I spent 2 hours grocery shopping with three children ages six and under. As I slowly shuffled up and down each aisle at the grocery store, my patience was tested at every turn.
“No, we don’t need that, put it back, please. Maybe next time.”
“Yes, beautiful cartwheel, Naomi. Now would you please stop doing gymnastics in the middle of the aisle.”
“Sophia, could you hold the baby for a moment, so she stops crying.”
When Sophia’s little 6-year-old arms got too tired of holding the almost one-and-a-half-year-old Anya, I’d lift her over my oversized belly, balancing her in one arm while trying to shop with the other. Eventually, this would become too much, and I would put her back into the shopping cart, until she got too fussy; and then, my eldest daughter and I would perform the back-and-forth dance again and again.
But we had to do it, because the fridge was empty. Fortunately, my WIC and Food Stamp cards were not…or so I thought.
With everything scanned and bagged, the cashier totaled the bill. Looking around to see if anyone would notice the white card with the words LONESTAR written in red and blue indicating I was too poor to afford my own groceries, I slid the microchip side into the machine.
Nothing happened for a moment, then it beeped and the screen read “No Benefits to Redeem.” I furrowed my brow. That’s weird. I knew I had WIC items to redeem. WIC stands for Women, Infants, and Children. It is a government-funded program aimed at helping underprivileged pregnant women or people with children under 5 have the necessary food to get the proper nutrients. It included milk, cheese, cereal, rice, beans and some other healthy options. Recipients were required to provide a stack of documents, including proof of income, that would make even an accountant cringe during tax season. We were also required to check in monthly or so and take nutrition classes. After a pregnant woman had her baby, she would also receive a breast pump.
I hated pulling out my WIC card, but at least it wasn’t as bad as my first pregnancy, when WIC used to give us coupons that were printed on perforated paper and unfold like an Old Testament scroll that hit the floor. A card, even with the LONESTAR written across it, was much more discreet.
“Maybe you could try it again,” the young 20-something cashier said, pressing some buttons. The electronic screen prompted me to put my payment method in once again.
Nothing. And then it hit me. My benefits weren’t available on the 1st of the month. My last name started with an M, so I got my benefits on the 6th of the month. How could I be so stupid? Today was the first, not the sixth.
I breathed a deep sigh and tried to remain calm. At least I had my food stamp card. I would have to pay for all the WIC food, but I reasoned that I would just come back later in the month to redeem that for free. Lord knew we would go through all those milk jugs packed up in our grocery cart and would need more anyhow.
As I slid my other white card that also read LONESTAR into the machine, I had to take the candy bar that Naomi was holding up to me and place it back into its appropriate slot on the shelf.
Sophia came up to her sister, her golden blonde hair shining in the fluorescent lights, and tried to explain that we couldn’t afford it but that maybe mama would make them her famous pumpkin scones since we got pumpkin puree. It was the holidays and I always made copycat Starbucks pumpkin scones, because I could rarely justify splurging for the real thing.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. There isn’t anything on that card either,” the dark-haired woman said.
I could feel the hot flash rushing up my neck. Even though I was wearing a blue and turquoise summer dress and slightly chilly Texas winter air blew in occasionally from the automatic glass doors, it was no match for pregnancy hormones and shame.
“What?” I exclaimed. “That’s not possible.” Unlike WIC, food stamp money always came on the 1st.”
“Can we try again?” I asked.
“Of course,” the woman looked back at the growing line behind me and tried to maintain patience with me. I looked backwards. The man behind me was starting to look annoyed. My tummy grumbled. The baby growing inside me was starting to tell me it was time to eat again.
“Mama, please,” the three-year-old, Naomi said, little blue eyes full of hope.
“NO!” I barked, taking the candy bar and putting it back again.
I slid it again, wishing there were some sort of WIC/Lonestar card “skin” I could put over the front of the card so it wasn’t so obvious I was one of those people.
This is NOT how I grew up, and if the upper-middle class girl who was used to dining out at top-tier steakhouses while my daddy conducted business over whiskey would see me now, she’d tell me to pull myself up by my bootstraps and work harder and stop being lazy relying on government handouts. If she only knew how hard we tried.
