was military-issue, “borrowed” from the mess hall, as was the food he had cooked.
That was the way they were making it. I discovered that the mess sergeant was running a loosely organized food theft system. He would take surplus food from the day’s menu – there was always more than enough to feed the company – and sell it off the mess hall loading dock to guys with families – 10 cents for a chicken, a dime for a small sack of potatoes, a dime for a #10 tin can of beans or peas. Most of the guys in the company who were married and living off post were feeding their families that way.
This was 1969. That year, there was a revision of the law in the food stamp program. I saw a story in the paper about the way the program had changed, and the story gave me an idea. A few days after the “borrowed” dinner at my cook’s apartment, I drove him and a couple of other guys down to the food stamp office in Colorado Springs and signed them up for the program. I remember exactly how it worked. At that time, recipients paid in cash for an amount of food stamps that was a multiple of their payment. My cook, with a wife and a child and an army income around $100 per month, paid $20 in cash and received five times that amount in food stamps, nearly as much as he earned in the army.
Over a period of a couple of weeks, I drove a dozen guys in my platoon down to the food stamp office and signed them up. A sergeant in my platoon who had three kids got more than his pay in food stamps. Word spread. Other lieutenants started to do the same with their platoons.
I had a rather grim meeting with the mess sergeant and told him that selling surplus food to the troops every evening was over. From then on, one of the cooks, on a rotating basis, would hand out surplus fresh and canned food every other day or so from the loading dock. On days fried chicken was on the menu, the army would supply us with 80 fresh chickens for a company of about 125 soldiers. Sometimes, we would have 20 left over, sometimes 10.
We distributed it all. I had 12 guys in my platoon on food stamps. Other platoons had a similar number. The word got out that a third of the company was receiving food stamps, and I was behind it. I got called in by the brigade commander. Having soldiers on food stamps was not a good look for his brigade. It was “bringing discredit on the army,” he told me. He ordered me to disenroll the guys from the food stamp program.
By that time, I had looked up the regulations. There it was, spelled out in federal-ese. They were eligible. I told the colonel that discredit on the army came from hungry soldiers with hungry families.
I got a mark against me on my record, that already had more than a few such marks. But we didn’t have any hungry families of soldiers in my platoon or the other platoons in the company.
The food stamp program back then, and the SNAP program today, is one of the best things this country has ever done. It didn’t end hunger, but it made a big dent. Having enough to eat should be a right, not a privilege. From the window over my writing desk, I can see a small food pantry cabinet run by the Methodist Church across the street. Every day, I see cars drive up, and I watch people get out and stock the cabinet with cans and boxes of pasta and rice and other nonperishables. I watch cars drive up and people get out and take an armful of cans or boxes and drive away.
The parade of cars and people and cans and boxes of food, and back in Washington D.C., the SNAP program, even with its struggles, amount to living proof that this country has a soul. Even with all its struggles, that soul is a good one.


