Guest Opinion

They want you to give up and leave,” someone shouted recently
at a Tucson Arizona Department of Economic Security office. Those
hopeful of receiving benefits and the chair-swiveling number-callers
both seemed justifiably indignant. The language was R-rated, and the
mood was bleak.

The Arizona Department of Economic Security’s Web site includes text
that reads, “Every child, adult and family … will be safe and
economically secure.” That is a bold statement, to say the least.

It was my fourth such trip to the showdown, and it was as fruitless
as the previous three occasions. I worked full-time as an AmeriCorps
VISTA member. I gave an entire year of my life to fighting poverty
through work with underserved populations. I could easily earn four
times the amount of the stipend paid by the federal government. A
component of the VISTA program is living in poverty; the government
puts members in that position to feel the effects of poverty, to relate
to those we serve. The work of AmeriCorps members is a necessity,
especially when considering the current state of the economy.

Have you ever called a business and got the automated-phone run
around? “Thank you for calling. Press five for blue. Press star seven
for red-blue. Stay on the line for an operator. Thank you for calling.
Goodbye.” The service provided by DES is very similar, but also
includes months of hunger pangs, missed days of work and an infinite
amount of stress-inducing questions such as, “When can we get
groceries?” and “What’s your case number?” and “What number are they
on?”

My foray into this obstacle-filled, ulcer-laden land began in
October 2008. About one month into my term, pride gave way to hunger,
and ego gave way to understanding. With my head down and my heart
heavy, I walked into a DES office. Two hours later, I realized that I
didn’t have enough time for a two-hour lunch break and returned to the
office.

According to every piece of DES-related literature that I’ve read,
each applicant is guaranteed a response within 30 days. About 45 days
after faxing in my application, I’d only received calluses on my
fingers from checking the mailbox 15 times a day. Eventually, a letter
arrived. It said my window to receive benefits had closed. “You knew
about the 30 day window. You should have called us.”

One month later, I reapplied. At that appointment, case worker
“Jacob” intimated that within two weeks, I’d have a food-stamps card. I
knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The next five weeks included a new round
of callused fingers and many successfully completed, yet ignored faxes.
I made calls, mailed pathetic pleas and sent no less than three
pigeons. When finally, a female voice answered the DES line, I was
shocked into almost a full minute of speechlessness: After hearing my
sad tale of empty promises, ramen and water, she provided me with a
secret phone number. “We don’t deal with the cards here. They’re sent
from an independent company.”

That next call ended very quickly with, “Please enter your card
number now.” Were they referring to my library card or the very same
food-stamps card I’d yet to receive?

It seems that DES does everything possible to give as little as
possible to the smallest amount of people. It makes sense: If the
process were easier, if they just handed out food and health care to
those who need it, then everyone would be healthy and happy. We can’t
have that.

In fairness, the chair-swivelers have a much tougher job than I’d
initially imagined. They are frequently berated and corrected. Their
days are filled with screaming children and odorous adults. During my
last visit, the entire wait area began chanting the next number to be
served, in rhythm. At my counter encounter, I-Hate-My-Job-Lucy laughed
at me for not having my new case number, which had not been given to me
by mail or phone.

I left that day motivated: That would be the last time I watched
doors shut in the faces of hungry children. I decided that some measure
of reform must happen. Writing this article was my last act of service
as a VISTA member.

“Every child, adult and family … will be safe and economically
secure.” I don’t know if that’s a motto, a mission, a hope or a joke. I
do know that it doesn’t belong on any Arizona Department of Economic
Security materials.

This article appears in Nov 5-11, 2009.