这场致命的流行病席卷了美国的心脏地带，就在亚伦·克劳福德处于危机时刻的时候发生了。他在找工作，他的妻子需要手术，然后病毒开始侵蚀她的工作时间和薪水。
克劳福特一家没有存款，账单越来越多，越来越害怕:如果他们没有钱了怎么办食物?这对夫妇有两个男孩，5岁和10岁，一元店的通心粉和奶酪只能卖这么多。
克劳福德是一名37岁的海军老兵，他认为自己是自力更生的。要求食物让他不舒服。“我觉得自己是个失败者，”他说。“就是这种耻辱...这种心态认为你是一个不能养家糊口的人，你是一个游手好闲的人。”
在世界上最富裕的国家，饥饿是一个残酷的现实。即使在繁荣时期，学校也每天给孩子们分发数百万份热餐，绝望的美国老人有时被迫在药物和食物之间做出选择。
现在，在2020年的大流行中，随着疾病、失业和企业倒闭，数百万美国人担心空冰箱和贫瘠的橱柜。食品银行正在快速发放食物，美联社的一项数据分析发现，与去年相比，发放的食物数量大幅增加。与此同时，一些人不吃饭，这样他们的孩子就可以吃饭，而其他人则依赖缺乏营养的廉价食物。
那些与饥饿作斗争的人说，他们在美国从未见过这样的事情，即使是在2007-2009年的大衰退期间。
许多美国人第一个找到救济的地方是附近的食品储藏室，大多数与非营利组织的庞大网络有关。每天都有成吨的食物从杂货店的废弃食品和政府发放的救济品转移到仓库配送中心，然后转移到附近的慈善机构。
克劳福特一家求助于家庭资源中心和食品货架，这是360社区的一部分，是一个非营利组织，离他们在明尼苏达州苹果谷的公寓只有15分钟的路程。当需要时，他们每月会收到几箱新鲜农产品、乳制品、熟食、肉类和其他必需品——足够装满两辆购物车的食物。如果用完了，他们可以得到一个应急包来度过这个月剩下的时间。
克劳福德的妻子希拉坚持要他们寻求帮助;她工作的日托中心削减了她的工作时间。一开始克劳福德不好意思去食品架;他担心会碰到熟人。他现在对此有不同的看法。
“这并没有让我成为一个坏人或一个糟糕的丈夫或父亲，”他说。“相反，我实际上是在做一些事情，以确保我的妻子和孩子...吃的食物。”
历史书上充满了美国反饥饿斗争的标志性图像。最令人难忘的是大萧条时期的照片，照片中的男人站在面包线上，穿着长大衣和软呢帽，眼睛因恐惧而睁得大大的。头顶的牌子上写着:“免费汤。给失业者的咖啡和甜甜圈。”
今年的饥饿画像有一个独特的鸟瞰图:从无人机摄像机捕捉到的巨大交通堵塞。汽车缓缓前行，每个司机都要等上几个小时才能拿到一箱或一袋食物。从加利福尼亚州的阿纳海姆到德克萨斯州的圣安东尼奥，再到俄亥俄州的托莱多和佛罗里达州的奥兰多，以及中间的几个点，数千辆载着饥饿人口的汽车在地平线上排队数英里。在纽约和其他大城市，人们排队等候。
刚刚挨饿的人也有类似的故事:他们的行业崩溃了，他们失去了一份工作，他们的工作时间被削减了，一个机会因为疾病而落空了。
大流行到来后不久，商店和餐馆的窗户上出现了手写的“关闭”标志。随着失业率飙升至14.7%，工资缩水或完全消失，这是近一个世纪以来的最高水平。
食品银行几乎立即感受到了压力。
美国最大的反饥饿组织“喂养美国”争先恐后地跟上各州的封锁和学校——许多学校提供免费早餐和午餐——的关闭。3月下旬，该组织200家粮食银行中有20%面临粮食告罄的危险。
供应问题有所缓解，但需求却没有。喂养美国从未如此快速地分发过如此多的食物——从3月到10月共42亿顿。在大流行期间，该组织的食品银行用户平均增加了60%:大约十分之四是第一次使用。
美联社对其网络中181家食品银行的“喂养美国”数据的分析发现，与2019年同期相比，该组织在今年第三季度分发的食品增加了近57%。
随着这种流行病的肆虐，不会迅速下降，它已经夺去了28万多人的生命，并感染了全国1470万人。
美国食品协会估计，面临饥饿的人口将增加到六分之一，从2019年的3500万增加到今年年底的5000多万。根据该组织的数据，后果对儿童来说更为可怕——四分之一。
一些州受到的打击尤其严重:内华达州是一个旅游圣地，其酒店、赌场和餐饮业受到了这一流行病的重创。根据《美国营养》的一份报告，该州的粮食不安全状况预计将从2018年的第20位跃升至今年的第5位。
该报告称，在密西西比州、阿肯色州、阿拉巴马州和路易斯安那州这四个州，预计到今年年底，超过五分之一的居民将面临粮食不安全，这意味着他们将没有钱或资源来解决粮食问题。
