Tag Archives: US History

The Oil Party of 1973

Gas rationing in Portland, Oregon, in December, 1973, as a response to the oil embargo.

Gas rationing in Portland, Oregon, in December, 1973, as a response to the oil embargo. Courtesy of the National Archives.

“For we have only just begun our confrontation with our imperial history, our imperial ethic, our imperial psychology. It is perhaps a bit too extreme, but if so only by a whisker, to say that imperialism has been the opiate of the American people.” -William Appleman Williams, 1980.

“Words like ‘monopoly,’ ‘cartel,’ and ‘block’ thereafter achieved a remarkably sudden if selective currency, although very rarely did anyone speak of the small group of American multinationals as a cartel, a designation reserved for the OPEC members.” -Edward Said, 1981.


On December 16, 1973, a few thousand Americans celebrated the 200th anniversary of the Boston Tea Party by filing onto an imitation eighteenth century shipping vessel called the Beaver II and dumping oil drum barrels into the Boston Harbor. Onboard the ship was an effigy of Richard Nixon in a crown with the names of oil companies written on it. This Boston Oil Party coincided with a city-wide celebration of the 1773 Tea Party, for which Bostonians reenacted the original tea-dumping protest with empty boxes, to avoid pollution, and hurried through their reenactment as demonstrators made their way to the ship chanting “Nixon, Exxon, ITT: Drive the tyrants in the seas!” (Hall 125).

An article on the event published a day later in the New York Times reports that from “a powerful loudspeaker operated by the People’s Bicentennial Commission, the organizers of the demonstration, on the fourth floor of a nearby warehouse, a voice asked: ‘How many people think he should be taken to the boat and hung?’ An enormous cheer broke out.” But only the effigy was hung as demonstrators began another call-and-response chant: “Down with King George, Down with King Richard!”

The People’s Bicentennial Commission, or PBC, was, as Simon Hall puts it, a group of disaffected “veterans of the of the civil rights, student, and antiwar movements” founded in late 1971 “with the goal of democratizing the US economy” (117). The Oil Party drew American leftists who were frustrated with the rhetoric of the New Left’s response to the Vietnam War, which was grounded in a critique of American imperialism. The BPC was instead self-consciously American, in ways that are confusingly familiar to those of us in the twenty-first century: They waved “Don’t Tread on Me” flags and protested unfairly taxed resources. While ideologically opposite from the Tea Party of the early Obama years, the BPC had basically the same idea decades earlier: to locate solutions to present problems squarely in the past.

The BPC’s founder, Ted Howard, wanted to identify in US history an American tradition of protest to critique what he saw as simply a sudden turn in the wrong direction. Their target was Richard Nixon, the oil companies, and the military-industrial complex that exercised imperialism, most recently in Chile by supporting an anti-democratic coup against the newly elected Salvador Allende.

Nixon’s foreign policy, though, was a resurgence of Eisenhower’s, who himself had clashed with protestors during the Great Depression. Eisenhower vowed to prevent communist influence in nonaligned nations, but not through direct military action. Unlike Truman, who invaded Korea, Eisenhower preferred to make cosmetic changes through CIA influence. As a tool, he utilized the CIA to train rightist protestors in Iran, Guatemala, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo whenever these countries tried to nationalize one or another resource for their own benefit, rather than the benefit of American businesses. Kennedy and Johnson returned to direct action in Vietnam, and in reaction to the war’s unpopularity, Nixon returned again to Eisenhower’s brand of covert influence.

In October of 1973, Arab nations in the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), decided to work together to combat this kind of imperialism by placing an embargo on the US, to protest American financial support for the Israeli occupation of Palestine. The result was a financial panic with national repercussions.

To express their outrage, the Oil Party drew a connection between Nixon and King George III, in part of a long, ongoing dialogue in which Americans see their present in someone else’s past. Recently, it has become popular to compare the US to empires in antiquity. Cullen Murphy’s 2007 book Are We Rome? is one example, and much more recently the far-right has drawn this comparison to support dictatorial leadership, going so far as to compare Senator Mitch McConnell to Julius Caesar. Likewise, Yale’s The Politic published an interview with Donald Kagan in 2011 in which Kagan compares America to the Athenian democracy.

