Jamie K. McCallum Considers the Legacy of Terrible Working Conditions in the Home Healthcare Industry

My first job out of college was working as a home care aide just outside Seattle in 1999. Robert had suffered a stroke as a complication of a routine surgery. It left him immobile from the waist down, with slurred speech and the appearance of having suffered a stroke. I cooked and cleaned, took him to the bathroom, dressed and undressed him, and administered some basic medications. I went shopping for him and did simple upkeep around the home and yard.

Sometimes I stayed late and we watched buddy comedies together before he fell asleep. It was rewarding for both of us. Robert got the benefit of living an independent life outside of an institution. I was able to connect with a person I deeply admired, both for who he had been—a Chinese medical doctor and herbalist—and for who he had become, a gentle and kind man who relied on a small crew of round-the-clock helpers for his daily dignity and survival.

The pay was ten dollars per hour. It wasn’t Robert’s fault. He was given a set amount from Medicaid to pay wages for his caregivers. He always apologized profusely about the paltry sum he provided, but we both assumed there was nothing we could do. After a year, I left to work at a bakery, which paid less but involved no commute, so I could save on gas.

Robert and I had it wrong. During the exact time I worked for him, unbeknownst to us, home care workers in California were...

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