Look out, because we’re gonna be talking about money.

Squirming already? Good.

I want you to imagine that you’re meeting an old acquaintance that hasn’t been caught up on your life for, say, two or three years. You lie and tell him that you’re feeling a little under the weather and would rather just meet up and take a walk instead of going out for lunch or even just a coffee. Of course, the story you’re not telling is that you only have a crumpled five-dollar bill to your name, and that’s meant to get bread and milk for your family. Also unspoken is the fact that you even have that bill because a passing stranger was kind enough to hand it to you when you faced him, eyes downcast, and forced the words out of your mouth: “I’m in a bit of a bad situation. Could you possibly spare anything to help me get some food for my family?”

That was me, once. No, not all the time, but it did get that bad.

The exact whys and hows of it aren’t important, because I’m not writing a biography. I’m only addressing the particular window of time wherein life for myself, my wife and our kids was shot through with poverty. I’m addressing it because a certain segment of the US population–almost invariably conservative Trump-supporters–seems to think I should have or likely did use that impoverished era of my life to live a decadent, carefree existence on the working person’s dime. The persistent myth of the welfare-rich.

But before I get into that, I want to return us to the friend you’re about to meet. One of the reasons you’ve concocted a story about being under the weather rather than simply saying “I’m in a bad place financially and I can’t go out to eat with you” is that you know that inevitably, at some point in the conversation you’re about to have, you’re going to ask for money.

Oh, you don’t want to. You’d actually rather curl up next to a sewer grate and experience death cell by cell. But you have priorities. A family to feed. Electricity to keep on. If you’d come right out and spoken of that level of desperation, your acquaintance would absolutely have found some reason to run screaming in the other direction. This way, he’ll at least have to look you in the eyes and say no. Or, if there’s enchantment and impossibility in the air, he might actually be able to help. He might actually want to help.

So by now you’re likely pretty uncomfortable reading this, right? You’re probably asking the screen in front of you the same exact questions I’ve faced too many times to even roughly estimate. But I’ll deal with the most obvious one, phrased as delicately as people have actually phrased it to me: Why aren’t you on welfare, a young guy like you? Aren’t there programs to help people like you?

Why yes. Yes, there are. And those programs are incomprehensibly awful. Let’s start with the WIC (Women, Infants and Children) program. You may have heard it described on Fox News or something as AND THE GOVERNMENT WILL *PAY* FOR THE POOR TO HAVE MORE BABIES AND PAY FOR THEIR FORMULA AND PAY FOR THEIR FOOD AND WHY WORK FOR YOUR MONEY IF THE GOVERNMENT JUST *GIVES IT AWAY* AND RABBLE RABBLE RABBLE RABBLE.

Well no, it’s not really like that. What it’s actually like is having a government representative following you around as you shop, tsking and removing some items from your cart and adding others. You see, WIC issues checks for three months with the exact items and sizes of those items that the check may be used for. Each check has been tailor-made to the family depending on the mother’s age, weight, nutrition and decision of whether or not to breastfeed. And just to explain further, you must purchase every item on the check or the check cannot be used. They’ve determined you need to get three and a quarter gallons of whole milk only, so that is exactly what you must get. No half gallons. No skim. Have you painstakingly located each of the twenty-odd items on the check (black beans = good, barley = bad) but you can’t find the 64-oz bottle of juice (has to be 100% pure, no decadent juice mixtures, you spoiled brat)? Then the whole check is invalid. Oh, you can’t find a store with the exact brands and sizes of each item on the check? Might as well leave the WIC checks at home so you don’t have to listen to the person in the checkout line behind you siiiiiiigh as they see you whip out the little WIC folder. Because oh yeah, the cashier has to check each and every item to make sure the system approves it for WIC. So no, not discreet, not respectable and definitely not the easy choice. Helpful, yes, but a way of life? Nope.

