
Illinois SNAP Education program eliminated amid federal cuts: ‘It's heartbreaking'
Tammy Spivey, 60, raised her hand from the back row. 'What's worse, cooking oil or lard?'
'Lard,' Adams answered, stirring the steaming mirepoix with practiced ease. 'It clogs your arteries.'
Across the room, fellow educator Christine Davis jumped in. 'We always want to make sure we're being cognizant of the type of fat that we're putting into our bodies.' She rattled off a list of healthier alternatives.
Sunflower oil, olive oil, avocado oil. Spivey jotted down the names on her note sheet, then underlined each word twice.
It was the sixth session of a cooking class run by the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program Education initiative, or Snap-Ed. For weeks, Mercy Housing residents gathered to cover nutrition basics, build kitchen skills and learn how to stretch their food stamps.
It might also be one of the last.
In July, the federal program was abruptly cut under President Donald Trump's sweeping One Big Beautiful Bill Act, leaving thousands across Illinois in the lurch. For decades, SNAP-Ed has partnered with dozens of Chicago organizations — from food pantries to public schools — to address the root causes of health disparities. Now, with just a few months' notice, staff are dismantling a 30-year program carefully woven into the city's social safety net.
'It was an absolute gut punch,' said Daylan Dufelmeier, who heads SNAP-Ed locally as the director of the Chicago Partnership for Health Promotion at the University of Illinois Chicago. 'The work that we do is so important and so critical, so when we got caught in political crossheads, it was brutal.'
It's the latest in a flurry of welfare cuts under the Trump administration. The president's recent tax-and-spending legislation has slashed billions in federal food benefits and significantly reduced Medicaid access.
Spivey, a former quality control technician, has relied on food stamps and disability checks for as long as she can remember. When she used to cook for her now-grown daughter, both were essential to keep food on the table. She couldn't always afford to prioritize nutrition.
'They cutting out the wrong things,' Spivey said. 'It's not right.'
In addition to nutrition education classes, SNAP-Ed programming includes food access directories, social media campaigns and advocacy work. According to staff, those initiatives prevent more than 5,000 cases of obesity and nearly 600 cases of food insecurity across Illinois each year.
For many low-income families, budgeting for healthy food options can be a challenge, experts say. That can lead to long-term health issues, including chronic diseases and nutritional deficiencies. But nonprofit research organization Altarum estimates that every dollar invested in the Illinois program returns between $5.36 and $9.54 in health care savings.
'People want to be healthier, they want to be physically active, but they don't have the resources,' said educator Adams, as she spooned out heaps of rice.
Despite its documented success, the Republican-led House Committee on Agriculture said in May that the program has yielded 'no meaningful change' since its inception in 1992, wasting taxpayer money. Funding will officially run dry Sept. 30, the end of the federal fiscal year.
This fiscal year, Illinois received nearly $20 million in funding for the program. About $5 million went to UIC, and the rest was funneled to the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign for statewide work. With the funding slashed, roughly 250 staff members will lose their jobs across the U. of I. system.
'These are people that are their communities building trust,' said Germán Bollero, dean of the U. of I. College of Agricultural, Consumer and Environmental Sciences. 'That is at the core of our mission: transforming society to be a better place. It's heartbreaking.'
Each year, SNAP-Ed is estimated to reach about one million Illinois residents, working with more than 1,800 community partners. About 1.9 million people in the state receive SNAP benefits, according to the Illinois Department of Human Services.
At Mercy Housing, Alma Watson, 63, flipped through the pages of her workbook, filled with lines of her cursive handwriting. She scanned a list of recipes — turkey tacos, skillet chicken breasts and baked sweet potatoes — each paired with nutritional information.
'People don't know, and some people really need it. Like me, for one,' Watson said with a laugh.
It's her second time taking the eight-week course at Mercy, where she's lived for 15 years. Participants receive boxes of fresh produce and poultry to re-create recipes at home, enough to last Watson for days. But the real joy is being in the classroom again, she said, learning alongside peers. Most of them also depend on SNAP benefits.