The parallels between Athens and Rome are easy to make, but are hardly original. William Appleman Williams observes in Empire as a Way of Life that the Founders “knew the ideas, language, and reality of empire from their study of the classic literature about Greece and Rome. . . It became, indeed, synonymous with the realization of their Dream” (viii).

To be fair, Kagan also notes that the Founders studied the Athenian democracy, but he emphasizes that they wanted to craft a state that would be resilient to conflicts like the Peloponnesian War between Athens and neighboring Sparta, claiming that because “democracies are commercial republics. . . they require the approval of the population to wage war, and that checks them because the people may have contrary wishes.” His point here seems somewhat naive. Where was this “check” during American influence campaigns in Iran and Chile? Where was this “check” during drone strike campaigns in Pakistan and Libya?

But Athens may be a useful comparison. Like America during the Cold War, Athens controlled trade routes and islands with their powerful navy. In his account of the Peloponnesian War, the ancient historian Thucydides describes one episode in which the island of Melos wanted to be neutral, to the ire of Athens. This scene, known as the Melian Dialogue, is re-imagined hauntingly in the British film The War that Never Ends, with Michael Kitchen, Stephen Moore, and Oliver Ford Davies:

The Melian Dialogue is one of the most accurate summations of US foreign (and domestic) policy throughout the Cold War, although George W. Bush would provide a much simpler summation decades later: “Either you are with us or you are with the terrorists.” This strategy left no room for nonalignment, and those who tried for independence, like Melos, like Chile, Iran, and the OPEC nations, would find themselves ruined in the wake of American interventionism.

The Oil Party of 1973 was a reaction to the flaws of this policy, but failed to address the broader scope of it. OPEC’s protest had lasting consequences because it struck the heart of the empire: Wall Street. This is perhaps why the Oil Party faced no consequences for calling for the hanging of a sitting US president. The impact of their protest was short-lived and limited, seeing a temporary corrupt leader when the oil embargo should have prompted them to look inward at their own democracy.


Hall, Simon. “‘Guerilla Theater. . . in the Guise of Red, White, and Blue Bunting’: The People’s Bicentennial Commission and the Politics of (un)-Americanism.” Journal of American Studies, vol. 52 no. 1, 2018, pp. 114-136.

Said, Edward. Covering Islam. Vintage Books, 1997.

Williams, Appleman Williams. Empire as a Way of Life. Oxford University Press, 1980.

 

The Decade of Jekyll and Hyde

Department of Commerce and Labor Seal

Seal of the Department of Commerce and Labor, 1903-1913.

“True, this was the ‘Progressive Period,’ the start of the Age of Reform; but it was a reluctant reform, aimed at quieting the popular risings, not making fundamental changes.” -Howard Zinn, 1995.


In January of 1906, a man named Albert Horsley, known by his pseudonym Harry Orchard, was placed on death row for the assassination of former Idaho governor Frank Steunenberg. Horsley had planted a bomb in Caldwell, Idaho, that killed the former governor, and it was in the Caldwell prison where he awaited his trial. As governor, Steunenberg had repressed the 1899 Coeur d’Alene miners’ strike, and authorities believed his motive was revenge on behalf of labor.

However, an infamous Pinkerton detective named James McParland had Horsley moved to a prison in Boise with better conditions. Beginning January 22, McParland sat down with Horsley in private meetings, and by February 1, Horsley confessed to the assassination and then accused three of the nation’s most prominent labor leaders of orchestrating the assassination and giving him the orders. He named the “inner circle” of the Western Federation of Miners: Charles Moyer, William Haywood, and George Pettibone, the president, secretary-treasurer, and advisor respectively. Haywood had also been a founding member of the Industrial Workers of the World.

Though later acquitted, these three men were initially arrested and faced a highly publicized trial, through which Horsley would receive life in prison. The trial became so sensationalized that it sparked a minor scandal for President Theodore Roosevelt when a newspaper article in 1907 quoted Roosevelt in a private letter as referring to Haywood and Moyer as “undesirable citizens.”

