All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.
George Orwell, Animal Farm

In 1992, I ended a promising Navy career in order to be with my wife, who had refused to move to my next duty station. After a few blissful months of loving togetherness, she blindsided me with a divorce and I found myself marooned in one of the last places I wanted to be: the San Francisco Bay Area—the Land of Flakes, Fruits, and Nuts. Yes, they are just as crazy as they seem on TV. There’s a reason Nancy Pelosi keeps getting reelected.

As a newly created single father in a land where a $16 an hour job paid $7 an hour and a $45,000 house cost $175,000, I had to pull a rabbit out of my hat, and fast. Out of options, I swallowed my pride, asked my family for help and moved back to my home state where I enrolled at the main campus of the state university. Between my GI Bill and some educational grants, my son and I were able to make it, though it was a mighty struggle.

After a few months, something bizarre happened. My family insisted that I apply for welfare. Now, this was wildly out of character because in my family we had always considered nothing to be skeezier, slimier, more contemptible, and just plain parasitic than someone who went on welfare. I refused on principle, but they used Kryptonite on me: my son. My pride, it seems, was causing my child to suffer unnecessarily. I protested that it would be futile anyway because there was no way an able-bodied white male was going to be allowed on the dole in order to attend college. “Nonsense,” they said. “Single mothers go to college on welfare all the time. They can’t turn you down. It would be discrimination.”

Yeah, right.

So, I began my experience in the previously unknown Tenth Circle of Dante’s Hell—the welfare office. I really stood out, there. The only other white person was a morbidly obese woman accompanied by a small army of mulatto children. Being that we were in the Southwest, everyone that worked there wanted to speak to me in Spanish. When I requested to be addressed in English, there was much eye-rolling and exasperated sighing. Eventually, the paperwork was done and we sat in the waiting room, an incongruous blue-eyed blond-haired pair in a hostile sea of brown eyes and black hair.

After an eternity, my name was called by my assigned caseworker, a stunningly attractive Latina with a penchant for skintight western-style clothes. We exchanged a few pleasantries as I settled in my chair, then she got down to business. “You’re not eligible.”

“Could you at least read my paperwork first?” I suggested.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not eligible.”

There was no swaying her so I returned to the waiting room to explain to my son that we would continue to struggle. As we were talking, the caseworker stepped out of her office and saw us. After a brief hesitation, she walked over and asked, “Is this your son?” I admitted that he was and she engaged him in a brief conversation. When she was done, she said, “Come back to my office.” I did and, wham-bam, within a few minutes I—the welfare state’s greatest enemy—was a burden on society. I was allotted a generous amount of food stamps. She apologized that it wasn’t more.

A strange thing happened. At first, I followed my usual food budget and leftover food stamps started piling up. Already corrupted into thinking like a welfare bum, I began to worry that they might be tracked and that I would lose some of my allotment if it didn’t seem like I needed them. So, I bought meat. A lot of meat. We had steak three times a week on average. Up until then we had been eating only a pound of hamburger per week. The food stamps were still piling up so I started buying name brands instead of store brands and bringing home a lot of treats.

Meanwhile, an even stranger thing happened. The checks started coming. Checks for benefits that I hadn’t applied for. I called my caseworker to report the mistake and she told me, “It doesn’t matter. You’re entitled.” So, I deposited the checks. Eventually, a check arrived that was an energy assistance subsidy for heating and cooling costs. This was certainly a mistake because all my utilities were paid by my landlord. So, I called my caseworker again and was told, “It doesn’t matter. You’re entitled.” She then told me to stop bothering her and I did.

Now, I wasn’t getting the full welfare ride that some people get. Nonetheless, it was a cozy existence. I’ve never lived more comfortably with less stress in my life. All I had to do was go to school and do my single-dad thing. This continued until I remarried and my new wife’s income bumped me into ineligibility.

The experience taught me a few things. First, white men aren’t supposed to get public assistance, they’re supposed to pay for other people’s public assistance. Second, welfare corrupts quickly and stifles initiative and self-responsibility just as fast as right-wing “racists” say. Third, the welfare system is as bloated, insane and arbitrary as it seems. Fourth, if you’re getting the full ride and still live in squalor, that’s on you. In fact, I recently read a report revealing that a job had to pay at least $50,000 a year just to break even with the full ride. In other words, if you can’t live a comfortable life on the full ride, you’re an incompetent idiot.

Just for the record, I’ve long since paid back all my benefits with the confiscatory taxes that I pay.