Galveston, Texas

Going into her junior year at Texas A&M University, A.J. Wark had more than a full load of courses on her mind. After coming out to her parents over the summer, she had lost her housing and her car as well as a crucial source of financial help. To make ends meet, Wark moved into a small campus dorm, picked up a part-time job, and applied for SNAP. The monthly food assistance eased the pressure long enough for her to stay focused on school and work.

That stability slipped away when the Trump administration announced that it would not be funding SNAP benefits during the government shutdown. A federal judge later ordered the Department of Agriculture (USDA) to use emergency money for SNAP purposes, but the agency insists that it can provide at most 65 percent of normal November payments, and it has provided no clear timeline for when even that level of assistance will reach people.

Nothing has reached Wark so far. With her fridge “pretty much empty,” she has been relying on rice, canned food, and the dwindling contents of her freezer. The campus food pantry is also straining, she told the Texas Tribune. Staff members say they can’t keep protein on the shelves because so many students are showing up for help.

“I never thought anything like this would happen,” Wark told USA Today.

Texas has been hit especially hard. It has more SNAP recipients (roughly 3.5 million, including 1.7 million children) than any other state except California. Counties in the Rio Grande Valley have some of the country’s highest participation rates. In many rural and working-class areas, SNAP benefits average about six dollars a day and run out quickly even in normal months.

In Waco, Mercedes Martinez, a single mother of four, has been selling personal belongings to buy groceries because she cannot manage long food-pantry lines with four young children.

In Liberty County, Sarah Jones, a seamstress raising two teenagers, rationed food after missing her full payment; Jones has also been organizing meal-sharing with neighbors.

In Edinburg, Navitidad Noriega, a mother of four, is relying on her local food bank in a region where nearly one in four households receives SNAP.

In Onalaska, Amber Harrington, who cares for a son with sensory-related food needs, says her family is preparing to go without meals again if the reduced benefits do not arrive soon.

“These are people with lives and mouths to feed,” Wark told the Tribune.  “I am not the only one on campus who is going to be affected.”

Her own anxiety has spilled over into her schoolwork, Wark says. She still shows up for work-shifts and tries to stay on top of her classes, but she finds herself checking her bank balance regularly and looking for more things she can go without.

Story posted on December 3.