‘Hunger has left its mark on me’: a Native woman reflects on her rich but food-scarce life | Hunger land

I asked my older sister why we sang the Patty Cake song so often when we were kids: Patty cake, patty cake, baker. Make me a cake as quickly as possible! She replied simply: “Because we were hungry.” »

Her answer stuck with me and I thought of some happy memories: Mom baking Toll House cookies while The Wizard of Oz was on TV. Deliver baked goods to elders and friends in our urban Indigenous community at Christmas; we are enrolled citizens of the Klamath Tribes, whose traditional lands are in southern Oregon and northern California. Sharing food is a cultural value for indigenous people. Mom taught us to always offer food and drinks to our guests. It is also important to have enough food to share.

Although I didn’t relate this rhyme to our family’s struggle at the time (maybe this child’s play was our stomachs talking), I have the memory of not getting enough of it. Our mother was crying in the kitchen because she couldn’t buy milk. Hearing my father-in-law on the phone borrowing $5 for food from my aunt. One evening, when the cupboards were empty, he made us a chocolate cake for dinner, without frosting. And there was the time my younger sister, Chel, overheard the woman in front of us in line at the grocery store say she didn’t need the second carton of eggs that came with the “buy one, get one free” special. Chel was proud, but we were hungry. She asked for the extra eggs.

I know the panic of not being able to pay for groceries when the weather changes and heating costs rise. One cold winter we slept in front of the fireplace because we had no money to buy fuel oil. When you’re 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 blankets on the sofa bed. This is a good memory and perhaps inaccurate. Our mother must have felt pretty desperate, but she made it an adventure. In his hands, Food Stamp Day was a celebration. We ate a lot of beans and spaghetti, but she gave us a box of cookies to treat us.

Hunger has been with me at different times throughout my 60s: when I was a child, when I was a single mother, and when I recently quit my job. Food stamps helped me and my family during these times; I say “helped” because even with these benefits, families are hungry. But the government elected by the American majority decided, during the federal government shutdown, that feeding its population was not a priority. Now that the government is open again and benefits are being cut, food aid is no longer promised.

I understand that hunger is the product of structural inequalities, policies, circumstances, 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 hometown, Portland, Oregon. She rented a small house across the street from where she grew up hungry with her five siblings.

Always a storyteller, she entertained us – the three daughters she 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 felt like a treat. Or how the local church would bring a charity box for these six poor indigenous children and their mother in a wheelchair. My mother and her siblings received snacks for the week. She hid apples and oranges in her sock drawer. When this fruit was gone, there was no more.

These stories – and my own experience as a hungry child – taught me not to ask for treats or fast food, not to order much at restaurants. Don’t ask for anything more because it is humiliating for the parent to say, “No, I don’t have any money.”

Things changed when my mother and her siblings, all enrolled members of the Klamath Tribes, received money from land sales under a federal policy called rescission. In 1953, the federal government officially disbanded the tribe, arguing that its members were largely self-sufficient and did not need the benefits that came with tribal recognition. We were not the only ones; more than 60 tribes in western Oregon were removed, and it took decades to restore recognition to the Klamath in 1986.

The dismissal was a disaster for the tribe, even though the majority of its members – including my family – voted for it. The land was sold for a pittance and the tribesmen suffered the consequences.. Alcoholism has affected the tribe like never before. People were fishing less than before. More of us have started using food stamps and other benefits. This turned out to be a very good deal just for the government and developers who were able to exploit Klamath land for timber, water and real estate.

The windfall, $43,000 per child, did not last long for my family. My mother divorced and such domestic upheavals can mean the return of hunger, especially for women and children. Suddenly we were back in Portland, paying for our groceries with food stamps.

Mom became involved in her 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 U.S. government’s long history of breaking almost every treaty it signed with Native nations.

One morning in fourth grade, I did not get up to recite the daily Pledge of Allegiance “to the Flag of the United States of America.” My teacher, Mr. Hill, asked me why I was sitting still. I said I did not want to pledge allegiance to a government that violated treaties. He said, “Well, who do you think pays for your free lunches?”

When my mother met my dear father-in-law – the one who made the chocolate cake without frosting – things got a little easier. But sometimes my parents were laid off, underemployed, or on strike. My mother worked as a teacher at two Native American preschools that she helped open, and my stepfather worked at the steel mill and also started a cabinet building business. But by the time I left high school, our family finances were unstable; our freezer would be stocked with whatever was available at the food bank.

This was all preparation for later, when I fell in love and got pregnant as a 33-year-old government temp. My son, Leroy, was not planned, but he was welcome even when the relationship ended. I applied for Snap and WIC benefits (another program for women with very young children). These federal programs were a lifesaver when I was going to school at the University of Oregon. However, I had to ration; I would sometimes deny Leroy a favorite food because I needed that ingredient for another meal. Friends would help us by inviting us to dinners or events that I couldn’t afford.

I worked at the university when I finished my doctorate. When I became Dr. Angie Morrill, I had the chance to return to Portland to lead the largest Indian education program in the state. My salary has doubled. I loved taking my son for sushi, his favorite food. I could pick up the check at a family meal. I created a pantry, where I loved seeing jars of applesauce and boxes of crackers. Buying meat from the butcher was a privilege for me.

In February of this year, I quit my job. I completed a contract and taught a course, but I wasn’t making enough money to pay my bills. Once again, I applied for 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 every 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 hadn’t done anything wrong. My benefits would continue, but they wanted proof of my income – bank statements – and interviewed me. How did I pay the rent? » asked the social worker.

I told him: it’s a fight. I live in a rented 1977 mobile home. It doesn’t look fabulous, but the Willamette River flows past my backyard. I gather my income through consulting, 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 complicated and I’m applying for a job. I could move somewhere cheaper, but I can’t rent a house without a job.

I sent the documents as requested, but since I was gathering my income each month, I was asked to get a signed statement from a friend who could vouch for me. Yes, I know Angie, she lives on the income she declared. It was intrusive and humiliating. I emailed the social worker, thanked her and told her everything would be okay. 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 about what I don’t have or how hunger has left its mark on me. I struggle to save money; I share it when I have it. But being hungry means I’m happy to be here. I enjoy my life. I’m learning the Klamath language. I learned screen printing last summer. I’m collaborating on an Indigenous feminist horror film. I am Dr. Angie, highly educated and respected as an elder in my community. I have many of the attributes of conventional “success.”

And yet, hunger constantly reminds me that I sometimes depend on others. I’m not ashamed of using food stamps; I am angry at the way our government is playing 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 armed against us — from ICE agents terrorizing neighborhoods to the removal of Snap benefits — I don’t feel safe. I know that the social safety net has more holes than a net. But I also know that we will help each other.