在新奥尔良，最近的一个星期六早上，唐娜·杜尔正等着用免下车捐赠的方式去取食物——自从去年春天新冠肺炎横扫该地区以来，这已经成为她的例行公事。
她的丈夫被解雇了，她无法工作，在过去的两个月里，她做了两次手术——一次在脊柱上，另一次在手臂上。她也有两个成年孩子，自从大流行开始，他们已经搬回家了。
“这是一件很难接受的事情，你必须这样做，”一个听起来很疲惫的杜尔说，她的喉咙被绷带覆盖，这是最近手术的结果。每天早上，她都会关注当地新闻，了解下一次食物捐赠的消息;她尽可能多的去参加，有时会和不太流动的邻居分享食物。
56岁的杜尔面临着痛苦的选择。“我要么支付账单，要么得到食物，”她说，尽管这些捐赠带来了一些缓解。
诺曼·巴特勒是另一个新手。感恩节前不久，他和他的女朋友谢丽尔凌晨3点抵达新奥尔良郊区体育场的免下车食品银行。他们加入了黎明前母亲带着孩子、老人和像他这样的人——失业工人——的行列。
“你可以看到他们脸上不确定的表情，”他说。“每个人都在担心下一顿饭。”
在大流行之前，53岁的巴特勒在这个旅游业占主导地位的城市非常活跃，他做过机场班车和豪华轿车司机，代客和酒店门卫。自3月份熙熙攘攘的街道变得寂静无声以来，这座城市的就业机会一直很少。
“很多人都处于边缘状态，”他说。“我们需要做的主要事情是回去工作。”
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低工资的雇员，许多在服务业，承受了经济困难的冲击。但是痛苦已经深入到了劳动力中。
反饥饿组织食品研究与行动中心(Food Research & Action Center)委托的一份9月份的报告发现，在疫情爆发前，四分之一报告自己吃不饱的人的年收入通常超过5万美元。
在阿拉斯加的安克雷奇，布莱恩和艾瑞斯·梅西克为支持该州石油工业的公司全职工作。他们正打算买房。
当三月到来时，一切都乱了套。
28岁的布莱恩是一家电线公司的新雇员，他被解雇了。不到一周，一家油井测试公司的办公室职员艾瑞斯也失业了。
然后，这变成了一个每月一次的游戏，决定谁先拿到失业支票——房东还是众多账单中的一张。他们让汽车加满油，以防不得不搬家。
梅西夫妇和他们9岁的儿子袁晓超试图靠每周50到75美元的收入生活，因为，她说，“这是我们能挤出的全部收入。”他们第二次求助于食物银行——他们在2017年飓风伊尔玛袭击佛罗里达后寻求帮助。
在那次灾难之后，在佛罗里达相遇的梅西克夫妇决定重新开始，搬到爱里斯成长的阿拉斯加。
具有讽刺意味的是，刚满30岁的艾瑞斯于8月份在州失业办公室找到了工作。“我整天都在听人们的故事，”她说。“我听妈妈们哭诉没钱照顾孩子。我为那些被拒绝的人感到心痛。”
布莱恩和患有自闭症的袁晓超呆在家里，帮他上学，并开车送他去预约。家庭成员还有斗牛犬实验室的混血儿克利奥和大胡子龙黛西。
艾里斯挣得太多，家庭无法接受国家财政援助。安克雷奇的生活成本很高，部分原因是向该国最北部的州运送货物的费用，这使得即使使用优惠券和谨慎购物也更难节约。
她说，这个家庭将继续去食品银行，直到经济好转，她预计这不会很快。
她说，应该有更好的系统来帮助家庭。
“我很高兴知道我们并不孤独，我们，你知道，不是这里唯一受苦的人，但是，”她说，“知道我的政府辜负了我们，我很生气。”
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对于有色人种社区来说，这种流行病是一场复合灾难，黑人和拉丁美洲人受到不成比例的高死亡率、高感染率和高失业率的困扰。
根据联邦统计数据，今年春天拉丁美洲人的失业率飙升至18.9%，高于任何其他种族和族裔群体。尽管此后有所下降，但许多人仍在挣扎。
根据委托的报告，超过五分之一的有孩子的黑人和拉丁美洲成年人说，截至2020年7月，他们有时或经常没有足够的食物。这是白人和亚洲家庭的两倍。研究还发现，女性、有孩子的家庭和有色人种面临的饥饿风险最大。
大约十年前，在困难时期，34岁的阿比盖尔·利奥卡多第一次与亚利桑那州凤凰城的非营利组织圣文森特·德·保罗协会接触。她的家庭出现了反弹，她完成了成为抽血医生的培训，找到了一份为当地实验室抽取血液样本的工作。
当她的家人把她从他们的家乡墨西哥的库埃纳瓦卡带到美国时，利奥卡迪欧只有7岁。她目前受到保护，不会被驱逐出境，并通过“儿童抵达延期行动”计划(DACA)获得了工作许可证。
当她的丈夫，一名餐馆厨师，在大流行早期被解雇时，她的收入——仅仅超过11美元的州最低工资——不足以支付他们的费用。
