At ten on the dot, Renata pulls her green station wagon into the parking lot of Daily Bread, a food pantry located in an industrial area on the edge of the city, just a few miles from Leanne’s house. Leanne Armstrong is in the passenger seat, and two of her kids, Hakeem and Gemma, are in the back. Their cupboards are dangerously low, and their food stamps won’t be renewed for two more weeks.1 Looking at the building, Leanne sighs. They haven’t opened the doors yet, and there is a line of twenty people waiting.
Renata parks the car, and Leanne gets out to unbuckle Gemma from her car seat in the back. She takes a closer look at the people in line. Reflecting the demographics of the neighborhood, they are predominantly black and Latino/a, along with a few white people. There are more women than men. Many of the women have children with them.2
“She should walk herself, because she’s a fat girl,” Renata clucks at Leanne, who is carrying Gemma on her hip as they walk across the parking lot.
“She’s too slow to walk the whole way,” Leanne responds, but she puts Gemma down anyway. Slowly, they make their way toward the food pantry, a boxy white building with a large loading dock to the left of the entrance.
A few minutes after ten, a cheerful woman with curly hair unlocks the front door and enthusiastically greets the crowd. People begin to slowly file in.
Daily Bread is part of a network of more than 200 food banks and 61,000 food pantries and soup kitchens that distribute more than three million meals every year in the United States.3 As anti-hunger activist and author Andrew Fisher notes, these meals are an important part of how many low-income families survive. Food pantries help supplement paychecks or governmental benefits that aren’t sufficient to get people through the month. They also serve people, like undocumented immigrants, who are ineligible for food stamps or other government benefits. They allow families to use their scarce cash to heat their homes or buy medicine, knowing they’ll still have something to eat.4
Although soup kitchens and food pantries in the United States can be traced back to the Great Depression, the modern “charitable food system” really began in the 1980s. The first food bank—a center that collected surplus food from supermarkets and food manufacturers and distributed it to poor people—was established in Phoenix in 1967. By 1977, a national organization had been established in Chicago, to guide the replication of food banks across the country. In the 1980s, in the wake of a deep recession and steep cuts to the federal safety net, the charitable food system exploded: from thirteen food banks in 1979 to 180 in 1989.5
Today, there are food banks across the United States. And there are food pantries in schools, churches, and volunteer associations, sustained by a wide range of donors, from supermarket chains and food manufacturers to food drives at schools and churches.6 There are mobile food pantries that go where the need is and food pantries in elementary, middle, and high schools and on college campuses.7
Food charities are evidence of the “astonishing ingenuity of the American spirit.”8 “Literally millions of Americans support these programs with contributions of food, money, time, and effort,” writes sociologist Janet Poppendieck. “It is an outpouring of compassion, both organized and individual . . . a ‘kinder, gentler nation.’ ”9
But the charitable food system has also snowballed out of control, argue Fisher and Poppendieck. Originally intended as a temporary stopgap to relieve suffering from relatively short-term setbacks, it has grown into “a seemingly permanent feature of the country’s landscape.”10
Yet, we might ask, if these food charities are serving a need, and clearly they are, is there really a problem?
The simple answer is yes. The entrenchment of this vast system of food charities, critics point out, has negative implications: for the people who rely on food pantries and food banks, and for our ability to adequately resolve the problem of hunger in the United States.
Charitable efforts work at the individual level, by serving as a “moral safety valve,” reducing people’s discomfort with seeing visible inequality and destitution. At the governmental level, these efforts “work” by making it easier for policymakers to shed responsibility for the poor.11 But although they fill an important need, food pantries don’t always work well for the people using them.
“Welcome!” bubbles the cheerful woman at the door, smiling widely at each person who crosses the threshold into the building. Her name tag reads “Kathy.” Leanne and her family are the last ones inside. The door closes behind them, and Kathy follows them in.
Two older white women sit in folding chairs at a collapsible table just inside the door. Leanne tells them her name and collects a wooden token with the number twenty-nine on it while Kathy waits off to the side. Seeing that Leanne has her token, she escorts the family into a room behind double glass doors.
“I like her dress,” she tells Leanne, nodding approvingly at Gemma’s green dress.
“Thank you!” exclaims Leanne. “I think I got it here, actually.”
