If You Think SNAP and Medicaid are for Freeloaders, You Might Be Talking About Me.

This isn’t about handouts, it’s about not kicking the ladder after we’ve used it.

Let’s begin with a little honesty: If you’re picturing an “illegal immigrant” lounging on a couch, collecting food stamps while dodging Border Patrol and watching Netflix, you’ve probably been lied to, or at least misled by too many Facebook memes.

The myths are strong out there. So let’s do some myth-busting. And then, maybe, some soul-searching.

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First, the Facts (Sorry, Internet)

In Oregon, like in most states, the vast majority of people who qualify for programs like SNAP (that’s food stamps, for those of us who still call them that) and Medicaid are U.S. citizens. Let me say that again: The overwhelming majority are citizens. Born here. Raised here. Voted here. (Well, when they’re not working three jobs and trying to survive.)

Yes, Oregon does use some of its own state tax revenue to provide assistance to undocumented immigrants. That’s a policy choice the state is allowed to make. But federal money? That’s got rules. And undocumented immigrants don’t qualify for SNAP or Medicaid using federal dollars. Period. Not even close.

You know who does qualify? Kids. Seniors. People with disabilities. Working parents who are trying to keep the lights on. And yes, people like my mom.

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Cue the “Welfare Queen” Narrative

Let’s rewind the tape a bit. When I was 10, my parents divorced. My mom, armed with some college but no degree, was suddenly a single mother of four. No support system. No inheritance. No line of credit at the Bank of Generational Wealth.

She, with my brother and I as her crew, delivered the Boston Globe in the mornings from her 1985 Astro Van (during gales and blizzards). Then after a quick shower, she hopped on the train and commuted to work at a commercial bank during the day. And at night? Grocery stores, convenience stores, even a stretch at Dunkin' Donuts. That was the routine. Every day. No vacation days. No PTO. No Instagram posts about “self-care.”

By the time I was in high school, she tried to go back to college. But the hill was steep: GPA inflation from the ‘70s, limited financial aid, no time, and a mountain of responsibility. She never finished. Instead, she leaned on church assistance, food stamps, the food bank, and kindness from strangers. (Shoutout to the neighbors who left food baskets on our porch and ran away before we could say thank you.)

Was she lazy? Please.

She was resilient. She survived in a system designed to make survival look like a character flaw.

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I’ve Been There Too

And I’ll be straight with you, I’ve used public assistance too. When I was working my way through college and dental school while raising my own children, there were months when rent subsidies and food stamps kept things afloat. Medicaid provided healthcare when I couldn’t afford anything else.

Those tools didn’t make me dependent. They helped me build a future. And now? I pay more in taxes each year than I ever received in benefits. That’s the way the system is supposed to work, help people climb, not cage them in.

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Enter the “Big Beautiful Bill”

Now let’s talk policy. The so-called “Big Beautiful Bill” (BBB), which, to be honest, sounds like something a used car salesman would pitch, didn’t actually change the law to prevent undocumented immigrants to qualify for SNAP or Medicaid. Quite the opposite.

What the BBB did was quietly kneecap access for a different group—legal newcomers: refugees, asylees, and humanitarian parolees. These aren’t shadowy border-jumpers. They’re people fleeing persecution, war, gang violence, political oppression, who followed the rules: applied for refugee status or asylum, waited for their day in court, and came here on legal visas. Some arrived through Biden-era humanitarian parole, like thousands of Afghan allies under Operation Allies Welcome. These are individuals who risked everything to come and say, “Help me.”

The BBB didn’t block undocumented immigrants (they were already barred from SNAP/Medicaid). It blocked this group, legal, vetted, deserving, from getting help. It turned the safety net into a wall. It said: sorry, you’re not “qualified” enough.

But wait, there’s more. If you’re a U.S. citizen who’s working part-time at Walmart, raising two kids, and struggling to afford groceries? You might be “too rich” for food stamps now too.

That’s right, the BBB didn’t get tough on illegal immigrants. It got tough on poor people. It made it harder to qualify for help, harder to stay enrolled, and harder to get back on your feet if you fall.

That’s not reform. That’s sabotage dressed up as seriousness.

