When construction began on the urban expressways of the new Interstate Highway System in the late 1950s, homes, businesses, schools, and churches began to fall before bulldozers and wrecking crews. Entire neighborhoods, as well as parks, historic districts, and environmentally sensitive areas, were slated for demolition to make way for new expressways. Highway builders leveled central city areas where few people had cars so that automobile owners from other places could drive to and through the city on the big, new roads. As one analyst of postwar America put it: “The desire of the car owner to take his car wherever he went no matter what the social cost drove the Interstate Highway System, with all the force and lethal effect of a dagger, into the heart of the American city.” In response, citizen activists in many cities challenged the routing decisions made by state and federal highway engineers. This Freeway Revolt found its first expression in San Francisco in the late 1950s, and eventually spread across urban America. By the late 1960s, freeway fighters began to win a few battles, as some urban expressways were postponed, cancelled, or shift ed to alternative route corridors.

Huzza! My brave boys, our work is complete;

The world shall admire Columbia's fair feat;

Its strength against tempest and time shall be proof, And

thousands shall come to dwell under our roof:

Whilst we drain the deep bowl, our toast still shall be

Our government firm, and our citizens free.

Readers of the New York Times were not accustomed to encountering in its pages a Cabinet official picking a fight with the Supreme Court, but that is what they did on May 8, 1938. Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes, writing for a majority of the Supreme Court, had recently ruled that Secretary of Agriculture Henry A. Wallace had used the wrong procedures to set the rates that “commission men” charged farmers for marketing cattle, pigs, and sheep at Kansas City's stockyards. It was the second time the case had come before the Court. On the previous occasion, the justices had sent the case back to the lower courts to determine whether the secretary had personally studied the factual record before issuing the rates. In fact, Wallace had given the matter “more personal attention than any previous Secretary of Agriculture had ever given to any case under the Packers and Stockyards Act or for that matter any half dozen cases,” so when the case returned to the Court, the justices had to shift their ground. Now they objected that the Department of Agriculture had not revealed its case to the commission men, leaving them with no way of addressing the government's arguments. Wallace fumed that Hughes had implied that “the present Administration” was to blame for the procedures he followed, when in fact earlier, Republican administrations had established them. Besides, the procedures had already been revised in light of the Supreme Court's first decision in the case.

Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (adhd) holds the distinction of being both the most extensively studied pediatric mental disorder and one of the most controversial. This is partly due to the fact that it is also the most commonly diagnosed mental disorder among minors. Currently, almost 8 percent of youth from the ages of four to seventen have a diagnosis of ADHD, and slightly more than 4 percent both have the diagnosis and are taking medication for the disorder. In other words, on average one in every ten to fifteen children in the United States has been diagnosed with the disorder and one in every twenty to twenty-five uses a stimulant medication—often Ritalin, Adderall, or Concertaas treatment. The biggest increase in youth diagnosed with ADHD and prescribed a stimulant drug occurred during the early 1990s, when the prevalence of physician visits for stimulant pharmacotherapy increased fivefold. This unprecedented increase in U.S. children using psychotropic medication triggered an intense public debate.

If we have found we cannot be the world's policeman, can we hope to become the world's narc?

In the January 1968 issue of the Washingtonian magazine, the son of the great American novelist John Steinbeck made his professional journalistic debut with the publication of a controversial article, “The Importance of Being Stoned in Vietnam.” John Steinbeck IV, who served as a roving correspondent for the Pacific Stars and Stripes, wrote that marijuana of a potent quality was grown naturally in Vietnam, sold by farmers at a fraction of the cost than in the United States, and could be obtained “more easily than a package of Lucky Strikes cigarettes.” He estimated that up to 75 percent of soldiers in Vietnam got high regularly. “The average soldier sees that for all intents and purposes, the entire country is stoned,” Steinbeck observed. “To enforce a prohibition against smoking the plant [in Vietnam] would be like trying to prohibit the inhalation of smog in Los Angeles.”2

Judicial review may be the most publicly contested aspect of American constitutionalism. When courts void legislation, they implicitly seem to strike at the heart of the principle of separation of powers. The act inherently suggests that the elected legislature is not always the legitimate representative of the people and that democratic majoritarianism is not the fundamental principle of American politics. Because judicial review can be described in opposition to ideas often deemed fundamental to American constitutionalism, the origins of judicial review have intrigued scholars of politics, history, and law. For the last century, the origins inquiry has started from the assumption that the origins of judicial review lie in an idea, an intellectual doctrine about judicial power. In fact, the origins of judicial review lie in a pre-Revolutionary practice and idea of limited legislative authority.