But in fact, WIC is the kinder and gentler of the programs. There is minimal documentation required, and it does fills your fridge with milk and even pay for a breast pump or formula if necessary. But let’s examine the most famous of those vaunted “gimme programs” that we poor people are supposed ride like a magic carpet through real life: food stamps.

Yes, they’ve changed the name to Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits, and they can be used semi-discreetly by swiping the benefit card like a debit card. Yes, food stamps can indeed be misused to buy junk food and endless bottles of aerosol cheese if one so desires.If that’s how you choose to feed your family, the decision is not because you’re poor, it’s because you’re stupid. However: One may not purchase alcohol with food stamps, nor prepared hot foods. So no, conservatives, poor people do not spend their monthly allotment of SNAP benefits in a single wild afternoon on booze and Chipotle. If we do that, it’s with our own money and terrible judgment.

But wait, I should probably mention that it’s hard as hell to get on those goddamned benefits. The documentation required is rigorous, extensive and nearly never sufficient the first couple of attempts you make. There’s always something wrong, and it invariably comes to light only once you’ve already waited the two/three hours to speak to a social services rep. If you’re job hunting, prepare to carve out your entire morning or afternoon twice in a row for sitting in a waiting room, cooling your heels as the two representatives available in the ten booths chat with each other and ignore everyone else.

Why yes, you can apply by phone. In fact, the phone interview is the first qualification hurdle you must overcome before even setting foot in that office. Only problem is, they schedule the interview for you and will sometimes simply never call. You’ll be surviving on cereal for a month, wondering why the call never came, until you receive a disqualification notice in the mail on the grounds that you were “unavailable for interview.”

But let’s imagine that it all worked out and, at last, you were approved for SNAP benefits. That first installment comes on time, and just like that, you can remove “food” from your gnawing list of vitals you cannot afford. And now you’re home free, happily feeding your family without worry as you struggle to find a job and meet your bills.

Well, hopefully your nasty financials sort themselves out soon, because before you know it there will be a “time-sensitive questionnaire” sitting in your mailbox. (If they remember to send it, because that has happened, too.) In it you are basically required to note any changes that have or have not occurred in your employment status in order to continue receiving benefits. Seems innocuous, but that’s only because you’re assuming you can just write EVERYTHING STILL SUCKS across the top and that they will even notice you’ve filled it out. Not once, not twice, but three of the times I was disqualified from SNAP were because they claimed never to have received the questionnaire I’d sent back to them the same day I’d gotten it. Unless someone from the USPS has a fetish for specifically burning my questionnaires, I’m going to go ahead and assume that I was one of many victims of inefficient, half-assed bureaucracy that is stacked against the people who need to make use of it.

Another hard truth is, poverty breeds desperation and depression, two terrible things to face when one is trying to stay above water. Desperation distances people. I’ve watched good friends and even family slowly place themselves at a safe car’s length from my troubles, upset and offended that I asked them for help, or having helped already and frightened that I will keep on asking. It’s almost inborn among the species, the instinct to leave behind that slow-moving straggler of the herd with sickness in his eyes. Poor people must be hidden or excised somehow, not countenanced and cared for. And then there’s the depression. Hoo boy, the depression. If you’ve ever suffered from depression, do you remember how hard it was even to get up in the morning? Do you remember how loudly you’d applaud yourself just for finally taking a shower? Now imagine that you were not only required to shower, but to shave, slap on some nice clothes and a novelty smile you bought at Spencer’s and go pretend you’re an alert, confident adult looking for a job instead of a pile of moldering newspapers someone’s cat shit on.

It’s a bit hard to do, you see. Part of the reason the poor tend to stay poor is that they exude poverty and unbalance. You feel it. I felt it in myself. Rare is the hiring manager who will look this despair in the eyes and say “Here’s a guy who just needs a chance at a stable life.” It’s human psychology. We respond to confidence and stability and run the hell away from hunger and desperation. This entire concept is usually pleasantly encapsulated by Fox & Friends as INSTEAD OF FEELING SORRY FOR THEMSELVES, THE POOR SHOULD CANCEL THEIR FOOD STAMPS AND GET A JOB INSTEAD OF MOPING AROUND AND EXPECTING THE *TAXPAYER* TO PICK UP THE BILL.

