I asked my older sister why we sang the Patty Cake song so often as children: Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can! She replied simply: “Because we were hungry.”
Her answer stayed with me, and I thought about some happy memories: mom making Toll House cookies while The Wizard of Oz played on television. Delivering baked goods to elders and friends in our Native urban community at Christmas; we are enrolled citizens in the Klamath Tribes, whose traditional homelands are in southern Oregon and northern California. Sharing food is a cultural value for Native people. Mom taught us to always offer food and drinks to our guests. It’s also important to have enough food to share.
Though I didn’t link that nursery rhyme to our family’s struggle back then (maybe that child’s play was our stomachs talking), I do have memories of not having enough. Our mom crying in the kitchen when she couldn’t buy milk. Hearing my stepdad on the phone borrowing $5 for food from my aunt. One night, when the cupboards were bare, he made us a chocolate cake for dinner, no frosting. And there was the time my younger sister, Chel, heard the woman ahead of us in the grocery line say she didn’t need the second carton of eggs that came with a buy-one-get-one-free special. Chel was proud, but we were hungry. She asked for the extra eggs.
I’m familiar with the panic of not being able to afford the groceries when the weather changes and heating costs rise. One cold winter, we slept in front of the fireplace because we did not have money for oil. When you are poor, you make choices about what food to buy, how much to eat, what bill to pay, choices you make when there aren’t really any good choices. We chopped wood and piled the blankets on the pull-out sofa. It is a fond memory and possibly inaccurate. Our mother must have felt pretty desperate, but she made it an adventure. In her hands, food stamp day was a celebration. We ate a lot of beans and spaghetti, but she’d get us a box of cookies for a treat.
Hunger has been with me at different points of my 60 years: when I was a kid, when I was a single mother and when I left a job recently. Food stamps helped feed me and my family during those periods; I say “helped” because even with these benefits, families are hungry. But the government the American majority elected decided during the federal shutdown that feeding its people wasn’t a high priority. Now that the government is open again and benefits are going out, food aid is no longer promised.
I understand that hunger is a product of structural inequality, policy, circumstance and disregard for the poor – all of which span generations.
A life of hunger
When my mother left my alcoholic father, she moved us from Colorado to her home town, Portland, Oregon. She rented a small house across the street from the house where she grew up hungry with her five siblings.
Ever a storyteller, she’d entertain us – the three daughters she’d had in four years – with tales from her own childhood. Many were about food and food insecurity. She told us about eating Jell-O for dinner, which sometimes sounded like a treat. Or how the local church would bring a charity box for these six poor Native kids and their wheelchair-bound mother. My mother and her brothers and sisters were given snacks for the week. She stashed apples and oranges in her sock drawer. When that fruit was gone, there was no more.
Those stories – and my own experience as a hungry kid – taught me not to ask for treats or fast food, not to order much at a restaurant. Don’t ask for anything extra because it is humiliating for the parent to say “No, I don’t have the money.”
Things changed when my mother and her siblings, all enrolled members of the Klamath Tribes, received money from the sale of land in a federal policy called termination. In 1953, the federal government officially dissolved the tribe, arguing its members were largely self-sufficient and did not need the benefits that came with tribal recognition. We weren’t the only ones; more than 60 tribes in western Oregon were terminated, and it took decades to restore Klamath recognition in 1986.
Termination was a disaster for the tribe, though a majority of its members – including my family – voted for it. The land was sold for a pittance and the tribal members suffered the consequences. Alcoholism affected the tribe as it hadn’t before. People fished less than before. More of us began using food stamps and other benefits. It turned out to be a really good deal only for the government and developers who were able to exploit Klamath land for lumber, water and real estate.
The windfall, $43,000 per child, didn’t last long for my family. My mother got a divorce, and such household upheavals can mean hunger’s return, especially for women and children. Suddenly, we were back in Portland, paying for our groceries with food stamps.