The problem for Roosevelt was that he had spent much of his administration trying to bring labor and business together, and this quote publicly contradicted his commitment to both. Though Roosevelt later clarified that he did not mean they were guilty, his condemnation of two labor leaders on trial for a high-profile political assassination (after Roosevelt himself had become president following a similar political assassination, that of President McKinley) exposed the fault lines in his own efforts to support workers and capitalists alike.

A centerpiece of those efforts was the Department of Commerce and Labor, which Roosevelt created in 1903 as a response to growing unrest between workers and industrial capitalists at the turn of the century. During the 1890s, Howard Zinn notes there were “about a thousand strikes a year” (Zinn 331), and the strike that Steunenberg crushed was just one example of workers responding to brutal conditions and meager compensation. Lewis Gould observes that “precise figures for industrial accidents did not appear until the end of Roosevelt’s presidency, but estimates put work-related deaths at twenty thousand per year, and at least five hundred thousand other workers were injured or maimed” (Gould 35). Roosevelt’s solution, in addition to some trust-busting, was to create the Department of Commerce and Labor.

Though Roosevelt was far more willing to support workers than his predecessor, his policies were intended to be a centrist balancing act between labor and capital, a good faith attempt to see both sides of an inherently unequal battle.

The new department satisfied almost no one. Doris Kearns Goodwin writes that congress opposed the department’s Bureau of Corporations, which would have “substantial powers to investigate the internal operations of corporations engaged in interstate commerce” and would even have “authority to compel testimony, and to subpoena books, papers, and reports” of corporations (Goodwin 344). As such, businesses also adamantly opposed the Department for its power to investigate, for example, the conditions that led to the estimated twenty-thousand work-related deaths that took place in 1901.

But the Department was unpopular among several labor leaders as well. The American Federation of Labor advocated a separate Department of Labor to support workers without having to make any concessions to industrialists. The treasury-secretary of the AFL at the time, Frank Morrison, went so far as to say that “a man would have to be a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to meet the requirements of a Department of Commerce and Labor.”

But there was another factor motivating their opposition. Numerous unions wanted to restrict immigration because they saw it as a threat to their security. The Secretary of Commerce and Labor, Oscar Straus, favored immigration (Grossman 9), and industrialists preferred to have migrant labor because it was cheaper and, as is the case today, migrant workers often face difficulty joining unions whose paperwork is entirely in English. Many union leaders believed that an independent Department of Labor would be instrumental in limiting immigration.

A prime example was Samuel Gompers, then president of the AFL. Gompers was a talented organizer, but was openly hostile to Chinese immigrants in particular. Decades earlier, he had actively supported the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, and in 1902, he “reported to the [AFL], on the eve of the exclusion law’s expiration, that the Chinese were entirely at variance with Americans” (Mandel 187). Gompers did not hide his racism, and when the Department of Commerce and Labor was created, his opposition to it stemmed largely from his desire to lobby for similar exclusion laws through a department that would cater exclusively to groups like the AFL.

Gompers was not an outlier, but he was also not representative of the whole. Discussion of labor and capital inaccurately treat labor as a unified front in the early 1900s. Today, many on the left express nostalgia for the labor movement of the turn-of-the-century, and this misses a crucial point: labor was certainly growing in strength, but it was far from unified. As Zinn puts it, the Progressive era under Roosevelt and Taft “was a time of public investigations aimed at soothing protest” (Zinn 341). Strikes were many and localized, and national organizations like the AFL of Gompers, the WFM of Moyers, and the IWW of Haywood sought to organize, protect, and accentuate these local protests with their own individual goals in mind. Strikers carried many nineteenth century hostilities from the Populist Party and the anti-immigration Know Nothing Party, but many more strikers were also part of the left-leaning IWW or the Socialist Party. Labor, then, was an unhelpful umbrella term for a broad spectrum of movements.

By 1907, when Haywood, Moyers, Pettibone, and Horsley were on trial, the tension between labor and capital had only grown, and grew more complex. Union membership increased and union leaders began running for office. The AFL “reached a membership of 1,676,000 by 1905” (Gould 35), and by 1906 “successfully backed six union members for congress” and fifteen more in 1910 (Grossman 10) in a wave that gave Democrats, who had begun courting unions with calls to create a separate Department of Labor, control of the House. By 1912, they had enough influence to push Taft to create two separate departments for labor and commerce, which he did on his last day in office, March 4, 1913, ending Roosevelt’s ten-year fusion of the two. The very next day, President Woodrow Wilson appointed William B. Wilson, who “dropped out of school at the age of nine and then went to work for ten hours a day in a coal mine” (Grossman 11) as the first Secretary of Labor.

The tension between labor and commerce resulted in volatile shifts in the American political landscape in ways that have mostly been forgotten, overshadowed by the chaos of the First World War, which halted most of the progress of the Progressive era through efforts to crack down on unions and pacifists, like the Sedition Act of 1918.

The Department of Commerce and Labor demonstrated the limits of treating both labor and capital as equal in a system designed to favor capital. The trial of Haywood, Moyers, and Pettibone was a revelation, a unifying persecution narrative for that decade’s competing interests. After the trial, a small handful of labor leaders got what they wanted in dissolving Roosevelt’s initial department. But by siding with Wilson’s camp to dismantle the limited progress of Roosevelt, many labor leaders also sided with the man who would go on to dismantle what progress they had made on their own.


Goodwin, Doris Kearns. Bully Pulpit. Simon & Schuster, 2013.

Gould, Lewis. The Presidency of Theodore Roosevelt. University Press of Kansas, 1991.

Grossman, Johnathan. The Department of Labor. Praeger Publishers, inc., 1973.

Lukas, J. Anthony. Big Trouble. Simon & Schuster, 1997.

Mandel, Bernard. Samuel Gompers: A Biography. Antioch Press, 1963.

Zinn, Howard. A People’s History of the United States. Harper Perennial, 1995.

 

Giving to a Part the Strength of the Whole

The American High Commission 1871

American High Commission Negotiating a Treaty in Washington, with Hamilton Fish sitting in the middle.

“Though he did not get his way on Santo Domingo, Fish would shape the Monroe Doctrine more than any other American in the 1870s. A forgotten figure today, Fish was the longest-serving secretary of state in the nineteenth century. . . His foreign policy vision rested upon the pillars of rapprochement with Great Britain and ‘informal imperialism’ in America’s growing sphere of influence.” -Jay Sexton, 2011


In 1871, President Grant sent an investigative commission to Santo Domgino (what is now the Dominican Republic) to explore the possibility of annexing the country. The commission came two years after Grant proposed the idea to Congress as part of the post-Civil War Reconstruction effort, arguing that that annexing Santo Domingo could create a new state for freed slaves to inhabit, an idea that the assistant secretary of the commission, Frederick Douglass, also supported.

Grant and Douglass, in their respective memoirs, make similar defenses of their mutual support. In the end of his 1885 memoir, Grant writes that after the Civil War, African Americans “now should be considered as having as good a right to remain here as any other class of our citizens. It was looking to a settlement of this question that led me to urge the annexation of Santo Domingo” (761), and adds that at the time, the Dominican president Buenaventura Baez favored and even requested annexation.

Grant goes on to write that freed slaves “would go there in great numbers, so as to have independent states governed by their own race. They would still be States of the Union, and under the protection of the General Government; but the citizens would be almost wholly” of the same race. This passage is immediately followed by a long description of the development of the Western Frontier during Grant’s military and political tenure, and there is no textual transition between these two moments. To Grant, the Frontier and Santo Domingo were part and parcel.

Frederick Douglass echoes this sentiment almost point for point in his 1892 memoir. He emphasizes a similar claim that Baez wanted annexation and adds, “there was no more dishonor to Santo Domingo in making her a State of the American Union, than in making Kansas, Nebraska, or any other territory such a state. It was giving to a part the strength of the whole” (Douglass 409). Like Grant, Douglass believed that the creation of states specifically for freed African Americans would be a cause of Reconstruction, granting land and governance to a vulnerable population eager to leave the ruins of the hostile South.

Despite an initial treaty between Grant and Baez failing to pass through Congress, Grant organized an entourage for the commission. In addition to Douglass, there was the Radical Republican Senator B.F. Wade; the historian, diplomat, and co-founder of Cornell University A. D. White; the physician Samuel Howe; and a diplomat to Colombia, Allan A. Burton. Grant cherry-picked these scholars and activists largely for their Republican leanings.

Allan Nevins, in his 1937 900-page biography of Grant’s Secretary of State, Hamilton Fish, provides one of the most detailed assessments of the commission. Nevins writes that in addition to the above five main members, there were “geologists, mineralogists, and other scientists, [and] ten newspaper correspondents” onboard (497). He goes on to describe B. F. Wade as “a Manifest Destiny man” and write that Howe was “carried away by humanitarian zeal for the Caribbean” (498). Fish himself was a quiet imperialist who influenced decisions behind the scenes, favoring annexation as an extension of the early nineteenth century Monroe Doctrine to protect (meaning control) the Western Hemisphere.

All five members returned to the US favoring annexation. On page 35 of the report, they conclude that “the annexation of Santo Domgino to the United States would be hardly less beneficial to the [Haitian] than to the Dominican people. . . This would end the exhausting border warfare” between the two republics sharing the island, by essentially forcing a regime change in Santo Domingo. Douglass and and Burton then go on to offer their “full and complete concurrence with the statements made.” So it was that in 1871, five abolitionists all agreed that annexing and colonizing a Caribbean republic would bring peace and stability, law and order.

There is, however, another chain of events that preceded the commission. Nevins notes that “two Yankee rovers and speculators, William L. Cazneau and Joseph Warren Fabens” who had “been in Texas just before its annexation and had seen the handsome fortunes made there by land speculators” had, before the Civil War, attempted to form economic treaties with Santo Domingo (252). When the first treaties failed, Cazneau “purchased a plantation near Santo Domingo City” and was joined by Fabens in 1859 (253). They wrote directly to Hamilton Fish encouraging annexation, but the Civil War interrupted their plans. A decade later, when the issue came up again under Grant, their investments in Santo Domingo had grown. Though they were not direct members of the commission, they were in contact with a geologist onboard named William Gabb, who worked alongside Wade, the “Manifest Destiny man.”

An even more obscure text, Melvin Knight’s 1928 The Americans in Santo Domingo, is more explicit. Knight writes that “Fabens and Cazneau were all stockholders in the National Bank of Santo Domingo” along with an unknown list of other stakeholders, which was “never published in full, but it was publicly charged in the newspapers, without provoking libel suits, that high officials of the Dominican Government were included” (Knight 8). The 1871 commission, then, followed the gradual investment in Dominican land by American capitalists, who had direct contact with the scientists onboard the commission, who concurred with Grant’s entourage that annexing Santo Domingo would be simultaneously an extension of Manifest Destiny, a defense of the Monroe Doctrine, and a major contribution to Reconstruction.

But it was clear by 1870 that Grant’s plan would not pass Congress, and the report became a way to justify itself by offering scientific and geopolitical evaluations of a neighboring republic. An ideological split within the Republican party between radicals and moderates led to Grant rapidly losing allies, though Fish remained a staunch, pro-expansionist supporter. This division would stall much of the real progress made in Reconstruction, and would contribute to the abandonment of Reconstruction altogether in 1877 as a compromise between moderate Republicans and southern Democrats.

Though the commission was an act of empire-building, it should also be understood, from Douglass’s perspective, in the context of Reconstruction. At the time, the South was occupied by Union soldiers tasked with keeping the peace, which meant protecting freed slaves from reactionary Confederate violence. Douglass supported the expansion that he otherwise opposed in previous and later iterations (Mexico and Haiti respectively) because he, and many others, had essentially greeted Union soldiers as liberators. He fully supported Grant’s coalition of Radical Republicans, who applied a uniquely American capacity to sustain contradiction to Reconstruction: the South became a frontier, and empire became a force of liberation. Douglass was swept up in the possibilities that fused imperialism with abolitionism.

A handful of Americans stood to benefit from the annexation and occupation of a foreign territory, for neither the first nor the last time. But the commission also demonstrates the similarities between three narratives in American history: the colonization of the western frontier, the power of financiers, and the Monroe Doctrine. All three became entangled in the Reconstruction Era, and frontier logic, as boiled down to Manifest Destiny, became a diagnostic tool as much as the Monroe Doctrine, an immaterial policy with material consequences.


Douglass, Frederick. Life and Times of Frederick Douglass. Crowell-Collier Publishing Company, 1962.

Grant, Ulysses S. The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. Harvard University Press, 2017.

Knight, Melvin M. The Americans in Santo Domingo. Vanguard Press, 1928.

Nevins, Allan. Hamilton Fish. Dodd, Mead & Company, 1937.

Sexton, Jay. The Monroe Doctrine. Hill and Wang, 2011.

The Leviathan of Deseret

Brigham Young with Unknown Woman

Photo of Brigham Young with unknown wife, whose face was scratched out of the photo for unknown reasons.

“Almost from the beginning, in spite of Brigham Young’s determination to shake the dust of the United States from his feet and leave the mobocrats and Gentiles far behind, Mormon and Gentile were mixed in Salt Lake Valley. The wilderness to which the Saints fled betrayed them. One blow, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, put them back in the country they had fled from. Another, the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill, threw them squarely in the path of empire, and from that moment until the end of the century two ways of life clashed in the stronghold of the Saints.” -Wallace Stegner, 1942


On July 24, 1849, Mormons in Salt Lake City declared their independence on the two-year anniversary of the city’s founding. On that morning, the Saints celebrated with cannon fire and hymns. Women held banners reading “Hail to the Chieftain” as church president Brigham Young marched into the city. In addition to reciting the Declaration of Independence, Young raised a blue and white sixty-four-foot-long flag his wives had hastily crafted to inaugurate their new, independent state, which they called Deseret, meaning “honeybee” according to the Book of Mormon.

The short-lived State of Deseret encompassed modern-day Utah and Nevada, and parts of Arizona, New Mexico, and southern California, reaching to the coast so Deseret could have a seaport. But Brigham Young was not the only colonist in the newly annexed southwest territories.

Decades earlier, the military explorer Zebulon Pike lauded the region in northern Mexico for its abundance of resources, and his portrayal lasted in settler imagination. In the 1820s and 1830s, US settlers encroached upon northern Mexico, partly to expand Southern plantation economies into the west, despite the fact that the 1821 Mexican Constitution outlawed slavery. In 1836, a militant alliance of pro-slavery settlers established a rogue republic in northern Mexico, accomplishing what Aaron Burr had been accused of planning to do decades earlier. In 1837, the US formally recognized this Republic of Texas, and in 1846 decided to annex northern Mexico altogether, initiating the Mexican-American War.

Meanwhile, the 1848 Gold Rush motivated settler expansion even further west, but unlike in Texas, California’s territorial leaders opposed slavery, excluding it in their 1849 State Constitution. The US frontier was an ideological wilderness more than a literal one. In Congress, the decision to grant statehood to territories was almost entirely about the expansion of slavery, so the desert between Texas and California could tip the region’s political balance.

It was into this desert that Brigham Young led the Latter-Day Saints, fleeing the Midwest following the 1844 assassination of the religion’s founder, Joseph Smith. Under Young, the early Mormons colonized the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, which for them became an American Zion that, unlike Texas and California, the US did not move to recognize.

Deseret fused state and religion by absorbing the latter into the former. Dale Morgan argues that the Mormons “elaborated their ecclesiastical machinery into a political government; Brigham Young, president of the church, was governor; Herbert C. Kimball, first counselor, was chief justice of the Supreme Court” (34), such that political offices were filled exclusively by church leaders. Morgan makes careful note of how Deseret differed from other territorial governments. In Deseret, “except for the governor. . . no provision was made for remunerating officeholders. