I may not look like someone who came from poverty, but without welfare, my mother and I probably would have died

By: Marissa Higgins/Salon

“Insufficient funds,” says the cashier. “Do you have another card you can use?”

I glance up from where I’m standing in line to see the cashier holding an EBT card in the air. There is a long, painful pause.

“This happens all the time at the end of the month,” he says, and I can tell from his voice he’s trying to be sympathetic. This is my nightmare, the scene I’ve replayed in my mind more times than I can remember. I bite my bottom lip, hard, and will myself not to shake. Don’t do it, I tell myself. Don’t look at the people behind you. Don’t let them see your face.

The woman in front of me in line bristles a little, then drops her shoulders, and leans in to whisper to the cashier. I can’t hear her words, but I know what she’s saying. They’re the words I’ve rehearsed a thousand times myself: I thought I had enough left on my card, I’m so sorry. I left my debit card in my other wallet … She trails off and the cashier nods and voids the transaction. He glances at me and I realize I was staring at him too intently. He’s a college kid with shaggy hair that hangs in front of his eyes. I can’t make out his expression, but I’m grateful he’s silent instead of snide.

Behind me, I hear muffled laughter. The woman is pulling the items out of her cart, apologizing for the inconvenience. “I could have sworn it was in my purse. How stupidof me.” She’s speaking louder now, and I know it’s because she wants the rest of us in line to hear. Her voice cracks on the word stupid and I feel nauseated. I lean forward and try to make eye contact, but she angles her face away from me. “I just wasn’t thinking,” she says. The cashier nods, uninterested. She and I both know he’s heard this before.

I understand, I want to tell her. I get it, I want to gesture to the EBT card clenched in her fist. I have one, too. I’m poor, too, but the words die in my chest. A supervisor comes to the register and starts to take back her groceries. Bags of frozen vegetables, cans of soup, and a few boxes of cereal. A family-size bag of popcorn and a carton of off-brand ice cream. I look down at my own basket and realize our carts are almost identical: neither of us has the notorious steak or lobster. I want to laugh, in a hollow sort of way, because I know no one receiving public assistance can ever afford such a luxury. I swallow and feel the people behind me shuffle in place. They are laughing louder now, and I know they are annoyed. Intuitively, I know they want the woman in front of me to feel judged and humiliated. That could be me, I think, and I want to cry.

I lift my eyes back to her, but she is gone. The cashier is staring at me, and as I put my items on the belt, the man behind me in line peers over my shoulder. “Look at all that stuff she had in there, huh? Bet you wish you could take all that home for free.” He laughs and I turn a dark red, barely meeting his eyes. He is a tall, stout man in his 50s. He is old enough to be my father, and I know he thinks he is being friendly; paternal, even. “You and me both, hon,” he says. He smiles widely and I stare at his bright white teeth. As he winks at me, I watch the sunburnt skin crinkle on the bridge of his nose. I am mortified. I want to bolt from the store but I know we have no food at home, and I can’t return empty-handed.

I see myself in the stranger’s eyes, and I know he thinks he and I are the same. I am a young white woman with an expensive looking dress I bought at a thrift store last summer.  I have an EBT card, too, I imagine myself telling him, taking ownership of my identity. After all, what is there to be ashamed of? I wonder what it is, exactly, about receiving public assistance that humiliates me so deeply. I work hard, I want to tell him. I’m working two jobs this summer, and I’m starting college in the fall. Instead, I merely smile back at him and shrug. Moments later, I slip the cashier my EBT card, and the cashier looks surprised, then confused. Still, he swipes it without a word, and to my relief, it’s accepted. When I exit the store, I don’t let myself look back.

On my walk home, my emotions rush between shame, fury and sadness. Stupid. I hear her a voice in my head on repeat, and it sounds defeated. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I stop to catch my breath and realize I’m close to tears. The spectacle shook me, and I feel self-conscious and gauche. I’m infuriated at the stranger behind me for his words, but I’m not surprised because for me, it’s nothing new: I’ve grown up hearing those judgments about poor people — people like me — receiving welfare.

Growing up, my deepest fear was someone discovering that I lived in poverty. If my mother and I didn’t have a housing voucher, we would be homeless. If I didn’t qualify for free lunches at school, I wouldn’t eat. If my guidance counselor didn’t help me obtain fee waivers for my college applications, I simply wouldn’t have applied.

Years later, I am at brunch at a new, hip cafe with my friends. I no longer receive public assistance, but in my mind, I still feel poor. Though I want to socialize with my friends — making memories, they call it — I experience little joy or relaxation in the act of spending money. Looking at the menu, I can’t help but divide the cost of the cheapest dish by how many meals I could make at home. I notice there are no free refills on the coffee, so I bypass it. We’re commiserating about our work weeks, how tired we all are, and seemingly out of nowhere, the topic of welfare arises.