“Really?” says Kathy. “It’s so pretty. And it matches her shoes. She’s so coordinated!”
“I hate them shoes,” grumbles Renata under her breath. She has been complaining about Gemma’s Sesame Street shoes all morning.
They push through the glass doors and enter a large room, divided into two separate areas by gray partition walls. The walls are decorated with inspirational posters. Large fluorescent lights make the windowless room feel artificially bright. It smells like bleach.
Two rows of gray plastic chairs are lined up in front of the partition in the center of the room. Leanne leads everyone to a group of empty chairs in the second row. Hakeem makes sure he gets to sit next to Leanne. He nestles his head into her shoulder.
“We the last ones here?” he asks.
“No,” Leanne says, explaining that the last people will be the ones who come at one o’clock, when the food pantry closes.
Tall shelves with bins of clothes are visible behind the partition wall. Every few minutes, someone emerges from behind the partition and calls out a number and a first name. “Number eleven. Jennifer.”
Less frequently, a voice over the loudspeaker announces that an order is ready. “Number two, your order is ready. Please meet us out front.”
Seeing that Hakeem is bored, Leanne tries to distract him. “How many are left before our number, twenty-nine?” Leanne quizzes him.
Hakeem pauses, and Leanne starts to give him a clue. “Wait, wait!” he says, furrowing his brow in concentration. “Twenty-seven!” he announces proudly.
A voice on the loudspeaker announces that number six’s order is ready. A staff member calls for number fifteen to go back behind the partition walls. They still have a long way to go. Hakeem plays a game with Gemma to pass the time. He beats his chest with his fist. “Ooh,” he says, imitating a caveman. Gemma laughs and copies him.
Number eight’s order is ready.
“They going fast, that’s good,” Leanne says to Renata.
Thirty minutes after they sat down, a woman with a nametag that reads “Mandy” emerges from the back. “Number twenty-nine, Leanne,” she calls out. Renata tells Leanne that she will stay in the waiting room. Leanne gathers up the kids and follows Mandy down a narrow hallway and into a cramped room with bright green paint.
Mandy wedges herself into a chair behind a small table. An old computer monitor sits on top of the table. Leanne sits in a plastic chair on the other side of the table, holding Gemma in her lap. Hakeem sits in the plastic chair next to her.
“I brought my ID,” Leanne informs Mandy, who is entering information into the computer.
“Okay,” Mandy murmurs. She looks up. “Hi,” she says to Gemma. She turns back to her screen.
“This is Gemma, the baby,” Leanne says brightly, but Mandy is preoccupied with the form and doesn’t respond.
“What are the last four digits of your social security number?”
Leanne recites the four numbers.
“And there are five people living in the house?”
Leanne confirms this is accurate.
Gemma grabs for a box with the word “Sample” scrawled across it.
“No, no. Stop it!” Leanne tells Gemma, as Hakeem giggles. It’s a box of tampons.
“And she didn’t put down that I needed baby clothes, but I do need those—and wipes,” Leanne tells Mandy.
“Okay. Okay, we don’t have any wipes, but did you need diapers, too?”
“No, we’re fine on diapers,” Leanne says.
Hakeem tugs on Leanne’s sleeve.
“I have my football game on July first.”
“Really? I’ll see if I have to go to work,” Leanne replies distractedly.
“You have to pay $75 for me to play my football game,” Hakeem tells her.
“We’ll talk about that later. Right now Mommy’s trying to take care of business.”
Mandy hands her a dark green card that says “clothes” and has Gemma’s size written on it.
“Do you need some?” Mandy asks Leanne, pointing to the box of tampons. Leanne nods, and Mandy adds tampons to the order.
“You’re all set,” she tells Leanne.
Leanne picks up Gemma and returns to the main office, with Hakeem following behind her. She greets Renata, who is still waiting in the plastic chairs, then walks behind one of the gray dividers to an open area. Two volunteers, both older women with graying hair and pale skin mottled by the southern sun, are sorting through bins of clothing. A sign on the wall behind them reads: “No One Can Enter without a Clothing Ticket.”
Hakeem immediately makes his way to a table piled with stuffed animals and small toys. “One Toy Per Child,” instructs a sign on the wall behind the table. Leanne sets Gemma on the floor. She toddles toward her brother. “Come back!” Leanne calls, but then decides to let Gemma go.