What I’m trying to say here is that the many, many hours I’ve spent in the social services office has brought me face to face with countless others of the derided poor. All I’ve ever seen were couples, families and individuals trying to turn things around. I’ve smiled and teared up at the cheerful little children who run through the rows of chairs, blissfully unaware that they’re in dire straits. I’ve offered my seat to older moms and dads who looked wearier than I did and I’ve helped a man from Jamaica understand the documentation requirements so that he wouldn’t have to face the frustrations I had. Noticeably absent from the offices were the loud, foulmouthed, entitled welfare kings and queens that we’ve all heard of, flouncing around in expensive clothing, cutting to the front of the line and demanding Uncle Sam’s free money.

Of course, I don’t deny that there are criminals out there who take advantage of the system with calculation and planning. There is a name for that: welfare fraud. I fully support the unmasking and incarcerating of people who do this, just as I support the incarceration of dishonest CEO’s. But to propose that all poor people are handed some kind of golden ticket to the fun factory while driving luxury cars powered by the sweat of the working class’s brow is a harmful and reprehensible position to take. Not all poor people are committing welfare fraud, and not all clowns are Pennywise from “It.”

Perhaps this mentality is so prevalent because the alternative is to directly face all that uncomfortable struggle and pain and to realize that it can be alleviated if we wanted it to be. Sympathy is hard enough, but empathy can just really throw off your groove, right? So we dismiss the poor, or we condemn them if we absolutely must look at them at all.

So now here you are in the park, and there’s that acquaintance of yours, waiting where he said he would. You chitchat for awhile, reviving old jokes and pleasantly revisiting that time you knew each other better–perhaps it was in college or when you lived in a previous apartment. You see him relaxing into the conversation, and you already regret what’s bound to come next.

And here we are. He’s finishing his tale of how he made his way into the job he’d always wanted and how they’re even paying for him to take a business trip to somewhere or other. You’ve made the proper impressed noises and complimented his business acumen. There is a lull in the conversation.

“So…I haven’t heard what you’re up to these days,” he finally says.

You heave a deep breath. “Well, I’m actually kind of unemployed at the moment,” you say with what you hope is a casual tone. Casual doesn’t come as easy to you as it once did. “You know, I’m following up on a couple of leads, but nothing’s for certain yet.”

There’s a pregnant pause. He remembers your family, and he knows he has to ask what comes next. “So…how are you guys managing then? Okay, I hope?”

You see the plea in his eyes. You ignore it. “Well, honestly, no, not really. It’s pretty bad.” You drop your tone of voice to a conspiratorial one. “I didn’t want to mention it, but I’m actually looking for a long term loan to help get us out of the pit, you know? I’d obviously pay back in a year or so, when things have stabilized. If you or anyone you know would like to help, I’d be happy to provide documents, contact info and cosigners.”

The hunted look springs to his face immediately. You see the betrayal there too, the hostility resulting from your decision to suddenly Make Things Real.

“Uh…” he begins. You can already hear the answer. “Truthfully, I’m not a position to help right now. It’s kinda tight for me too, you know. It’s a bad economy for everyone.”

Kind of tight? Wasn’t he just discussing the late model Lexus he’s financing? And yeah, it’s a bad economy for everyone, but not everyone doesn’t know how they’ll do Wednesday’s supper. But all of that remains unsaid, because it wouldn’t help. He’s already withdrawing, closing up, the warmth bleeding out of the air like your hemisphere did a quick revolution to winter. He was betrayed, and he knows it. You can already recite his next lines.

“Look, uh, let’s keep in touch, okay? I’ll let you know if anything crops up. I should probably catch the train though.”

He touches his hand to yours and practically wipes it as he backs away. “Let me know how it works out,” he calls.

“It was nice to see you,” you murmur at his retreating figure.

And the sad part is, it really had been. For a while.