'I love this setting. The people are really nice,' Watson said. 'I just love everything so far.'
For SNAP-Ed staff, that positive feedback makes the impending shutdown harder. Educators Adams and Davis are set to lose their jobs in a few weeks, but their greatest concern, they said, is for the communities they serve.
Through the window, Davis pointed to a weathered convenience store across the street. Its neon posters advertised tobacco and soda. 'Most of the (nearby) grocery stores aren't really grocery stores. They're markets like that,' she said. '(Residents) don't have much of an option.'
Food deserts — areas more than a mile from a grocery store — have plagued the Chicago area for years, particularly on the South Side. While SNAP benefits are an immediate solution, SNAP-Ed helped chip away at those broader systemic issues, Dufelmeier said.
After funding runs out, operations will likely cease immediately.
'The impacts from the cuts to our programs you may not see next week, but it's a long-term impact,' Dufelmeier said.
After the lesson, each participant received a paper plate with sauteed vegetables, chicken, rice and soy sauce. The room had buzzed with laughter, but it was quieter as everyone ate.
One resident ambled to the front of the room for seconds.
Adams smiled and dished out another helping. 'Here you go, honey.'
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New York Post
7 hours ago
- New York Post
Rehab can keep you out of jail — but become a prison itself
Chris Koon didn't read the fine print. Sitting in the Cenikor Baton Rouge rehab center's intake office in 2015, flanked by his mom and grandmother, he signed where told. 'A lot of it read like legalese,' writes Shoshana Walter in 'Rehab: An American Scandal' (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 12). 'Incomprehensible but also innocuous, like something you might see before downloading an app on your phone.' Koon felt lucky. He wasn't going to prison. Just days earlier, he'd been arrested for meth possession. The alternative to five years in state prison? A brutal two-year Cenikor inpatient program. Koon took the deal. In signing the intake documents, he agreed to 'receive no monetary compensation' for work he did, with wages going 'directly back to the Foundation.' He signed away his right to workers' compensation if injured. He forfeited his food stamps, disability payments and any other government assistance. And he agreed to 'adopt appropriate morals and values as promoted by the program.' Koon's story isn't an outlier — it's a glimpse into what Walter calls 'America's other drug crisis.' While overdoses and opioid deaths dominate headlines, far less attention goes to the 'profit-hungry, under-regulated, and all too often deadly rehab industry,' writes Walter. Across the country, thousands of treatment programs are propped up by federal policies and rooted in a distinctly American blend of punishment and personal responsibility. People were 'lured to rehab with the promise of a cure for what ailed them,' Walter writes, 'only to repeatedly falter and fail inside a system that treated them like dollar signs.' The idea hard labor can cure someone isn't new. After the Civil War, US slavery was abolished except as punishment for a crime. That loophole became the foundation for a forced-labor system that conveyed newly freed black people into prisons and chain gangs. Over time, prison officials began marketing this arrangement as 'rehabilitation.' As Walter writes, this legacy has been repackaged for the modern drug crisis. The Affordable Care Act promised expanded treatment access through Medicaid. But the rehab industry that exploded in response was lightly regulated, profit-driven and increasingly dangerous. The result: thousands of people like Chris Koon, lured into treatment by courts, cops or family members, only to find themselves stuck in a system that looked less like therapy and more like punishment. They include women like April Lee, a black woman from Philadelphia. Despite growing up in addiction's long shadow — her mother died from AIDS when Lee was just a teenager, after years of selling sex to support a crack habit — Lee didn't start using drugs herself until after having her second child, when a doctor prescribed her Percocet for back pain. That opened the door to addiction. Child-welfare authorities eventually took her kids. Fellow users nicknamed her 'Mom' and 'Doc' for her uncanny ability to find usable veins, no matter how damaged. April Lee returned to her recovery house — as an unpaid house monitor. April Lee / ACLU She entered recovery in 2016. Every morning at 6, 18 women gathered in the dining room of one of two overcrowded houses to read from the Bible. Lee stayed 10 months. With nowhere else to go, she returned — this time as a house monitor, working without pay in exchange for a bed. 