虽然他们有一个两居室的拖车，但他们每月支付500美元来租这块地。再加上每月高达450美元的电费和互联网服务，他们的四个孩子，9到15岁，可以远程上课。在学校关闭之前，孩子们在校园里享受免费的早餐和午餐。
“每天给所有的孩子喂食都很困难，”利奥卡多在拖车外面说，慈善机构最近送来了两盒西红柿罐头、干豆、米饭、早餐麦片和孩子们无可争议的最爱:特色奥利奥饼干。
她说，这种食物提供的食物不到她家人四周食量的一半，但大大降低了他们每月的账单，约为250美元。在大流行之前，这个家庭正在存钱买房子，但这笔钱已经花光了。不过，她的丈夫回来工作了。
“我们总是以这样或那样的方式解决问题，”利奥卡多说，尽管她担心冠状病毒病例的激增和未来的事情。“我们真的不知道会发生什么。”
自去年秋天以来，布里亚纳·多明戈斯一直依靠芝加哥地区的食品储藏室来补充食品。有两个儿子，一个3岁，一个14岁，很难跟上，尽管她和她的男朋友都全职工作。
“我从没想过会是我，”她谈到自己去伊利诺伊州埃文斯顿的希尔赛德食品储藏室时说。“但你要做你必须做的事情来生存。”
一连串的不幸把他们带到了一个转折点。
由于流行病，多明戈斯流产了，她的父亲失业了。她的男朋友也是，一个卡车司机。去年11月，她为医院和其他企业销售天花板瓷砖的公司，在没人通知的情况下解雇了她。
34岁的多明戈斯有一笔小额遣散费，她决定搬到佐治亚州，在那里她有家人，生活成本更低。她的男朋友找到了一份客户服务代表的工作，他可以在任何地方工作，尽管每小时只有13美元。她在12月初去那里寻找工作机会。
“如果我现在不做，”她说，“我就永远不会做了。”
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虽然食物银行在大流行期间变得至关重要，但它们只是对抗饥饿的一条途径。对于食物银行的每一餐，一个名为补充营养援助计划或粮票的联邦项目提供九份。
反饥饿组织已经游说国会将食品券的最高限额提高15%，一项类似的措施大大有助于国家摆脱大衰退。众议院今年春天通过的一项刺激法案包括了这样一项条款，但它已经陷入了党派之争。
“食品银行和食品储藏室做得很好，”食品研究和行动中心主席路易斯·瓜迪亚说。“但它们根本不足以成为我们现在看到的这种数量级的东西。”
许多去食品分发站的人也收到了食品券，尽管资格因州而异。
亚伦·克劳福德说，这个家庭去年夏天开始收到的550美元的食品券给他们的生活带来了显著的变化。
其他人发现，没有食物帮助，即使有社会保障或其他福利，他们也无法生存。
66岁的菲利斯·马尔德来到伊利诺伊州埃文斯顿的希尔赛德食品储藏室时，她既有社会保障又有失业，她在那里的同一间平房里住了20年。
她一直在补充优步司机的福利，当疫情爆发时，她帮助工人们把电脑和办公设备带回家。之后，她运送了医务人员和其他一线工作人员，但随着新冠肺炎恐慌，这一切戛然而止。
起初，马尔德没有告诉任何人参观食物储藏室的事。然后她就变心了。“保守秘密会让事情变得更糟，”她说，“……让我对自己感觉更糟，所以我决定谈论它更重要。”
马尔德有时会在高速公路的坡道上与邻居和乞丐分享食物。但是她预计她的食物银行访问将很快结束。
几天后，她开始工作——这是大流行带来的。
她将是一名冠状病毒合同追踪员，在附近的一个县远程工作。
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随着这一年接近尾声，克劳福德更加自信了。
这几个月充满了挫折和成功。两个克拉福德都出现了轻微的新冠肺炎病。Sheyla做了子宫切除手术，连续六周无薪休假。
但是他们也反弹了。
克劳福德有两份兼职工作，一份在联合包裹服务公司，另一份在一家养老院做维修工。他的妻子回到了日托中心工作。他们的儿子在他们提供日托的学校吃早餐和午餐。
把他们带到食品银行的财务问题并没有消失。他们还有过期的账单和一辆需要修理的汽车。
但在经历了许多黑暗的月份后，也有一些释然的时刻。今年秋天，当这对夫妇感染了新冠肺炎，他们儿子的学校送来了食物和牛奶来帮助他们，
一个朋友为感恩节大餐送来了一只18磅重的火鸡。它太大了，克劳福特一家不得不想办法在冰箱里找地方放剩菜，现在冰箱里已经堆满了食物。
克劳福德说，满满一冰箱是一个受欢迎的景象。
“这只是让你放松一下，”他说。“有种平和的感觉。”
