Barabak: Trump could help feed hungry people. Instead he's throwing a vanity parade

Yahoo

a day ago

On Saturday, on the streets of Washington, Donald Trump will throw himself a costly and ostentatious military parade, a gaudy display of waste and vainglory staged solely to inflate the president's dirigible-sized ego.
The estimated price tag: As much as $45 million.
That same day, the volunteers and staff of White Pony Express will do what they've done for nearly a dozen years, taking perfectly good food that would otherwise be tossed out and using it to feed hungry and needy people living in one of the most comfortable and affluent regions of California.
Since its founding, White Pony has processed and passed along more than 26 million pounds of food — the equivalent of about 22 million meals — thanks to such Bay Area benefactors as Whole Foods, Starbucks and Trader Joe's. That's 13,000 tons of food that would have otherwise gone to landfills, rotting and emitting 31,000 tons of CO2 emissions into our overheated atmosphere.
It's such a righteous thing, you can practically hear the angels sing.
"Our mission is to connect abundance and need," said Eve Birge, White Pony's chief executive officer, who said the nonprofit's guiding principle is the notion "we are one human family and when one of us moves up, we all move up."
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That mission has become more difficult of late as the Trump administration takes a scythe to the nation's social safety net.
White Pony receives most of its support from corporations, foundations, community organizations and individual donors. But a sizable chunk comes from the federal government; the nonprofit could lose up to a third of its $3-million annual budget due to cuts by the Trump administration.
"We serve 130,000 people each year," Birge said. "That puts in jeopardy one-third of the people we're serving, because if I don't find another way to raise that money, then we'll have to scale back programs. I'll have to consider letting go staff." (White Pony has 17 employees and about 1,200 active volunteers.)
"We're a seven-day-a-week operation, because people are hungry seven days a week," Birge said. "We've talked about having to pull back to five or six days."
She had no comment on Trump's big, braggadocious celebration of self, a Soviet-style display of military hardware — tanks, horses, mules, parachute jumpers, thousands of marching troops — celebrating the Army's 250th anniversary and, oh yes, the president's 79th birthday.
Marivel Mendoza wasn't so reticent.
"All of the programs that are being gutted and we're using taxpayer dollars to pay for a parade?" she asked after a White Pony delivery truck pulled up with several pallets of fruit, veggies and other groceries.
Mendoza's organization, which operates from a small office center in Brentwood, serves more than 500 migrant farmworkers and their families in the far eastern reaches of the Bay Area. "We're going to see people starving at some point," Mendoza said. "It's unethical and immoral. I don't know how [Trump] sleeps at night."
Certainly not lightheaded, or with his empty belly growling from hunger.
Those who work at White Pony speak of it with a spiritual reverence.
Paula Keeler, 74, took a break from her recent shift inspecting produce to discuss the organization's beneficence. (Every bit of food that comes through the door is checked for quality and freshness before being trucked from White Pony's Concord warehouse and headquarters to one of more than 100 community nonprofits.)
Keeler retired about a decade ago from a number-crunching job with a Bay Area school district. She's volunteered at White Pony for the last nine years, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
"It's become my church, my gym and my therapist," she said, as pulsing rhythm and blues played from a portable speaker inside the large sorting room. "Tuesdays, I deliver to two senior homes. They're mostly little women and they can go to bed at night knowing their refrigerator is full tomorrow, and that's what touches my heart."
Keeler hadn't heard about Trump's parade. "I don't watch the news because it makes me want to throw up," she said. Told of the spectacle and its cost, she responded with equanimity.
"It's kind of like the Serenity Prayer," Keeler said. "What can you do and what can't you do? I try to stick with what I can do."
It's not much in vogue these days to quote Joe Biden, but the former president used to say something worth recollecting. "Don't tell me what you value," he often stated. "Show me your budget, and I'll tell you what you value.'
Trump's priorities — I, me, mine — are the same as they've ever been. But there's something particularly stomach-turning about squandering tens of millions of dollars on a vanity parade while slashing funds that could help feed those in need.
Michael Bagby, 66, works part time at White Pony. He retired after a career piloting big rigs and started making deliveries and training White Pony drivers about three years ago. His passion is fishing — Bagby dreams of reeling in a deep-sea marlin — but no hobby can nourish his soul as much as helping others.
He was aware of Trump's pretentious pageant and its heedless price tag.
"Nothing I say is going to make a difference whether the parade goes on or not," Bagby said, settling into the cab of a 26-foot refrigerated box truck. "But it would be better to show an interest in the true needs of the country rather than a parade."
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His route that day called for stops at a middle school and a church in working-class Antioch, then Mendoza's nonprofit in neighboring Brentwood.
As Bagby pulled up to the church, the pastor and several volunteers were waiting outside. The modest white stucco building was fringed with dead grass. Traffic from nearby Highway 4 produced an insistent, thrumming soundtrack.
"There are a lot of people in need. A lot," said Tania Hernandez, 45, who runs the church's food pantry. Eighty percent of the food it provides comes from White Pony, helping feed around 100 families a week. "If it wasn't for them," Hernandez said, "we wouldn't be able to do it."
With help, Bagby dropped off several pallets. He raised the tailgate, battened down the latches and headed for the cab. A church member walked up and stuck out his hand. "God bless you," he said.
Then it was off to the next stop.
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This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.