Feeding Our Future Scandal: Fear of “Racist” Label Fuels Massive Cover-Up

Paul Riverbank, 12/15/2025Minnesota’s Feeding Our Future scandal: Fear of racism claims let massive fraud go unchecked.

Ask around in Minneapolis, and almost everyone has an impression — but specifics vary. Years before federal prosecutors swooped in, local suspicions about fraud, particularly among some in the Somali community, gathered like clouds over the city. For a while, though, these stories never seemed to break through. Bill Glahn, policy fellow at the Center of the American Experiment, remembers how quickly the narrative would stall. “The whole story kind of died under these accusations that people were being racist,” he told me, “as if, hey, a few bucks went missing — nothing to see here.”

But those accusations were hardly passive. Joe Teirab, who once prosecuted federal cases in this corner of the Midwest, suspects the language of racism was sometimes wielded deliberately, in closed-door discussions with government officials. The message: ask the wrong questions, and you might be labeled insensitive — or worse. “It’s disrespectful to weaponize those terms when the case is about fraud,” Teirab said. “It provided cover for people who knew they were in the wrong.”

And so, despite signs of trouble, the machinery of oversight often sputtered. State Senator Mark Koran tries to sound pragmatic about it. “Your average law-abiding Minnesotan doesn’t care where the evidence lands. If the law’s broken, you follow the facts,” he explained, but added: “If doing your job gets you tarred as a racist — that’s a heavy cost, politically or personally.” In several cases, investigators say, fear of such labels led state workers to tread gingerly — and fraudulent payments continued, unchallenged.

This wasn’t just abstract risk, either. On at least one occasion, a juror was offered a six-figure bribe to influence a verdict — but even then, the trial was clouded by claims that the prosecution itself was biased. Koran doesn’t mince words about the impact on ordinary people: “For regular, law-abiding citizens, it’s gutting to see public money thrown away like that.”

Within government agencies, caution reigned. A legislative auditor’s report confirmed this nervousness. Education officials, the report found, believed any investigation into what was happening at Feeding Our Future needed to be approached “carefully.” More than one staffer worried that being too aggressive would result in a career-ending headline. “State agencies were cowering,” Glahn concluded.

Meanwhile, journalists themselves weren’t immune. Dustin Grage, a conservative political observer, traces newsroom reluctance to the same root. Editors, he recalls, were wary of advancing stories that might prompt accusations of racial animus. It wasn’t until the FBI announced indictments — long after tip-offs and rumors — that the full picture started emerging.

Then there was the political gamble. When early red flags appeared, Minnesota’s governor, Tim Walz, faced pressure from within his own coalition. Some local officials publicly decried the state’s decision to freeze payments as racially motivated. Just days later, the taps were turned back on. Walz elected not to subpoena Feeding Our Future’s financial records, a move that some argue prolonged the scandal.

The politics are layered — and, as Glahn points out, Minnesota’s Somali population votes as a bloc capable of determining the outcome in critical Democratic primaries. Any misstep by state officials risked not just public censure but potentially a lost election.

“Combating fraud takes backbone,” someone involved in the probe told me, “and a stomach for being misunderstood.”

Farther east, another story haunts the Midwest’s political psyche. In Wisconsin, fallout from the 2020 election continues to ripple. Three men with ties to Donald Trump face charges for their role in the so-called “fake elector” plan. Prosecutors allege the group deceived Republican electors, securing their signatures with promises they’d only be used if election results were overturned — only to later submit those names as legitimate alternates for the state’s presidential votes.

Efforts by defense lawyers to remove Judge John Hyland from the case have so far failed. Their claim: local judicial ties and bias. Hyland's answer: no proof, no recusal.

And then, inevitably, there’s the former president himself. Donald Trump has told rallies that the 2020 count was a sham, that Democrats “cheated” at a scale nobody’s ever seen before. To his supporters, claims of fraud and partisan justice fit a familiar script.

So here’s where things stand: in Minnesota, billions vanished while officials, fearing accusations of prejudice, moved with uncharacteristic tentativeness. In Wisconsin, the courts have become the final arbiters of a saga about trust, truth, and the stewardship of democracy. In both cases, the stakes come down to this: can public officials get to the bottom of corruption — and tell the truth about it — without running aground on accusations of bias? If they can’t, taxpayers remain at risk, the reputation of public service erodes, and vulnerable communities suffer the most. There’s a gnawing anxiety here that the answers, whenever they come, may arrive too late — or at too great a cost.