Millions of hungry Americans turn to food banks for 1st time
The deadly pandemic that tore through the nation’s heartland struck just as Aaron Crawford was in a moment of crisis. He was looking for work, his wife needed surgery, then the virus began eating away at her work hours and her paycheck.
The Crawfords had no savings, mounting bills and a growing dread: What if they ran out offood? The couple had two boys, 5 and 10, and boxes of macaroni and cheese from the dollar store could go only so far.
A 37-year-old Navy vet, Crawford saw himself as self-reliant. Asking forfoodmade him uncomfortable. “I felt like I was a failure,” he says. “It’s this whole stigma ... this mindset that you’re this guy who can’t provide for his family, that you’re a deadbeat."
Hunger is a harsh reality in the richest country in the world. Even during times of prosperity, schools hand out millions of hot meals a day to children, and desperate elderly Americans are sometimes forced to choose between medicine and food.
Now, in the pandemic of 2020, with illness, job loss and business closures, millions more Americans are worried about empty refrigerators and barren cupboards. Food banks are doling out meals at a rapid pace and an Associated Press data analysis found a sharp rise in the amount of food distributed compared with last year. Meanwhile, some folks are skipping meals so their children can eat and others are depending on cheap food that lacks nutrition.
Those fighting hunger say they’ve never seen anything like this in America, even during the Great Recession of 2007-2009.
The first place many Americans are finding relief is a neighborhood food pantry, most connected to vast networks of nonprofits. Tons of food move each day from grocery store discards and government handouts to warehouse distribution centers, and then to the neighborhood charity.
The Crawfords turned to the Family Resource Centers and Food Shelf, part of 360 Communities, a nonprofit 15 minutes from their apartment in Apple Valley, Minnesota. When needed, they receive monthly boxes of fresh produce, dairy, deli, meat and other basics — enough food to fill two grocery carts. If that runs out, they can get an emergency package to tide them over for the rest of the month.
Crawford's wife, Sheyla, had insisted they seek help; her hours had been cut at the day care center where she worked. At first, Crawford was embarrassed to go the food shelf; he worried he'd bump into someone he knew. He now sees it differently.
“It didn’t make me a bad man or a terrible husband or father,” he says. “On the contrary, I was actually doing something to make sure that my wife and kids had ... food to eat."
The history books are filled with iconic images of America’s struggles against hunger. Among the most memorable are the Depression-era photos of men standing in breadlines, huddled in long coats and fedoras, their eyes large with fear. An overhead sign reads: “Free Soup. Coffee and a Doughnut for the Unemployed.”
This year’s portrait of hunger has a distinctively bird’s eye view: Enormous traffic jams captured from drone-carrying cameras. Cars inching along, each driver waiting hours for a box or bag of food. From Anaheim, California to San Antonio, Texas to Toledo, Ohio and Orlando, Florida and points in-between, thousands of vehicles carrying hungry people queued up for miles across the horizon. In New York, and other large cities, people stand, waiting for blocks on end.
The newly hungry have similar stories: Their industry collapsed, they lost a job, their hours were cut, an opportunity fell through because of illness.
Handwritten “closed” signs appeared on the windows of stores and restaurants soon after the pandemic arrived. Paychecks shrank or disappeared altogether as unemployment skyrocketed to 14.7 percent, a rate not seen in almost a century.
Food banks felt the pressure almost immediately.
Feeding America, the nation’s largest anti-hunger organization, scrambled to keep up as states locked down and schools — many providing free breakfasts and lunches — closed. In late March, 20 percent of the organization's 200 food banks were in danger of running out of food.
The problem with supply subsided, but demand has not. Feeding America has never handed out so much food so fast — 4.2 billion meals from March through October. The organization has seen a 60 percent average increase in food bank users during the pandemic: about 4 in 10 are first-timers.
An AP analysis of Feeding America data from 181 food banks in its network found the organization has distributed nearly 57 percent more food in the third quarter of the year, compared with the same period in 2019.
There will be no quick decline as the pandemic rages on, having already claimed more than 280,000 lives and infecting 14.7 million people across the nation.
Feeding America estimates those facing hunger will swell to 1 in 6 people, from 35 million in 2019 to more than 50 million by this year’s end. The consequences are even more dire for children — 1 in 4, according to the group.
Some states have been hit especially hard: Nevada, a tourist mecca whose hotel, casino and restaurant industries were battered by the pandemic, is projected to vault from 20th place in 2018 to 5th place this year in food insecurity, according to a report from Feeding America.
In four states — Mississippi, Arkansas, Alabama and Louisiana — more than 1 in 5 residents are expected to be food insecure by year’s end, meaning they won’t have money or resources to put food on the table, the report said.
In New Orleans one recent Saturday morning, Donna Duerr was waiting to pick up food in a drive-through donation — something that has become part of her routine since COVID-19 swept in last spring.
Her husband was laid off from his job as a pipefitter and she’s unable to work, having undergone two surgeries — one on her spine, the other on her arm — in the last two months. She also has two grown children who’ve moved home since the pandemic began.
“This is a hard thing to accept that you have to do this,” says a weary-sounding Duerr, her throat covered with bandages as the result of a recent operation. Every morning she monitors the local news for announcements of the next food donation; she tries to attend as many as she can, sometimes sharing the food with less-mobile neighbors.
Duerr, 56, faces painful choices. “I either pay bills or get food,” she says, though these donations have brought some relief.
Norman Butler is another first-timer. Shortly before Thanksgiving, he and his girlfriend, Cheryl, arrived at 3 a.m. at a drive-through food bank in a suburban New Orleans sports stadium. They joined a pre-dawn procession of mothers with their kids, the elderly and folks like him — unemployed workers.