'She was still early into recovery, and she felt stressed by the intensity of the job,' Walter writes. 'On top of that, she wasn't getting a paycheck, so she couldn't save up money to leave.' 'Don't really know how to feel right now,' Lee wrote in her journal. 'The lady I work for — for free, mind you — wont me to watch over women witch mean I have to stay in every night.' She felt physically and emotionally trapped. 'I wanted to snap this morning. Miss my children so much.' Like so many others, Lee found herself stuck in the recovery-house loop — forced to work, unable to leave and earning nothing. She helped with chores, mainly cooking and cleaning. Residents' food stamps stocked the kitchen. Lee loved to cook, and she made comfort food for the house: mac and cheese, fried chicken, beef stew. But all the warmth she gave others couldn't buy her a way out. For others, like Koon, it was about more than just forced labor. During his first 30 days at Cenikor, the other patients policed each other. If one person broke a rule, the entire group might be punished with a 'fire drill' in the middle of the night. 'If anyone stepped out of line or did something wrong during the drill, they'd have to stay awake even longer,' Walter writes. Discipline was obsessive. In his first month, Koon sat in a classroom with about 30 other residents, most sent by courts like he was, reciting rules out loud, line by line. There were more than 100. 'He could get in trouble for not having a pen, not wearing a belt, for an untied shoelace, for leaving a book on the table, for his shirt coming untucked,' Walter details. Koon learned the punishment system fast. A common one was 'the verbal chair,' in which any participant could order him to sit, arms locked and knees at a 90-degree angle, and stare silently at the wall while others screamed at him. 'Go have a seat in the verbal chair. Think about having your shirt untucked,' they'd say. And Koon, like everyone else, was expected to respond, 'Thank you.' There were others. 'Mirror therapy,' where he'd stand and yell his failings at himself in the mirror. 'The dishpan,' where he'd be dressed in a neon-green shirt, scrubbing floors and dishes while loudly reciting the Cenikor philosophy, 'a paragraph-long diatribe about self-change,' Walter writes. And the dreaded 'verbal haircut,' when another resident, sometimes even a staff member, would berate him as part of his treatment. Dressed up as a therapeutic community, Koon thought instead, 'This is like a cult.' Walter believes he wasn't far off. Everyone was required to tattle. Koon had to turn in weekly at least 10 'pull-ups' — written reports detailing rule infractions committed by fellow residents. If he didn't, he could lose points and with them privileges like phone calls, family visits or permission to grow a mustache. Confrontations were public and ritualized: Residents would sit in a circle around one or two people forced to listen as everyone else denounced them. 'They took turns confronting that person, professing their faults and errors, while the person was permitted only to say 'thank you,'' Walter writes. Staff called it 'The Game.' He saw grown men cry. He heard women called bitches and sluts. He realized many employees were former participants enforcing the system that once broke them. Not everyone saw a problem. Many in the legal system embraced tough-love rehab programs, especially judges looking for alternatives to jail. One of Cenikor's biggest champions was Judge Larry Gist, who ran one of the first drug courts, in Jefferson County, Texas, in the 1990s. 'The vast majority of folks that I deal with are basically bottom-feeders,' Gist told the author. 