Angel Goodwin previously worked remotely processing Medicaid and Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program applications, or CLICK. People sometimes yelled at her over the phone—“I was called everything but a child of God,” she said—but it was even worse when they cried. “Especially older people. They get approved for about thirty dollars a month, and they get Social Security for about nine hundred and forty-three dollars. They're like, 'Honey, I can't, I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't have anyone.'” Goodwin, a single mother with an eleven-year-old son, also received CLICK advantages. “Little do they know that I'm in the same boat,” she said.
Earlier this year, Goodwin began feeling pain shooting from her shoulder, most likely from repetitive computer work. She took short-term disability leave in early October. Then, towards the end of the month, she logged into her account. CLICK account and saw an alarming notification: there will be no November benefits. She and her son had already cut back on expenses to survive on short-term disability benefits, which she said were “not very much at all.” Now they will have to settle for less, even as food prices seem to be rising every week. “Personally, my faith will always outweigh my fear,” she said. “But now it’s a scary moment.”
Against the backdrop of the protracted government shutdownwhich is currently the longest in American history, CLICK benefits have become a political football. During previous shutdowns, emergency funds were used to cover the program, which serves approximately forty-two million Americans. But the Trump administration refused to do so. A number of states have stepped in to cover the shortfall or provide additional money to food banks; Texas, which has a multibillion-dollar rainy day fund, has done neither. (HEB, a grocery store chain that arguably serves as the state's second tier of social services, has donated $6 million to food banks.) In late October, a federal judge ordered the administration to continue CLICK payments. But a few days later there was nothing in Goodwin's memory. CLICK check; The administration said the November payments will be only partial and it is unclear when the funds will arrive.
Goodwin, who grew up in South Carolina, had what she calls “a pretty rough childhood.” In her early twenties, she cut ties with her family and found herself with a small child and no real support system. She slept on friends' couches and then, when she felt her hospitality dwindling, in her car. Being homeless was bearable—“You meet tough people on the streets, wise people,” she said—but she wanted her son to have a more stable life. She got a job at a gas station on the night shift and made enough money to move into a hotel where she paid weekly. It took two years to save enough to cover the deposit for renting a small apartment. “I didn’t have any furniture—no couch or anything, just a couple of frying pans that I had at the hotel,” she said. “We practically slept on the floor. We were literally starting from scratch.” When she felt depressed, she prayed to God for guidance. She began to dream about Texas, the outlines of the state appearing in unexpected places. In her journal, she asked God if this was what He really wanted her to do—she had never left South Carolina before. Yes was the answer she received, so she started looking for apartments online. At that point, she was working remotely as a customer service representative for a bank, but needed more money to finance the move. On YouTube, she learned about retail arbitrage—essentially buying products in bulk at a discount and then reselling them on Amazon at a markup. The scheme eventually stopped working, but by then she had saved enough money to cover the deposit on an apartment in Houston. Two years ago, she moved into a renovated three-room apartment with pale gray walls and a light, narrow kitchen. Her days were filled with work and homeschooling her son.
On the morning of November 3, the third day of absence. CLICKGoodwin put her son in the car and drove twenty-five minutes to West Houston Assistance Ministries, a nonprofit social services organization that was holding a special food distribution event for CLICK recipients. When she arrived it was around 9. AMA line of cars stretched down the block, with volunteers in neon vests directing traffic. Nationwide, fourteen percent of households are considered food insecure. In Harris County, which includes Houston, the rate is closer to forty percent. BAM Since the start of the lockdown on October 1, there has been a noticeable increase in the need for assistance. “We're focused on food, but we're also seeing an increase in evictions—it's a crisis on top of a crisis,” Neysa Gavion, social worker and senior case manager at BAMtold me. “And what’s interesting is, although we’ve always had people at or below the poverty line, that’s the middle class.” The organization recently assisted an IRS employee and single mother who was days away from being evicted. “People who weren’t hurt before are hurting now,” Gavion said. A retired woman standing in line told me she was thinking about growing her own food. “I have a small balcony. Maybe I can grow some beans?” she said.