Leanne hands her green ticket to one of the women, who pulls down two bins in Gemma’s size—one with shirts and one with pants. Leanne sifts slowly through the bin of shirts. She pulls out a long white shirt with a pink overlay.
“That’s adorable,” Leanne murmurs. She folds the top and puts it next to the bin on the table. “One?” she asks the woman helping her.
“One from here, and one from here,” the woman clarifies, touching each of the two bins. Leanne digs through the items in the other bin, eventually selecting a pair of white pants with colorful flowers embroidered on the pockets. It’s a good match for the top she just chose.
Leanne gives the pants to the woman, who grabs a white plastic grocery bag and shakes it open. She puts the pants and the shirt in the bag. “You can pick out a dress too,” she tells Leanne, pointing to two garment racks.
Sliding dresses along the rack, Leanne checks the tags for sizes. She chooses a blue gingham dress with a Peter Pan collar, then pauses, reconsidering. “You know, I’d rather get this one,” she says, holding up a white dress with red flowers. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay!” says the woman, folding the dress into the bag and handing it to Leanne.
Leanne turns to Hakeem, who is clutching a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog.
“This is the toy Gemma wants,” he tells Leanne eagerly.
“Hakeem, let her pick. Let her do this, not you,” Leanne insists. Scowling, Hakeem puts Clifford back on the table.
“What can I get?” he asks in a hurt voice.
“Nothing!” Leanne tells him. “Toys are for babies, not eight-year-olds.” She holds up several plush toys for Gemma, who shows no interest. Leanne reluctantly picks up the Clifford doll.
“Oh ho!” Gemma exclaims happily.
Leanne laughs and concedes.
With slumped shoulders, Hakeem shuffles slowly behind Leanne as she prods him to keep moving. They return to the waiting area.
“He picked out Clifford for Gemma, and now he’s mad ’cause he can’t get a toy,” Leanne tells Renata, who wants to know what’s wrong with Hakeem.
“I picked it out for me!” Hakeem protests.
Leanne is frustrated. “We’ll get you a toy. Later.”
They sit down to wait to be called again.
Hakeem slumps in his chair, staring at the floor while they wait. He’s in a deep funk about the toy.
Fifteen minutes pass.
Finally, the loudspeaker says, “Order twenty-nine is ready.” Leanne scoops Gemma up and everyone walks out to the loading ramp.
A man in his late twenties is pushing a large metal cart piled high with food. His sandy brown hair clings to his damp forehead.
“That’s a lot of food,” Hakeem says, his eyes wide.
“Twenty-nine?” the man asks, confirming Leanne’s number.
“Yes, sir,” Leanne confirms.
The man pushes the cart down the ramp and follows Leanne and her family across the parking lot to the station wagon. He begins unloading boxes and bags from the cart into the back of the car.
“See, this is a good place,” Leanne comments, watching him.
Food pantries like Daily Bread and the food banks that supply them were invented as a solution to an ironic problem in the United States: the fact that we have a surplus of food, but also many hungry people.12 Food banks get their food from a number of sources, including food purchased by the federal government to bolster US farms; donations of products that supermarkets are not allowed to sell, like expired baked goods; surplus food from food manufacturers; blemished or undersized produce; leftovers from caterers and restaurants; and donations from canned food drives. In turn, they distribute food to food pantries and soup kitchens, the “frontline” institutions that interact directly with people seeking food.13
Food pantries and food banks exist, in theory, to feed hungry families. But because the charitable food system is also a convenient solution to waste in the food chain, it isn’t always set up in a way that adequately meets the needs of the people who rely on it. Food pantry recipients are frequently subject to long waits and humiliating rules to make sure they qualify and don’t take more than their fair share of food. Although Leanne is used to this and likes the service at Daily Bread, the food she gets is another matter. Because food pantries rely on donations, the foods they distribute are often a random assortment. The quality of the food varies widely, too.14 The pantries themselves are strapped, with many relying entirely on volunteer labor. Most are severely constrained in their ability to distribute healthy food.15
Latrell is outside playing basketball when Renata pulls into the driveway. He saunters over and begins unloading food from the car. It takes several trips to get the food inside. Leanne and Latrell poke through the bags, taking inventory.
