When the State Lets Its People Go Hungry - and a Republican Politician in a Pickleball Costume Shows the Better America

Desperation that shows up in grocery lists - that is how this November begins for millions of Americans. In Miami, Christine Tully sits at her kitchen table and writes down, as always, what she needs: chicken, apple juice, carrots. And if she finds them on sale, she writes, “a pack of three steaks.” She is 78, a former diner cook, a great-grandmother, and she does not know whether there will be any money on her card in the coming days. 285 dollars a month - that is how much support she receives from the program that remains the United States’ last bastion against hunger. And now it hangs by a thread. “I’m just so confused,” she says. “How did we get here?”

The answer is as simple as it is cynical: a political stalemate that has long since become a social catastrophe. The government shutdown has gripped the country for a month, and the Trump administration refuses to use the emergency funds that were created precisely for such crises. On Friday, the judiciary intervened. Three federal judges - in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and the District of Columbia - ordered the government to continue distributing food assistance. The court in Providence made clear that the government “must release the funds in a timely manner or as soon as possible for the November payments to be made.” Yet even these rulings bring no immediate relief.

Donald Trump responded late in the evening with a statement that sounded more like justification than leadership. The funds would be provided, he wrote, “once a court clarifies how we can legally do so” - and added that the payments would be delayed anyway “because the Democrats have kept the government closed through the monthly payment date.” That is how it sounds when hunger becomes a weapon in the political power game.

Meanwhile, phones across the country are ringing nonstop. In Durham County, North Carolina, desperate people are trying to reach someone at the social services office. “How am I supposed to feed my family? What do I do now? Should I pay rent or buy food?” one mother asks. Maggie Clapp, the head of the agency, can only listen. “They’re bombarding us with questions because they’re in crisis,” she says. “And I don’t have a single clear answer.” The shutdown exposes the fragility of a system that for decades was taken for granted. Since the Food Stamp Act of 1964 made the program permanent, benefits have never been interrupted. This time, though, that is exactly what threatens to happen. The Trump administration argued it could not use the reserves without explicit authorization - the very reserves set aside for emergencies. Vice President J.D. Vance said the president had “done everything” to make the shutdown painless. Critics called it a farce.

Judge Indira Talwani in Boston found the government’s arguments unconvincing. She demanded by Monday a concrete plan for how aid would be funded in November. She left no doubt that she does not view the rule of law as a backdrop for political theater. Her ruling was clear: the government is obligated to use available funds to ensure support for the most vulnerable.

But the problem goes far beyond SNAP. The shutdown hits a country whose social infrastructure was already stretched to the limit. Around 6.7 million women and young children in the WIC program could lose access in the coming days to baby formula, health screenings, and breastfeeding support. Nearly six million households receiving heating assistance face cold homes or power shutoffs. And for more than 65,000 children in Head Start programs that depend on immediate federal funding, it means no classes, no care, no safety. All this coincides with the cuts Trump pushed through in the summer. The new budget and tax law, sold by Republicans as “modernization,” is in truth dismantlement. One trillion dollars less for Medicaid, 186 billion less for SNAP - along with new work requirements, tighter eligibility rules, and bureaucratic hurdles. Millions of people are expected to lose access to these programs over the next decade.

“It feels like we’re standing on the shore watching a tidal wave come toward us,” says Robyn Hyden, director of the organization Alabama Arise. “But we don’t know when or where it will hit - because no one can say if anyone will fix any of this.”

In the meantime, cities, churches, neighborhood initiatives, and food banks are trying to do the impossible. Supplies are dwindling, prices are rising, and the need keeps growing. For millions of people living week to week, this is no longer about politics but about what ends up on the plate.

After nearly eleven years at Baldwin Wallace University, Republican Scott Schulz spent his final day surrounded by colleagues who had made that place special for him. That this farewell day would find him, of all times, dressed as a Pickleball player on Halloween was something he could hardly have imagined – and yet, he said, “it couldn’t have been more perfect,” referring also to his active participation in distributing food to people in need.

And yet, amid despair, there are flashes of humanity - from directions one would not expect. In Ohio, where more than a million people face food insecurity, it was precisely Republican politician Scott Schulz, candidate for the 7th Congressional District (OH-07), who stepped forward to lead a spontaneous relief effort. After nearly eleven years at Baldwin Wallace University, Schulz ended his final workday - dressed as a Pickleball player for Halloween - with a gesture that spoke louder than any political statement: he helped distribute food.

“Compassion is one of the reasons why Ohio’s 7th District and America are great,” Schulz said. Together with Andrey Stojic and Deb Callihan, he coordinated a donation drive for the St. Barnabas Food Pantry. The administration of Bay Schools OH and the local Board of Education joined in with remarkable generosity.

These gestures - quiet, unpretentious, and human - are what make the difference in a time of political hardening. While Washington argues over legal paragraphs, people in towns and communities stand side by side, helping not because they must, but because they understand what is at stake.