Deep down, that little girl was still telling me, “You aren’t working hard enough,” alongside the voices of people who I imagined would look at my life and tell me, “Well, if you would just stop getting pregnant, maybe you’d have enough money to buy your own damn groceries.” As if we planned on getting pregnant this many times.
My faith and convictions were strong, but every unexpected pregnancy, which we were actively trying to prevent, made us wonder if God cared about our inability to provide for them financially.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You don’t have any benefits,” she said.
I just stared her blankly for a moment before bursting out in tears. I couldn’t help it. The hours wasted, the children clamoring at my feet asking for candy or to be held, the awful look of understanding in my almost 7-year-old daughter’s eyes that should never have to understand what was happening in that moment, the people tapping their feet impatiently behind me, the fear of judgment and the thought of an empty fridge was just too much.
I guess I scared the cashier, because she immediately went to get the manager to come over to make sure she was doing it right. Not one, but two managers came over when they saw me crying.
“It’s going to be alright, honey,” she said, coming up to the register and began pressing a series of buttons.
I wished I could believe her, but after almost 8 years of marriage barely making it, I wasn’t super encouraged.
“Try again,” she said and looked at me with as much empathy as she knew how. But unless you’ve been there, no one can understand how awful being that type of broke feels.
I slid it again, trying to be hopeful. But hope was leaking out of me like someone had just broken my water.
Nope. Still nothing.
“I don’t know what’s happening, I know I have benefits,” I said.
The manager had given back the cashier her place, and she looked at me unsure of what to say.
“Do you have any other way to pay,” one manager asked from the edge of the conveyor belt. The two managers were huddled near the edge trying to figure out if it was okay to leave the situation or not.
I didn’t. If I paid for the groceries with my debit card, it would make us overdraft…by A LOT. We didn’t have credit cards. We’d already made that mistake, using credit cards to cover Sophia’s ear surgery when she was two. We had done a few balance transfers to buy us 18-months more time to pay it off, but now it was in collections.
I shook my head swiftly and looked down at my belly. The baby was kicking, I could see the little feet pushing up.
Then, the cashier leaned in and whispered, “Don’t you and your husband have jobs?”
My body went cold. I wasn’t angry, she was young and maybe curious why someone who looked like me couldn’t afford groceries. I looked put together enough. My hair was nice, I was wearing a beautiful dress my mom had bought me for my birthday, and my kids weren’t dirty. I had a nice diamond ring my husband had purchased because his roommate allowed him to live at his place rent free for the few months of our short engagement. Nothing about me looked “trashy”like TV-shows portray people that are on government assistance. I knew she didn’t mean it rudely, so I didn’t take offense but rather felt such an intense shame that I wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t a bum.
“He has a job. And we have three college degrees between the both of us,” I said almost proudly. We weren’t losers. We were smart, capable, and frugal people who just couldn’t figure out how to make enough money to live.
She honestly looked shocked. I studied her face. It was obvious she had never pondered the idea that someone with a job and a college degree could ever be on assistance.
I looked back at the managers who were still waiting to see what was going to happen and said, “I guess I’ll just have to call the office on Monday and figure out what happened.,” I tried to recompose myself. Get it together, Elaine, it’s just life. That’s just how it goes. You have to keep a good attitude. You have to be strong for your girls. And you need to get out of the way for the paying folk
My eyes flicked over to the groceries that were already bagged that I had dreamed of taking out to the parking lot and loaded into our only vehicle, a worn-out gold minivan. I looked back to the manager who obviously knew what I was thinking.
“We’ll put it all back for you, don’t worry,” she gave me a warm smile as I nodded, holding back the tears that were forming again in my eyes.
“Thank you,” I said.
I lifted the toddler from the grocery cart seat and she pulled the cart away so I could pass through the row and head to the doors with three little girls who I would have to figure out how to feed. Three little girls who, like me, were expecting the joy of unloading food into an empty fridge.
I gathered little hands and headed toward the cold night air glad to be away from the eyes of pity, the eyes of judgment and in the hot seat of shame and humiliation.
“I’m sorry, mama,” Sophia said to me.
I looked into her eyes, and said, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry about it, that’s not your job.”
Little did I know that despite my attempts to shield her from the heartache of poverty, the ground had already been laid in her little empathetic heart to believe that it was her job to make it better somehow. And unfortunately, even though I didn’t mean to confirm this job, I let her.