“Spinach artichoke dip! Why they keep giving me this?” Leanne exclaims, making a face. She removes three cans of Dr. Pepper from another bag.
“This is my dinner, right here,” Latrell says, chuckling to himself. He cracks open a can and takes a big gulp. Leanne pulls several small packages of crackers out of a bag.
“Chocolatey peanut butter!” she yells, howling with laughter as she reads the label.
“Chocolatey!” Latrell repeats, laughing. Leanne starts dividing the food into categories on the table.
“Can I eat these?” asks Hakeem, holding up a pint of strawberries.
“Wash them first,” Leanne instructs. Latrell takes another sip of soda, puts the can on the counter, and walks out the front door. Realizing he’s disappeared, Leanne mutters to herself, “I wish somebody would help me put this stuff up.”
Gemma shoves a strawberry into her mouth and drops the hull on the floor. Leanne picks up two small cans featuring homemade “pasta sauce” labels. When she opens the pantry door to put them away, a dozen cockroaches scatter.
“Ugh!” she shrieks, stomping on the floor, annoyed but not surprised. Seeing the front door cracked open, she walks over to shut it.
“Gemma, where’s Daddy? Tell him he needs to help me put these groceries up,” she says, loud enough for Latrell to hear outside.
She pauses.
“I’m not joking,” she announces firmly out the door before closing it and returning to sorting. Moments later Latrell appears in the living room.
“Are you going to help me put this stuff up? It’s for both of us!” Leanne exclaims. Latrell looks around, surveying the food.
“You eat most of this stuff anyway!” he says. He half-heartedly moves a few things around, puts the eggs away, and sits down at the dining room table.
“There’s a lot of strawberries, and we’re not gonna eat all these strawberries,” Leanne tells Renata, who’s been sitting at the table watching Leanne unpack the food.
“I’ll sure take ’em. You know that child will eat ’em,” she says. Hakeem spends a lot of time with Renata, and he loves strawberries.
Leanne pulls a loaf of bread from a bag. “I got rye bread!” she announces happily.
“Shut. Up. No you didn’t!” Renata says, her mouth wide open.
“Well, it’s marbled.” Leanne puts the package close to her face and inhales. “Mmm.” Renata makes to grab it. “You’re not gettin’ the whole thing, Momma!” Leanne says, pulling the loaf out of her mother’s reach. She picks up a frozen mushroom pizza and inspects the packaging.
“I don’t like mushrooms,” Latrell complains.
“I’ll take it,” volunteers Renata.
“I am still going to fix the pizza,” Leanne says.
“Why you gonna fix it if you’re not gonna eat all of it?” Renata asks.
“I’m gonna eat it, just not all of it maybe.” Leanne opens the freezer door and shoves the pizza in.
“That bread’s pretty fresh,” Renata says, returning to the loaf of marbled bread.
“This time,” Latrell scoffs.
“That’s what I’m saying, this time,” Renata agrees.
“The last few times it was molded,” Latrell reminds everyone.
Leanne separates the loaf of rye bread into equal halves. She puts one of the halves in a white plastic grocery bag and gives it to Renata.
Latrell retrieves his can of Dr. Pepper from the kitchen counter. “Yuck!” he exclaims dramatically as he walks past the spinach and artichoke dip. “They don’t got no pineapple cake?” he asks Leanne, staring at a boxed lemon cake.
“Baby, we don’t go in there and look! They give us what they give us,” Leanne says in a clipped voice, as Latrell pushes open the door and goes back outside.
Rifling through her cabinets to find a Tupperware container, Leanne sighs. She feels fed up with Latrell.
“I cannot believe he gave all my Tupperware away.” She tells Renata that Latrell took food to someone once and never got the Tupperware back.
“You don’t need to give him anything of yours. Anything,” Renata tells her in a stern voice. “You a single parent, basically. You out working and going to school and raising these babies. I just want you to keep your stuff for yourself, okay?”
Leanne nods and lights a cigarette. She sits down at the table. Gemma toddles over and pats her knee.
“I’m burned out. Really burned out. I’m totally burned out,” Leanne says. She slouches at the table, her head in her hands, collecting her thoughts before she rallies. She has classes to attend and homework to do, and she plans to make fajitas for dinner.