'They've been losers since the day they were born.' Cenikor's extreme model was ideal for 'the right people,' he believed. Cenikor rewarded such loyalty, giving judges and lawmakers steak dinners served by participants and annual awards banquets, complete with gleaming, diamond-shaped trophies. Gist 'proudly displayed his' in 'his chambers, where he liked to host his happy hours with prosecutors and defense attorneys.' Koon was booted out of Cenikor after just two years, for faking a urine sample and contracting a contagious staph infection, but managed to stay sober on his own. He proposed to his childhood sweetheart, Paige, moving in with her two daughters, and finding the stability he'd been chasing for years. He went back to school to learn welding, and the daily rhythms of family life kept him grounded. 'He hasn't taken a drug recreationally for eight years,' Walter writes. Lee's path out took longer, and her recovery was, as Walter writes, 'in some ways a stroke of luck.' She left the house after landing a job at a law firm that helped women reunite with their children in foster care — a world away from the nights she'd once spent tricking at the Blue Moon Hotel but one that barely covered her bills and pushed her just over the poverty line, cutting off assistance. She earned her GED, took online college courses, regained custody of her kids and bought her own home by 2021. 'And yet many days she felt she was teetering on the edge, one crisis or unpaid bill away from making a terrible mistake,' Walter writes. That year, she returned to Kensington, where her addiction had once thrived, bringing fresh food and water to people still living on the streets. As for Cenikor, its time in the shadows ended, at least temporarily. Investigators found evidence of exploitation: residents forced to work without pay, unsafe housing conditions, staff-client relationships, even overdoses inside the facilities. The state of Texas fined Cenikor more than $1.4 million in 2019, but the agency struck a settlement, and it continued to operate. Koon and Lee don't represent everyone who's experienced addiction, treatment or recovery. But they do reflect a system that often promises far more than it delivers. 'When rehab works, it can save lives,' Walter writes. 'It can mend families and be among the most redemptive narrative arcs in a person's life.' But sometimes, rehab not only fails to help people, it actively harms them, recycling them through a gauntlet of relapse, shame and risk: 'Despite the rehab industry's many claims, there is no magical cure for addiction.'


Chicago Tribune
11 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Illinois SNAP Education program eliminated amid federal cuts: ‘It's heartbreaking'
In a makeshift classroom in a Roseland low-income housing complex, nine women watched nutrition educator Denetria Adams saute a glistening mix of carrots, celery and onion. Tammy Spivey, 60, raised her hand from the back row. 'What's worse, cooking oil or lard?' 'Lard,' Adams answered, stirring the steaming mirepoix with practiced ease. 'It clogs your arteries.' Across the room, fellow educator Christine Davis jumped in. 'We always want to make sure we're being cognizant of the type of fat that we're putting into our bodies.' She rattled off a list of healthier alternatives. Sunflower oil, olive oil, avocado oil. Spivey jotted down the names on her note sheet, then underlined each word twice. It was the sixth session of a cooking class run by the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program Education initiative, or Snap-Ed. For weeks, Mercy Housing residents gathered to cover nutrition basics, build kitchen skills and learn how to stretch their food stamps. It might also be one of the last. In July, the federal program was abruptly cut under President Donald Trump's sweeping One Big Beautiful Bill Act, leaving thousands across Illinois in the lurch. For decades, SNAP-Ed has partnered with dozens of Chicago organizations — from food pantries to public schools — to address the root causes of health disparities. Now, with just a few months' notice, staff are dismantling a 30-year program carefully woven into the city's social safety net. 'It was an absolute gut punch,' said Daylan Dufelmeier, who heads SNAP-Ed locally as the director of the Chicago Partnership for Health Promotion at the University of Illinois Chicago. 