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“But They’re Gaming the System!”

Look, every system has flaws. No one’s denying that there are people who abuse benefits, just like there are people who cheat on taxes, speed in school zones, and lie on their resumes. Humans are creative like that.

But that’s not the norm. And it sure isn’t the rule. Most people on public assistance don’t want to stay there. They’re not living the dream, they’re surviving the nightmare.

Here’s a message I got recently from a woman in Nehalem:

“My husband and I own a bookstore. We’ve struggled. Our adult kids are LGBTQ. They’ve faced rejection, discrimination, and job loss. Books, and programs like SNAP, kept us going. They helped us survive while we built something that mattered.”

Here’s another one, more pointed:

“You politicians talk about cutting benefits, but you don’t understand what that means. I worked 35 years, paid taxes, raised kids, and now I can’t afford my prescriptions. Is that what I earned?”

That’s the real face of Medicaid and food stamps. Not a shadowy figure in a hoodie jumping a fence. It’s your neighbor. Your grandma. Your coworker. Maybe even you.

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Can We Still Talk About Immigration?

Yes. And we should. I believe in a process. I believe in borders and rules and systems that work. But I also believe we need to make room, for legitimate asylum seekers and for refugees fleeing violence.

We’re a nation built by people who ran. My Jewish great-grandparents came to America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, escaping antisemitism that eventually consumed their families in the Holocaust. They were young, sent alone, because their parents couldn’t afford to bring everyone. My Persian grandfather came here looking for a new beginning, fleeing a war-weary country where ambition hit a ceiling early. And like so many others, my ancestors from Ireland and England crossed oceans in search of freedom, dignity, and the hope of something better.

This wasn’t just immigration, it was existential survival. The idea that we now close the door behind us, while billions around the world still live under regimes that crush dissent, persecute faith, or hoard opportunity like it’s contraband... that’s not just un-American. It’s cruel.

And yet, we also have to tell the whole truth: the American dream so many of us inherited was built on land taken from people who never gave it up. Native Americans didn’t get a vote in this grand migration experiment. They were displaced. By policy, by force, by mythologies of Manifest Destiny. That, too, is part of the inheritance.

So maybe the most American thing we can do is hold those truths together. We are a country of immigrants. We are a country built on displacement. And we are still trying to become a country worthy of both those truths.

Let’s stop pretending every foreign-born person is here to exploit us. If they are eligible for benefits, it’s because they’ve been legally admitted under processes our own government, under both parties, put in place. Most are just chasing what our ancestors did: safety. A chance. A future.

Let me be clear: Being pro-safety-net doesn’t make you anti-border. It means you can hold two ideas at once, something our politics used to allow before everything got flattened into bumper stickers and shouting matches.

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The Safety Net Is a Thank You, Not a Handout

When my mom needed help, the safety net was there. When I needed it, it was there. And now, I’m part of the group that funds it.

We should want people to succeed. We should want them to get off assistance, not by cutting off their food, but by building ladders out of poverty.

Because here’s the kicker: Public assistance isn’t charity. It’s investment. It’s insurance. It’s the price we pay to live in a country that doesn’t leave people to starve just because they had a bad year. Or a bad decade.

And it’s a thank you. A way to say, “We see you. We know you’ve given everything. And we’re not going to let you fall.”

We don’t build statues for moms who worked three jobs (although we absolutely should). But we can build policies that honor them.

And maybe stop spreading memes that lie about them.

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If this resonated, or irritated you just enough to keep reading, you can do something about it. Subscribe. Share it with your uncle who thinks everyone on SNAP is just buying lobster with your tax dollars. Send it to your college roommate who still quotes “Atlas Shrugged” like it’s scripture. Or better yet, send it to someone who’s been there. Who’s used the safety net. Who’s still climbing.

Because the truth deserves more than whispers. And policy doesn’t change itself.

And if you’re the kind of person who believes that empathy and economics can live in the same sentence… that we can stand up for both fiscal responsibility and the dignity of work… then I’d be honored to have your support.

This campaign isn’t funded by special interests or slogans. It’s powered by people who think doing the right thing is still worth the risk.

Because courage needs backing, and truth doesn’t run on fumes.