“Dang, you’re turning into a professional burrito roller!” I tell another student as I nab a neat stack of aluminum foil-wrapped, ready-to-distribute burritos, then shimmy them into an insulated delivery bag.

In January 2022, a group of about five other University of Oregon students and I were volunteering at The Burrito Brigade. The Brigade is a weekly food distribution scheme that provides nutritious, vegan, and free burritos to folks across Eugene and Springfield. Our student group was formed as part of the University’s once-per-semester “Day of Service,” which pairs volunteer students with a community organization that would like some extra hands.

Between far too many school assignments, extracurriculars, and far too little sleep, why did I make the time to participate? These Days of Service are a fairly easy way for students to chip in on an impactful project, exit the campus bubble, and make new relationships. After long days at a desk, I relish spending time outside of my books, but especially time that connects me with the broader community and positively impacts someone else. For those reasons and more, Days of Service are a fantastic opportunity for University of Oregon students. Volunteered labor in those Days and other service events lets anyone help provide essential services, such as food and shelter, directly to our community neighbors. Of course, volunteerism does not solve the core problems that require structural reform, but it can help make sure that no one goes hungry or cold in the meantime.

Meaningful, non-performative community service comes in diverse forms, but I’ve been particularly drawn to food-related conversations and activities. For one thing, I love eating (vegan) food. Seriously—my whole family jokes about being human vacuum cleaners. But on a more somber note, from 2020-2021 I worked at farmers’ markets and food pantries in New York City and Long Island as we collectively endured and emerged from being one of COVID-19’s epicenters. Behind my mask and the fog of my breath during below-freezing days, I still saw two fascinating edges of essential food work: on one hand, the extra obstacles and inequities facing communities of color and essential food workers of color, and, on the other hand, the beautiful community-building that endured despite difficult systems and circumstances.

The enduring Burrito Brigade operation speaks to a clear need in Oregon, too. After all, food insecurity exists even in the shadow of the shiny Olympic torch and a sprawling, manicured campus. In 2019, Lane County’s food insecurity rate was 13.6 percent of the total population and 17.4 percent of all children 18 and younger. Among University of Oregon students, a 2017 survey indicated that more than half of students are classified as food insecure. And that proportion—more than one in ten Oregonians equaling hundreds of thousands of people—was seen as a good development, since it was finally roughly equal to the national average. Yet the COVID crisis drastically impacted food systems. By May 2020, the Oregon Food Bank estimated that as many as 1 in 4 Oregonians used local food pantries. Furthermore, Oregon’s food insecurity levels again spiked above the national average yet. The “perfect” storm of quick and harsh unemployment, slow-moving social benefits, and more expensive food all resulted in a spike in demand for emergency food. And so it was up to nonprofits and volunteers to step in to provide those essential community services, if folks were to receive them at all, yet they too saw dwindling participation.

To understand and address food insecurity, there is at least one more critical point: food insecurity stems from social inequalities and risks imposed by various systems of oppression and hierarchy, such as racism, sexism, and ableism. I absolutely must acknowledge that I navigate this world with the many benefits of being a white woman. My experience as a food worker certainly would have looked different if, well, I had looked different. And the data shows that one cannot discuss the harsh reality of our food systems without acknowledging racial and socioeconomic disparities. Food insecurity rates among Black, Indigenous, and other Oregonians of color is about two to three times higher than for white Oregonians. Yes, two to three times higher. Access to food is an essential, nonnegotiable human right—not to mention a potential medium for so much culture, connection, and joy—yet we collectively fall far short of ensuring access to delicious and nutritious food regardless of one’s demographic. In sum, to fight for food security, one must also fight against the racist disparities that riddle our promise of equal opportunity and justice—and vice versa.

And these race-based disparities are also relevant when appreciating frontline food workers. In 2020, 75 percent of frontline workers were people of color. And how do we treat those who are on our food frontline? In a perverse irony, food workers are twice as likely to be food insecure than the average person. The bottom line is that the Oregon farmers, farm hands, food processors, food sellers, and other essential food workers deserve plenty of appreciation, gratitude, and increased protection for the risks that they face and the immeasurable benefit they provided to all—yet we and our systems callously put them in multilayered forms of danger.

Food insecurity, environmental injustice, and worsening climate change are just some of the issues we must continue to grapple with whether we are going to the farmers market, volunteering at a Burrito Brigade or charitable function, or buying from a giant international grocery chain. No matter our role, we all play a part in our food system and our community. We all have an impact, and we all have an imagination to dream of a more equitable food future.

After locking my bike—the very same bike that I commuted with to the New York City farmers’ markets—I turn to face the energetic swarm of people meandering, pushing strollers, chatting, and browsing produce at the weekly Lane County Farmers’ market It’s a dreary and chilly April morning in 2023, but I’ve grown to love local farmers’ markets in all weather. I walk past the EBT tent, and my subconscious can’t help but note their set-up and signage placements (which is not too different than how my coworkers and I used to set up). Another graduate student recognizes me, so we say hello and chat a bit about our classes but more about how fun it is to see students “out in the real world,” then continue with our respective grocery lists.

These days, when I go to our weekly farmers’ market, I enjoy the liberty of being a customer rather than a market worker. It’s a deliciously sweet freedom to arrive and leave whenever I’d like. The food is already at the end of its long journey from seed, laying under the sun, being harvested, to being carefully laid out in these market displays. All the tents have been set up, and countless hands have already chipped in to create this weekly magic trick. All I have to do—get to do—is decide which leafy green is the most tempting to take on its final journey to my apartment before becoming a part of my weekly meal-prepped grain bowl. And so, walking through the vendor rows, listening to the bubble of kids laughing, the shuffle of feet and dog paws, the punctuation of a higher-pitched “see you next week!,” my heart gives a silent thanks. I give thanks for the farmland, the sun, the water, and the countless farm workers who brought all of these gifts together. The pandemic has hurt and stolen from many of us, in ways large and small, yet how incredible that we are still endeavoring to co-create local, socially equitable, life-affirming, accessible, and resilient food systems as part of the new normal.

Many more questions remain (How can we access the funding and political resolve to build emergency-resilient food systems and decrease diet-influenced health conditions? Can we restore a life-sustaining connection to our land and ecosystems quickly enough? How can we ensure food sovereignty especially to historically marginalized communities? How can we prevent anyone from falling through our society’s cracks while so many waste so much?).

Yet one thing I do know is that we will all be part of the solution. And the solution may look something like a familiar farmers’ market, strangely warm even on a chilly day.