Mom became involved in its active Native American community, taking us to powwows and the local Bow & Arrow Culture Club for drumming, dancing, food and fellowship. I learned about the American Indian Movement and the US government’s long history of breaking nearly every treaty it signed with Native nations.
One morning in fourth grade, I did not stand to do the daily recitation of the pledge of allegiance “to the flag of the United States of America”. My teacher, Mr Hill, asked why I remained seated. I said I didn’t want to pledge allegiance to a government that broke treaties. He said, “Well, who do you think pays for your free lunches?”
When my mother met my dear stepfather – he who cooked the chocolate cake without icing – things got a little easier. But sometimes my parents were laid off, underemployed or on strike. My mom worked as a teacher in two Native American preschools she helped to open, and my stepdad worked at the steel mill and also started a business building cabinets. But by the time I was leaving high school, our family finances were unstable; our freezer would be full of whatever was available from the food bank.
All this was preparation for later, when I fell in love and got pregnant as a 33-year-old government temp worker. My son, Leroy, wasn’t planned, but he was welcome even when the relationship ended. I applied for Snap benefits and WIC (another program for women with very young children). These federal programs were lifelines when I went to school at the University of Oregon. Still, I had to ration; I sometimes withheld a favorite food from Leroy because I needed that ingredient for another meal. Friends would help us out, inviting us to dinner or events I couldn’t afford.
I worked at the university when I finished my doctorate. When I became Dr Angie Morrill, I was lucky enough to go back to Portland to direct the largest Indian education program in the state. My salary doubled. I loved to take my son out for sushi, his favorite food. I could pick up the check at a family meal. I created a pantry, where I loved to see jars of stockpiled applesauce and boxes of crackers. Buying meat from the butcher felt like a privilege.
In February this year, I resigned from my job. I finished up a contract and taught a class, but I was not making enough money to pay my bills. Once again, I applied and received Snap benefits. It was a relief. I heard about a program that allowed Snap recipients to pay half price for a box of fresh produce each week for six months. Once I was approved, I cooked leeks for the first time, and ate lots of cabbage, carrots, beets and lettuce. I was grateful for the good, discounted food.
In August, I received an email from the Oregon department of human services. The social worker was kind and assured me I had not done anything wrong. My benefits would continue, but they wanted proof of my income – bank statements – and interviewed me. How was I paying the rent? the social worker asked.
I told her: it is a struggle. I live in a rented 1977 mobile home. It doesn’t sound fabulous, but the Willamette River flows outside my back yard. I piece together my income with some consulting, some teaching and being frugal. I sold a quilt I made with my sister. I won a grant to make a film with two friends. It’s messy, and I am applying for jobs. I could move somewhere less expensive, but I can’t rent a home without a job.
I sent in the paperwork as requested, but because I was patching together my income every month, I was asked to get a signed statement from a friend who could vouch for me. Yes, I know Angie, she is living on the income she reported. It was intrusive and humiliating. I emailed the social worker, thanked her and said I would be OK. She told me I could reapply in six months, if necessary. The department canceled my benefits, and I paid full price for the last few months of my food box.
I don’t like to think of what I don’t have or how hunger has left its mark on me. I have a hard time saving money; I share it when I have it. But experiencing hunger means that I am glad to be here. I value my life. I am learning the Klamath language. I learned to silkscreen last summer. I am collaborating on an Indigenous feminist horror movie. I am Dr Angie, highly educated and respected as an elder in my community. I have many trappings of conventional “success”.
And still, hunger has been a consistent reminder that I sometimes depend on others. I’m not ashamed of using food stamps; I’m angry at how our government plays fast and loose with our survival. There are so many difficulties in most of our lives; feeding yourself shouldn’t be one of them. With our own elected government weaponized against us – from ICE agents terrorizing neighborhoods to cutting off Snap benefits – I don’t feel safe. I know the social safety net is more holes than net. But I also know we will help each other.