On June 5, 1920, Congress established the Women's Bureau, charging it to “formulate standards and policies which shall promote the welfare of wage-earning women, improve their working conditions, increase their efficiency, and advance their opportunities for profitable employment.” Support for the bureau was such that the House passed the bill by a vote of 255 to 10, and the Senate passed it without a recorded vote, though the Monthly Labor Review noted that “there was some opposition.” During a decade when policymakers celebrated the fruits of economic abundance garnered with only the lightest touch from the state, bureau leaders and investigators saw gender research as a form of labor activism that would advance the cause of all workers. The bureau provided a unique site for discourse and deliberation concerning labor standards that did not exist in any other branch of the federal government. No other organization in the federal government thought harder about how policies could be constructed to protect workers, irrespective of gender, from the continued harsh reality of employment in American industry. Along the way, advocates of protective legislation for women sought not only to protect the particular interests of women workers, but also to drive a wedge through a post-Adkins understanding of the “right to contract” and to expand the number of issues that should be seen as affected with a public interest.

In 1953, Dwight D. Eisenhower entered the White House determined to reverse twenty years of federal policy toward electric utilities. His predecessors, Franklin D. Roosevelt and Harry S. Truman, had aggressively expanded public power, but Eisenhower considered this “creeping socialism,” and he intended to restrict it.

The story of American political development in the twentieth century is in no small part the story of administration. Administrative agencies, bureaus, and departments tasked with handling the work of the federal government had been a feature of governance since the early republic. With the creation of the Interstate Commerce Commission in 1887, however, administrative agencies and independent regulatory commissions began to proliferate across the federal landscape. By the end of the massive expansion of federal power that characterized the New Deal, Americans very much experienced government through their interactions with bureaucrats and with administrative boards. Individuals and businesses claimed benefits from the Railroad Retirement Board and Veterans Administration, defended themselves against claims of unfair competition before the Federal Trade Commission, requested permits from the Federal Alcohol Administration and the Federal Communications Commission, and sought to resolve labor disputes before the National Labor Relations Board.

In February 1936, a former federal government worker named Gussie E. Howell penned a letter to Grace Brewer, director of the Governmental Workers' Council (gwc) of the National Woman's Party (nwp). Howell, who lived in Texas, had apparently heard from colleagues about a questionnaire sent out by the nwp about the effects of Section 213 of the Economy Act of 1932 (“Section 213”). Howell said that while she had not seen the questionnaire, she wanted to describe the effect of Section 213 on her life.

Just after 8:00 in the morning on Tuesday, September 21, 1943, the singer and radio star Kate Smith addressed her national audience with a personal story that set the tone for the marathon bond drive she would conduct over the next eighteen hours. In her usual self-effacing manner, she began by recounting the words of a man whose speech at a recent bond rally in Utica, New York, held special meaning for her audience:

You know, friends, when we buy War Bonds, we're not buying tanks and guns and shells and planes. What we're really doing is buying our boys back … bringing them home to us, safe and sound once again. Now I know there isn't a person listening to me who wouldn't give everything he has to buy his boy back. … I'd give anything … all my money, or my health, or my own life … to buy my boy back from the War. But I'm afraid I can't do that now. You see, I got a telegram from Washington this morning. My boy isn't coming back.