“You can see the look of uncertainty on their faces,” he says. “Everybody’s just worried about their next meal.”
Before the pandemic, Butler, 53, flourished in the tourism-dominated city, working as an airport shuttle and limousine driver, a valet and hotel doorman. Since March, when the bustling streets turned silent, jobs in the city have been scarce.
“A lot of people are in limbo,” he says. “The main thing we need is to get back to work.”
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Low-wage employees, many in the service industry, have borne the brunt of economic hardship. But the misery has reached deeper into the workforce.
A September report commissioned by the Food Research & Action Center, an anti-hunger organization, found 1 in 4 of those reporting they didn't have enough to eat typically had incomes above $50,000 a year before the outbreak.
In Anchorage, Alaska, Brian and Airis Messick were coasting along in full-time jobs for companies that support the state’s oil industry. They were moving toward buying a house.
When March arrived, everything unraveled.
Brian, 28, the newest hire at an electrical wiring company, was laid off. Within a week, Airis, an office worker at an oil well testing firm, lost her job, too.
Then it became a monthly game of deciding who gets paid first with their unemployment checks — the landlord or one of the many bills. They kept their car filled with gas in case they had to move.
The Messicks and their 9-year-old son, Jayden, tried to survive on $50 to $75 a week because, she says, “that’s all we could squeeze.” They turned to a food bank for only the second time — they’d sought help after Hurricane Irma hit Florida in 2017.
After that devastation, the Messicks, who’d met in Florida, decided to get a fresh start and move to Alaska, where Airis had grown up.
Airis, who just turned 30, found work in August, ironically, at the state unemployment office. “I hear people’s stories all day,” she says. “I listen to moms cry about not having money to take care of their kids. My heart aches for the people who get denied.”
Brian stays home with Jayden, who is autistic, helping him with school and driving him to appointments. Also part of the family are Cleo, a pit bull-lab mix, and Daisy, a bearded dragon.
Airis earns too much for the family to receive state financial aid. Anchorage’s high cost-of-living, partly fueled by the expense of shipping goods to the nation’s most northern state, makes it harder to economize even with coupons and careful shopping.
She says the family will continue to go to the food bank until the economy improves, which she expects won’t be soon.
There should be better systems in place, she says, to help families.
“I feel great knowing that we’re not alone, that we’re, you know, not out here being the only one suffering but,” she says, “it makes me mad to know my government failed us.”
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For communities of color, the pandemic has been a compound disaster with Blacks and Latinos reeling from disproportionately high rates of deaths, infections — and joblessness.
Unemployment surged among Latinos to 18.9 percent this spring, higher than any other racial and ethnic group, according to federal statistics. Though it has since fallen, many are still struggling.
More than 1 in 5 Black and Latino adults with children said as of July 2020 they sometimes or often did not have enough to eat, according to the commissioned report. That was double the rate of white and Asian households. It also found that women, households with children and people of color are at greatest risk of hunger.
Abigail Leocadio, 34, first approached the nonprofit Society of St. Vincent de Paul in Phoenix, Arizona, during hard times about a decade ago. Her family rebounded and she completed training to become a phlebotomist, landing a job drawing blood specimens for a local lab.
Leocadio was just 7 when her family brought her to the U.S. from their native Cuernavaca, Mexico. She currently is protected from deportation and has a work permit through the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, or DACA.
When her husband, a restaurant cook, was laid off earlier in the pandemic, her income — barely more than the $11 state minimum wage — wasn’t enough to cover their expenses.
Though they own a two-bedroom trailer, they pay $500 a month to rent the lot. Add to that as much as $450 in monthly electric bills and internet service so their four kids, 9 to 15, can attend class remotely. Before schools closed, the kids received free breakfasts and lunches on campus.
“It has been hard feeding all the kiddos daily,” Leocadio said outside the trailer after a recent delivery from the charity of two boxes including canned tomatoes, dried beans, rice, breakfast cereal and the kids’ undisputed favorite: specialty Oreo cookies.
The food, she says, provides less than half of what her family eats in four weeks, but significantly reduces their monthly bill to about $250. Before the pandemic, the family was saving to buy a house, but that money has been wiped out. Her husband, though, is back at work.
