In 2025, America declared war on the poor, and Black families are once again on the front lines. When Congress voted to scale back the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) and limit Electronic Benefit Transfer (EBT) funds earlier this year, they called it “fiscal responsibility.” But in Black neighborhoods from Jackson to Baltimore, it felt like betrayal.
According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s 2025 Food Security Report, nearly 1 in 4 Black households, 23.6%, depend on SNAP benefits, compared to 10.4% of white households. These are not “lazy” families; they are the working class, nurses’ aides, custodians, single parents, elders on fixed incomes. When federal support disappears, survival becomes negotiation.
The 2025 Federal Budget Reform Act slashed nearly $30 billion from SNAP over the next decade and reinstated stricter work-hour requirements. That policy alone is projected to remove 1.8 million Americans from eligibility by year’s end, over 550,000 of them Black, according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities (CBPP, May 2025). The average monthly benefit has dropped from $271 per person in 2023 to $216 in 2025, a loss that means empty refrigerators before the month ends.
In places like Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana, where Black residents make up more than a third of the population, the cuts sting hardest. Feeding America’s 2025 Hunger Index reports that food insecurity among Black children in the South has spiked to 29%, up from 22% in 2022. Food banks in cities such as Birmingham and New Orleans say they’ve seen a 47% surge in first-time visitors since February.
Meanwhile, inflation has pushed grocery prices up 11% since 2021. The Bureau of Labor Statistics (April 2025) notes that the average cost of a basket of staple foods, eggs, milk, bread, and produce, now exceeds $80 per week for a family of four. For households whose benefits have been capped or cut, that gap turns into hunger.
EBT is more than a plastic card, it’s a lifeline. When that lifeline is cut, the pain echoes through generations. Black mothers, already earning 36 cents less on the dollar than white men (EPI 2025), now must choose between feeding their children and paying rent. Black seniors, 60% more likely to live alone and on fixed incomes, lose dignity along with dinner.
Politicians claim these cuts will “encourage work,” but 81% of SNAP households with Black adults already work full-time, according to the Urban Institute (March 2025). The problem isn’t laziness, it’s low wages, rising costs, and a government that confuses punishment with policy.
This isn’t just about food; it’s about freedom. Hunger is a form of control. When you can’t feed your children, you can’t focus on voting, advocacy, or justice. The abolishment of aid is the quietest form of oppression, the kind that starves a people into silence.
And yet, as always, we resist. Churches are opening food pantries. Neighborhood co-ops are growing gardens. Black organizers in Detroit, Atlanta, and Oakland are creating “Community Fridges” stocked by the people, for the people.
Because while the government may cut the benefits, it can’t cut the bond between us.
We have always fed each other, from plantation kitchens to protest tables.
We will keep doing so until justice serves everyone a seat at the table.