Money, wrote Pennsylvanian Francis Rawle in 1725, is “the vital spirit and blood of the body politick.” Is not money, another pamphleteer contended, “the blood of life, which circulates from member to member, throughout the whole body of all living creatures?” It followed that the tokens acting as the medium of value could be anything, “whether it be pewter, silver, spelter, brass or paper, matters not which.” Americans in fact used provincial tax credit notes for money, along with other specie substitutes: “bills of credit” were issued to public creditors and could be employed by the holder or others to pay public obligations like taxes. They were “in value equal” to coin and, like coin, could be passed from hand to hand in the meantime. It was their circulating property—”the ready currency of the thing”—that controlled.

When the Bureau of Land Management (blm) was formed in 1946, the agency and the lands it managed had an ambiguous identity and future. Formed by President Truman through the merger of the General Land Office and the U.S. Grazing Service, the blm inherited the remaining 450 million acres of public-domain lands in the American West and Alaska, which I will refer to simply as “the public lands.” With those lands, the blm also inherited a set of property-rights regimes—that is, a set of property rights, privileges, and relationships that control land and resource access, withdrawal, management, exclusion, and alienation—that were strongly reflective of the nineteenth-century frontier era. They were marked by private initiative, self-regulation by public lands users, and common-law principles of prior use and appropriation. Indeed, public lands users often acted as if they held common-law rights to the public lands, claims that western congressmen defended through appropriations and oversight.

In the 1990s, policymakers at Yellowstone and Banff National Parks enacted two of the most controversial programs in the history of protected lands. At Yellowstone, the U.S. National Park Service (nps) and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (fws) personnel reintroduced wolves into the Yellowstone ecosystem. This program restored a crucial element to the park ecosystem that had been eliminated decades before and not returned since extermination. At Banff, federal authorities imposed strict limits to growth of the town of Banff. This action reversed a policy dating to the park's establishment in the late nineteenth century of allowing and encouraging growth and development of the town within Banff. How did these policy changes occur?

In January 1973, American Telephone & Telegraph, then the world's largest private-sector employer, entered into a Consent Decree with the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. In this decree, following a fourteen-month dispute before the Federal Communications Commission, at&t agreed to implement specific goals and timetables for hiring women in traditionally male jobs, men in traditionally female jobs, and minorities in jobs in which they had been traditionally underrepresented. at&t's adoption of affirmative action immediately preceded the routine application of affirmative action hiring and promotion policies in large, private-sector U.S. firms regardless of federal contractor status. Nonetheless, the importance of at&t's action remains misunderstood by critics and supporters of affirmative action alike.

Over the last fifteen years, legal historians have been exploring conceptualizations of the state and state capacity as phenomena of police. In this essay, I offer a genealogy of police in nineteenth-century American constitutional law. I examine relationships among several distinct strands of development: domestic regulatory law, notably the commerce power; the law of indigenous peoples and immigrants; and the law of territorial acquisition. I show that in state and federal juridical discourse, police expresses unrestricted and undefined powers of governance rooted in a discourse of sovereign inheritance and state necessity, culminating in the increasingly pointed claim that as a nation-state the United States possesses limitless capacity “to do all acts and things which independent states may of right do.”

Congressional enactment of the Enforcement Acts in 1870 and 1871 marked an unprecedented federalization of voting rights. The various election laws aimed to make real the promise of the recently enacted Fourteenth and Fifteenth amendments to the constitution. A complex duality characterized this new departure in the constitutional understanding of democratic suffrage. On one hand, Republican leadership looked to secure the rights of freedmen in the Reconstruction-era South. At the same time, from the outset, northern Republicans strategically worked to strengthen the party in all regions with a particular interest in urban America. From the immediate postwar years down to the early 1890s, congressional committees regularly investigated the problematic and deeply partisan politics of enforcement. Often, House and Senate investigators were more concerned with developments in northern cities than with the state of African American voting across the rural South. This urban story of the consequences of constitutional revision illuminates the often-obscured national dimensions of Reconstruction and its aftermath, while also alerting us to shifting visions of the vote across the final third of the nineteenth century. This essay explores this nationalization of Reconstruction in the wake of the Fifteenth Amendment's enactment by first documenting the central place of New York City in the emerging postbellum electoral regime and then expanding out from Manhattan to look at broader patterns of urban experience with enforcement.