College Provides Needy Students With Food for More Than Just Thought

Fashions come and fashions go, but, somehow, hunger never seems to be out of style. One can always find it, whether on the plains of Africa or on the streets of every city’s downtown.

It is, therefore, all the more distressing to locate hunger on a local college campus. Tuition, books, football tickets, all cost money: They seem to spell sufficiency that leaves no space for hunger. And yet there are hungry students in our own backyard, and, I dare say, in others’ as well.

As my husband and I walked across the Palomar College campus in San Marcos, a carillon was playing “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows,” its lilting melody creating a partnership with the bright sunshine that warmly embraced students hurrying to class. We had just spent an hour with Bob Klug, founder and director of the college’s Food Bank, a program designed specifically to aid hungry students.

Palomar College stands alone with such a program in California and, as far as we know, in the country.

Klug is totally dedicated to relieving hunger. A former student, he is a photography-technician and a school bus driver, and “mother hen” to the special group of financially deprived students he calls “winners.”

These are the people whose studies are often interrupted by emergency needs born of limited resources. “They are ‘winners,’ ” the director explains, “because they are ‘chasing rainbows’ seeking to better themselves, to prepare for successful, independent lives.” Many of them are parents of small children, some without partners, who carry full to partly full schedules and work in full- or part-time employment.

On an annual budget that would not sustain most of us for one month, Bob Klug manages to beg, borrow and manipulate dollars for the distribution of food, clothing, bus passes and, believe it or not, can openers. Every can, every box of cereal is accompanied by equal servings of his respect, patience and empathy. Students enter the Food Bank office with hesitation and embarrassment; they leave with dignity, hope and self-confidence.

Between November, 1984, and November, 1985, 161 students and their 226 children received help from the Food Bank. Hunger was the solitary qualification. During the year, over 6,000 cans of food were distributed. The need this year is even greater. (A recent donation of a freezer has allowed Klug to distribute meat, fish and poultry.)

As we sat squeezed between cartons of cereal, cookies and baby aspirin that lined the walls of Klug’s office, we quietly observed a passing parade.

A young woman--I guessed her age at 30--came in, lugging a large bag filled with cans of soup. “You helped me last year when all three of my kids were sick . . . Now it is my turn to help. I know that soup is great at the end of the month, at the end of the budget!” Last year’s recipient became this year’s donor.

The phone rang. A mother of five called from Oceanside; she had no money, could not get to classes. Her older children were at school all day and she generally brought the little ones to the campus day-care center. Bob quickly arranged transportation.

He is a stickler for protecting students’ anonymity. In return for the hope, confidence and affection that Bob bags with the groceries, he receives loyalty, gratitude and friendship from the students.

While we discussed budget and the minuscule funds, a young woman needed to see Bob, alone. He left us in mid-sentence and returned a few minutes later. “Last month she was sick with the flu--her husband walked out, disappeared, left her and two tots with nothing. We provided emergency food and medication. Now, she is back on her feet--no husband, but lots of spunk. She gave me this for the Food Bank.” He untangled two crumpled dollar bills. “Now” he said, “you know why I call them ‘winners.’ ”

There are few repeaters at the Food Bank, which supplies emergency help with the emphasis on “emergency.” No one, it seems, takes advantage. When a student does return, it is usually to help--to offer an extra dollar, to volunteer, to share some limited provisions.

The program’s income derives from a variety of sources. These include the federal Food Surplus Program, North County Food Bank Network and private donations. One donor’s check for $50 arrives monthly; it is the only “regular” gift. Money comes from students, staff and individuals in the community. In a student body of 16,000, about 600 students are living in poverty. “We figured that if the Food Bank could have one dollar a year from each student, the program would be self-sustaining forever,” Klug said.

Too often he goes grocery shopping with a long list and ends up at the checkout in frustration--the Food Bank account cannot cover the bill. When that happens, it means that each family in the throes of an emergency will have one less can of soup, piece of fruit, milk and perhaps no cereal. Subtracting anything from so little is always painful.

Three years ago, Palomar College’s Food Bank program was conceived and created as a self-help agency--students helping students. A morning in Bob Klug’s office demonstrates the truth of the concept. A candid conversation with him demonstrates its limits. Crumpled dollar bills and quantities of canned soup cannot meet emergency needs of so many hundreds of hungry students and their offspring. One dollar per student is a dream yet unfulfilled. And Bob Klug still knows that the money will not cover the needs when he goes to the grocery store.

Many of us who today are relatively comfortable were once students, working and scrounging to get along, to better ourselves. Students at Palomar College, struggling to succeed by obtaining an education, deserve our help. They do not “chase rainbows” for the joy of the chase; they do so to attain independence. That is the “pot of gold” that they seek.