A brisk wind whipping through the streets of Minneapolis this spring seemed almost appropriate. The chill, though, wasn’t just the aftertaste of winter — it was something woven into the conversations circulating State Capitol hallways and local coffee shops alike. There’s a wariness now, a hesitation that, for better or worse, can be traced back to Minnesota’s largest social program fraud: the Feeding Our Future scandal.Ask around in Minneapolis, and almost everyone has an impression — but specifics vary. Years before federal prosecutors swooped in, local suspicions about fraud, particularly among some in the Somali community, gathered like clouds over the city. For a while, though, these stories never seemed to break through. Bill Glahn, policy fellow at the Center of the American Experiment, remembers how quickly the narrative would stall. “The whole story kind of died under these accusations that people were being racist,” he told me, “as if, hey, a few bucks went missing — nothing to see here.”But those accusations were hardly passive. Joe Teirab, who once prosecuted federal cases in this corner of the Midwest, suspects the language of racism was sometimes wielded deliberately, in closed-door discussions with government officials. The message: ask the wrong questions, and you might be labeled insensitive — or worse. “It’s disrespectful to weaponize those terms when the case is about fraud,” Teirab said. “It provided cover for people who knew they were in the wrong.”And so, despite signs of trouble, the machinery of oversight often sputtered. State Senator Mark Koran tries to sound pragmatic about it. “Your average law-abiding Minnesotan doesn’t care where the evidence lands. If the law’s broken, you follow the facts,” he explained, but added: “If doing your job gets you tarred as a racist — that’s a heavy cost, politically or personally.” In several cases, investigators say, fear of such labels led state workers to tread gingerly — and fraudulent payments continued, unchallenged.This wasn’t just abstract risk, either. On at least one occasion, a juror was offered a six-figure bribe to influence a verdict — but even then, the trial was clouded by claims that the prosecution itself was biased. Koran doesn’t mince words about the impact on ordinary people: “For regular, law-abiding citizens, it’s gutting to see public money thrown away like that.”Within government agencies, caution reigned. A legislative auditor’s report confirmed this nervousness. Education officials, the report found, believed any investigation into what was happening at Feeding Our Future needed to be approached “carefully.” More than one staffer worried that being too aggressive would result in a career-ending headline. “State agencies were cowering,” Glahn concluded.Meanwhile, journalists themselves weren’t immune. Dustin Grage, a conservative political observer, traces newsroom reluctance to the same root. Editors, he recalls, were wary of advancing stories that might prompt accusations of racial animus. It wasn’t until the FBI announced indictments — long after tip-offs and rumors — that the full picture started emerging.Then there was the political gamble. When early red flags appeared, Minnesota’s governor, Tim Walz, faced pressure from within his own coalition. Some local officials publicly decried the state’s decision to freeze payments as racially motivated. Just days later, the taps were turned back on. Walz elected not to subpoena Feeding Our Future’s financial records, a move that some argue prolonged the scandal.The politics are layered — and, as Glahn points out, Minnesota’s Somali population votes as a bloc capable of determining the outcome in critical Democratic primaries. Any misstep by state officials risked not just public censure but potentially a lost election.“Combating fraud takes backbone,” someone involved in the probe told me, “and a stomach for being misunderstood.”Farther east, another story haunts the Midwest’s political psyche. In Wisconsin, fallout from the 2020 election continues to ripple. Three men with ties to Donald Trump face charges for their role in the so-called “fake elector” plan. Prosecutors allege the group deceived Republican electors, securing their signatures with promises they’d only be used if election results were overturned — only to later submit those names as legitimate alternates for the state’s presidential votes.Efforts by defense lawyers to remove Judge John Hyland from the case have so far failed. Their claim: local judicial ties and bias. Hyland's answer: no proof, no recusal.And then, inevitably, there’s the former president himself. Donald Trump has told rallies that the 2020 count was a sham, that Democrats “cheated” at a scale nobody’s ever seen before. To his supporters, claims of fraud and partisan justice fit a familiar script.So here’s where things stand: in Minnesota, billions vanished while officials, fearing accusations of prejudice, moved with uncharacteristic tentativeness. In Wisconsin, the courts have become the final arbiters of a saga about trust, truth, and the stewardship of democracy. In both cases, the stakes come down to this: can public officials get to the bottom of corruption — and tell the truth about it — without running aground on accusations of bias? If they can’t, taxpayers remain at risk, the reputation of public service erodes, and vulnerable communities suffer the most. There’s a gnawing anxiety here that the answers, whenever they come, may arrive too late — or at too great a cost.