“We always figure out things one way or another,” Leocadio says, though she’s worried about the surge in coronavirus cases and what lies ahead. “We really don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Briana Dominguez had been depending on food pantries in the Chicago area since last fall to supplement her groceries. With two sons, ages 3 and 14, it was hard to keep up, even though she and her boyfriend both worked full-time.
“I never thought it would be me,” she says of her visits to the Hillside Food Pantry in Evanston, Illinois. “But you do what you gotta do to survive.”
A series of misfortunes brought them to a turning point.
Dominguez had a miscarriage, and her father lost his job, due to the pandemic. So did her boyfriend, a trucker. In November her company, which sells ceiling tiles for hospitals and other business, eliminated her job with little notice.
Dominguez, 34, who has a small severance, has decided to move to Georgia, where she has family and living costs are lower. Her boyfriend has found work as a customer service representative that he can do from anywhere, though it’s only $13 an hour. She traveled there in early December to scout job possibilities.
“If I don’t do it now,” she says, “I’ll never do it.”
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While food banks have become critical during the pandemic, they’re just one path for combating hunger. For every meal from a food bank, a federal program called the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, or food stamps, provides nine.
Anti-hunger groups have lobbied Congress for a 15 percent increase in maximum food stamp benefits, A similar measure went a long way in digging the nation out of the Great Recession. A stimulus bill passed by the House this spring includes such a provision, but it has been bogged down in partisan squabbling.
“Food banks and food pantries are doing great work,” says Luis Guardia, president of thee Food Research & Action Center. “But they simply cannot do enough to be something of the order of magnitude that we’re seeing right now. ”
Many going to food pantries also are receiving food stamps, though eligibility varies among states.
Aaron Crawford says the addition of $550 in food stamps the family started receiving last summer has made a significant difference in their lives.
Others have discovered they couldn’t make it without food help, even with Social Security or other benefits.
Phyllis Marder, 66, had both Social Security and unemployment when she arrived at the Hillside Food Pantry in Evanston, Illinois, where she’s lived in the same bungalow for 20 years.
She’d been supplementing her benefits as an Uber drive, and when the pandemic hit, she helped workers bring home their computers and office gear. After that, she ferried medical and other front-line workers, but that came to an abrupt end with a COVID-19 scare.
At first, Marder, didn’t tell anyone about visiting food pantries. Then she had a change of heart. “Keeping a secret makes things get worse,” she says, “… and makes me feel worse about myself, and so I decided that it was more important to talk about it.”
Marder sometimes shared her food with neighbors and a panhandler on a freeway ramp. But she expects her food bank visits will end soon.
In a few days, she starts a job — courtesy of the pandemic.
She’ll be a coronavirus contract tracer, working remotely for a nearby county.
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As the year nears its end, Crawford is more confident.
The months have been filled with setbacks and successes. Both Crawfords developed mild cases of COVID-19. Sheyla had hysterectomy surgery and was out work without pay for six weeks.
But they've rebounded, too.
Crawford has two part-time jobs, one at United Parcel Service, the second as a maintenance worker at a home for the elderly. His wife is back at work at the day care center. And their boys are receiving breakfast and lunch at their school that provides day care.
The financial troubles that brought them to the food bank haven’t disappeared. They still have overdue bills and a car that needs repairs.
But after many dark months, there have been moments of relief. This fall when the couple contracted COVID-19, their sons’ school sent meals and milk to help,
And a friend had an 18-pound turkey delivered for a Thanksgiving feast. It was so big the Crawfords had to figure out how to find room for the leftovers in the refrigerator now stocked with food.
A full fridge, Crawford says, is a welcome sight.
“It just kind of puts you at ease," he says. "There’s a sense of peace.”
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Sharon Cohen, a Chicago-based national writer for The Associated Press, can be reached at scohen@ap.org or on Twitter at http://twitter.com/SCohenAP. Contributing to this report were Martha Irvine in Evanston, Illinois; Rebecca Santana and Gerald Herbert in New Orleans; Anita Snow in Phoenix, Arizona; Mark Thiessen in Anchorage, Alaska; and data editor Meghan Hoyer.
