In a recent New York Times op-ed considering the impact of coronavirus on the future of work, journalist Miriam Pawel cites the unparalleled prosperity that World War II brought to California and wonders if the outbreak “may create an inflection point of comparable significance.” Benefits such as paid sick days and housing for the homeless, which the current pandemic has brought to her state, Pawel predicts, could remain permanent once the disease has subsided. Similarly, journalists like Jada Yuan of the Washington Post and Adam Harris of The Atlantic suggest that the $1,200 direct cash payments to individuals included in the pandemic relief bill vindicate Andrew Yang’s idea for a universal basic income and could presage its implementation on a larger scale.
As a strong believer in robust social safety nets, I wish I could share their optimism—but the history and ultimate fate of crisis-produced policies suggest otherwise.
Consider World War II as an example. The war, as Pawel suggests, did provide great impetus for social and economic progress not only in California but in many places across the country, but not everyone benefited equally or permanently. Particularly when it came to women, wartime breakthroughs proved to be transitory. For just a few years, women had access to well-paid industrial jobs and were heartily celebrated for stepping up—think of Rosie the Riveter. (It should be noted, however, that African-American women were largely excluded from the best paid, most highly skilled jobs, while Japanese-American women faced property expropriation and massive discrimination.) And to ensure that enough women would be available to take these jobs, the Federal government provided funding for more than 3,000 child care centers (including a model facility at the Kaiser Shipyards in Richmond, California), eventually serving 600,000 children nationwide.
Such job opportunities and public benefits were not only unprecedented but also challenged prevailing gender norms; women’s place was, after all, in the home. The American public accepted these innovations, however on the premise that they were critical to the war effort and would last “for the duration only.” And indeed, both disappeared soon after victory was declared. Federal funding for the children’s centers dried up, causing most to close their doors, even though hundreds of thousands of mothers continued to work outside the home. But they no longer held lucrative industrial jobs; these positions reverted to men as soon as they were demobilized. Further discouraging female employment, the GI Bill sparked the construction of thousands of housing developments in suburbs across the country. While affording millions of Americans the chance to become homeowners for the first time, these provisions also settled millions of women into roles as unpaid housewives. While some women welcomed this role, many were afflicted with the syndrome Betty Friedan would later call “the problem that has no name.”
As a feminist, I have often wondered why all those Rosies did not rise up to demand that they keep their good jobs and that the Federal government continue to support child care. Instead, it was their daughters who formed the massive women’s movement of the 1960s and ’70s and began to struggle for equality in the workplace and benefits such as child care to enable them to pursue education and careers and support their families. That struggle continues, of course—there is still a glaring shortage of child care in the United States, and American women have managed to push their earnings to only an estimated 82 percent of men’s.
As a historian, I have concluded that much of the postwar backsliding was due to a pervasive yearning for the status quo ante bellum. American men had fought bravely and risked their lives, many survivors bearing the scars of war to show for it, and they deserved all the rewards a grateful nation could bestow upon them. Confirming the slogan that women’s presence in industrial work and government-supported child care were intended to last “for the duration only,” opinion makers and political leaders supported restoring men to their positions as chief family breadwinners—particularly since women were busy replenishing the population with a passel of Baby Boomers. Perfunctorily thanking women for their service, trade unions ensured that men would replace women on the assembly line as factories returned to peacetime production.
Economic considerations and gender assumptions were both at play here; American political culture, too, stymied progress toward lasting social change. Congress had yet to legislate against any form of discrimination (Jim Crow was still firmly entrenched in the South), and there was a general reluctance to extend the welfare state to offer benefits like universal health care, much less child care. The GI Bill and expansion of the Veterans Administration were notable exceptions, but they could be explained by the unique moment in which they were passed, when patriotism ran so high that it could trump political reticence.
It is interesting to compare American welfare state development in the late 1940s with that in postwar Western Europe. With physical and economic recovery aided massively through the Marshall Plan, by the 1950s almost every nation in the region had instituted some form of universal health care, unemployment, and retirement insurance, and free public education (including universities). The greatest progress occurred in the Nordic countries, where social democracy had already gained a foothold during the interwar period. But even there, it must be said, women-friendly benefits did not abound. Nordic women had enjoyed paid maternity leave since the 1930s—a benefit granted more for pronatalist than for egalitarian reasons—but other policies lagged. Sweden, now much lauded for its excellent child care system, did not begin to offer the service until the mid-1970s, when the women’s caucus of the Social Democratic Party, building on a favorable 1968 report by a government commission, demanded it. The patterns and timing of child care policy in the other Nordic countries were similar, but none of them actively addressed discrimination against women in employment, with the result that their levels of gendered labor-force segmentation are still among the highest of OECD countries.
So what does this history suggest for the post-pandemic United States? For one thing, it is clear that no “new” rights and benefits, implemented under emergency conditions, are likely to be accepted automatically in the longer term. In both of the examples just discussed, social movements were key to putting specific policies on the agenda and mobilizing the political support needed to push them through. With regard to retaining paid sick leave, sufficient housing for the homeless, and a universal basic income, much will depend on the political climate that emerges (and that climate will, in turn, be shaped partially by how the pandemic unfolds and which measures, in retrospect, are seen to have been helpful).
Nostalgia for the pre-pandemic status quo could be diminished by awareness of how weaknesses in our safety net left the wealthiest country in the world unprepared for a public health crisis of this scope. But will this lead to an acceptance of the need for Federal coordination and intervention to repair and reinforce the safety net?
We have seen a preview of likely post-pandemic political alignments in the debate over the CARES bill in Congress. While Republicans have largely pushed for sending billions of dollars to big businesses with few conditions and little oversight, Democrats have fought for measures to protect individual workers, help states and cities meet local needs, enable businesses (small as well as large) to stay afloat, and strengthen the health care system. To be sure, some Republicans have also supported measures to help individuals; it was Mitt Romney who first proposed widely cutting $1,000 checks, and Senators Marco Rubio and Josh Hawley have also called for paid leave. But tellingly, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell insists, “This is not even a stimulus package. It is emergency relief.” By framing it this way, he seems to be emphasizing that the bill’s remedies—enormous as they are—will be temporary, meant to last “for the duration only.”
If the CARES Act—and whatever Federal legislation may follow—does prove to be successful, not only by enabling the country to get a better handle on the pandemic but also by preventing the complete collapse of the economy, Democrats should be ready to recast its meaning and build on its underlying principles to make permanent gains. Trump will no doubt seek to claim credit for its success and assert that the outcome somehow vindicates his chaotic approach to governance, but Democrats must ensure that the public understands the importance of having a strong welfare state—one nimble enough to respond quickly to dire emergencies and enabled by public institutions that enjoy robust, long-term political and monetary support, and the best scientific expertise. Paid sick days and housing for the homeless would be but two of the benefits such a state would offer.