'The work that we do is so important and so critical, so when we got caught in political crossheads, it was brutal.' It's the latest in a flurry of welfare cuts under the Trump administration. The president's recent tax-and-spending legislation has slashed billions in federal food benefits and significantly reduced Medicaid access. Spivey, a former quality control technician, has relied on food stamps and disability checks for as long as she can remember. When she used to cook for her now-grown daughter, both were essential to keep food on the table. She couldn't always afford to prioritize nutrition. 'They cutting out the wrong things,' Spivey said. 'It's not right.' In addition to nutrition education classes, SNAP-Ed programming includes food access directories, social media campaigns and advocacy work. According to staff, those initiatives prevent more than 5,000 cases of obesity and nearly 600 cases of food insecurity across Illinois each year. For many low-income families, budgeting for healthy food options can be a challenge, experts say. That can lead to long-term health issues, including chronic diseases and nutritional deficiencies. But nonprofit research organization Altarum estimates that every dollar invested in the Illinois program returns between $5.36 and $9.54 in health care savings. 'People want to be healthier, they want to be physically active, but they don't have the resources,' said educator Adams, as she spooned out heaps of rice. Despite its documented success, the Republican-led House Committee on Agriculture said in May that the program has yielded 'no meaningful change' since its inception in 1992, wasting taxpayer money. Funding will officially run dry Sept. 30, the end of the federal fiscal year. This fiscal year, Illinois received nearly $20 million in funding for the program. About $5 million went to UIC, and the rest was funneled to the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign for statewide work. With the funding slashed, roughly 250 staff members will lose their jobs across the U. of I. system. 'These are people that are their communities building trust,' said Germán Bollero, dean of the U. of I. College of Agricultural, Consumer and Environmental Sciences. 'That is at the core of our mission: transforming society to be a better place. It's heartbreaking.' Each year, SNAP-Ed is estimated to reach about one million Illinois residents, working with more than 1,800 community partners. About 1.9 million people in the state receive SNAP benefits, according to the Illinois Department of Human Services. At Mercy Housing, Alma Watson, 63, flipped through the pages of her workbook, filled with lines of her cursive handwriting. She scanned a list of recipes — turkey tacos, skillet chicken breasts and baked sweet potatoes — each paired with nutritional information. 'People don't know, and some people really need it. Like me, for one,' Watson said with a laugh. It's her second time taking the eight-week course at Mercy, where she's lived for 15 years. Participants receive boxes of fresh produce and poultry to re-create recipes at home, enough to last Watson for days. But the real joy is being in the classroom again, she said, learning alongside peers. Most of them also depend on SNAP benefits. 'I love this setting. The people are really nice,' Watson said. 'I just love everything so far.' For SNAP-Ed staff, that positive feedback makes the impending shutdown harder. Educators Adams and Davis are set to lose their jobs in a few weeks, but their greatest concern, they said, is for the communities they serve. Through the window, Davis pointed to a weathered convenience store across the street. Its neon posters advertised tobacco and soda. 'Most of the (nearby) grocery stores aren't really grocery stores. They're markets like that,' she said. '(Residents) don't have much of an option.' Food deserts — areas more than a mile from a grocery store — have plagued the Chicago area for years, particularly on the South Side. While SNAP benefits are an immediate solution, SNAP-Ed helped chip away at those broader systemic issues, Dufelmeier said. After funding runs out, operations will likely cease immediately. 'The impacts from the cuts to our programs you may not see next week, but it's a long-term impact,' Dufelmeier said. After the lesson, each participant received a paper plate with sauteed vegetables, chicken, rice and soy sauce. The room had buzzed with laughter, but it was quieter as everyone ate. One resident ambled to the front of the room for seconds. Adams smiled and dished out another helping. 'Here you go, honey.'


