“A Card, A Clash, and a Cry for Independence: One Girl’s Journey to Owning Her Poverty.”I opened my mailbox on a typical afternoon and found something that made me feel invincible: an EBT card. It was not gold-foiled or sparkly, but to me, it meant independence. The chance to eat with pride, finally.
I’m 23, and in Michigan, that qualifies me as my household. I’m also eligible for food assistance because I make less than $100 a month—enough to purchase toiletries, but hardly enough to purchase food. But to my mom, that little card was some kind of battle cry.
When she saw the envelope, she lost it. Full volume. Full drama. “This looks bad,” she snapped. “This is for poor people.”
I opened my eyes. “I am poor,” I informed her. “Why are you getting so angry about nothing?”
But that’s when I realized this wasn’t about poverty at all.
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The real problem
My mother’s anger wasn’t about fear of being defrauded or misunderstanding rules. It was about shame. Not mine—hers.
To her, the EBT card was a scarlet letter, a sign that our family hadn’t “made it.” It didn’t matter that I’m legally an adult. It didn’t matter that I’m financially on my own. What mattered was that someone in our house—her house—was officially recognized by the government as needing help.
It didn’t hurt that we were in a small rural town where everyone knows each other. She told me I wasn’t allowed to use the card “in our town,” as if buying groceries two zip codes over would bankrupt me. Her reputation mattered more than my hunger.
A history of control
This was not the first time my mother tried to pull strings in my life. When I requested permission to travel to visit my girlfriend out of state, she would cover the cost of the trip on the condition that my girlfriend would come to our town instead. I refused. I’m tired of being manipulated.
My parents can be rich, but they never cover the essentials. I’ve thought of moving out, but that requires thousands I don’t have. I even dared to mention subsidized housing, to be met with the response, “That’s where bums live.” What a joke. What a lack of compassion. Ironically, I finally learned that my best friend’s lovely, kind-hearted parents had once called that very same housing home.
So, yeah. I’m poor. And I’m not ashamed.
Claiming my power
It’s not humiliating to get an EBT card. It’s proof that the system does work for someone like me—squeaking by but trying. Yes, I live in my parents’ house. Yes, I am poor. But I am trying to feed myself, love someone without conditions, and create a life with dignity.
It’s not about food stamps alone. It’s about autonomy. About class, pride, image, and generational silence. So, the next time someone says, “it looks bad,” I’ll smile and say, “It looks like survival. And that’s beautiful.”
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