Boston Globe
11 hours ago
- Boston Globe
To help low-income kids with cancer have better treatment outcomes, a researcher tries a different innovation: Cash
Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up 'What this showed us is that poverty exposure needs to be targeted in the same way that we think about targeting mutations,' Bona said. Advertisement The launch of Bona's study in late June came weeks before Advertisement The results put into question the efficacy of basic income, which has been heralded as a potential tool to alleviate poverty. But researchers and proponents of cash transfer programs in Massachusetts say the results have not dampened optimism here about the role they can play in supporting low-income families. Instead they say 'Baby's First Years' demonstrates the need for more research into just how much money and other resources and services is needed to pull people out of poverty. It also sharpens the question of what researchers, program managers, funders, and policymakers consider a valuable result. 'These programs are held to unrealistic standards, that this has to be some transformative, life-altering intervention, or it's not worth anyone's time or effort or concern,' said Richard Sheward, a director at Boston Medical Center's Children's HealthWatch, who has 'It would be a major failure if we focused on this one thing and lose sight of the fact that we also need to protect our safety net programs, like SNAP and WIC and other programs that help families thrive and move up the economic ladder, as they are Massachusetts has been a leader in piloting cash programs. Since 2020, Unlike 'Baby's First Years,' these programs focus not on whether the cash transfers impact childhood development markers, but whether they allow families, particularly low-income families, to weather economic storms, spend more on healthy food, and spend more time together, especially during a child's crucial early years. Advertisement Early results of the 'Baby's First Years' study were promising, Robert Rector, a senior research fellow at the conservative Heritage Foundation and a critic of cash transfer programs, But while 'Baby's First Years' didn't show significant developmental changes, it did show that women who received the cash transfers spent the money on food and clothing for their children, not on things like alcohol or cigarettes, which had long been a concern of conservative critics of such programs. The women also spent more time with their children. 'That's dismissed, because we thought we would see these developmental changes,' said Margaret Anne McConnell, a professor at Harvard School of Public Health. 'But think about what that means. A small amount of cash means people got to spend more time with their children. That's incredibly important.' Jennifer Valenzuela is the executive director of Children's Trust, which just finished a program that offers cash transfers during home visits for some new moms in Springfield. She said cash assistance programs can be tremendously helpful for parents who would otherwise be stressed and cash strapped when trying to figure out how to buy basics like food, gas, and utilities. Advertisement 'All those things make an impact on who we can be as parents and how we can engage with a child,' Valenzuela said. 'What would it mean if you weren't able to do some of the basic things that we think about as a parent, things that should be a norm, that many parents don't get to do.' In addition to outcomes, the amount of cash given varies greatly across programs. 'Baby's First Years,' for example, offered $333 a month to moms, regardless of how many children they have. The Unconditional Cash Study, which took place in Illinois and Texas, offered low-income individuals $1,000 per month. During COVID, the federal child tax credit expanded, offering what was essentially a cash transfer of several thousand dollars at once, depending on family size and children's age. As a result of the expanded credit, childhood poverty '['Baby's First Years"] is a valuable study because it challenges us to be more thoughtful about how we design and implement these programs,' said Sheward. 'It just shows us the context matters, the amount matters, what we measure matters, very deeply.' Bona's study, which offers up to $1,000 twice a month per family, is the first of its kind to consider how cash transfers may impact pediatric cancer outcomes for low-income families. It's taking place in multiple sites across the country, is in the early stages, and will last four years. Bona is certain of the relationship between poverty and poorer clinical outcomes. But she isn't clear on the drivers of unequal outcomes, or on how to fix these. Advertisement 'Will this be the right dose? Is it for the right duration in cancer treatment? Will we have to repeat it later on in cancer treatment? We don't know yet,' she said. But if the study shows that cash injections alter a family's food security, reduce parents' psychological distress, and allow sick kids to stay on a clinical trial for longer, 'it will be one of the 'cheapest' interventions we could possibly imagine in the cancer space — far cheaper than most drugs." McConnell, at the Harvard School of Public Health, recently launched a similar study, considering how cash transfers impact time that low-income mothers of premature babies can spend with their children hospitalized in the neonatal intensive care unit. McConnell isn't measuring the long-term outcomes of the children or the moms. Instead, she's measuring outcomes that may indicate a baby's longer-term health: provision of breast milk and skin-to-skin contact. 'The work I'm doing is to see how to ease the financial strain of having a NICU baby, not replace people's income or lift people out of poverty,' she said. Although her study is designed differently and measuring something different than 'Baby's First Years,' she thinks that everyone can learn from it — even if it has a null result. 'I think you can learn a lot from a study like this, it shows how complex and challenging it is to address child development, without drawing the conclusion that you've learned everything ," she said. 'Any time you have one study that's a definitive answer to a question is unfortunate. It sets up any intervention to fail.' Advertisement This story was produced by the Globe's team, which covers the racial wealth gap in Greater Boston. You can sign up for the newsletter . Mara Kardas-Nelson can be reached at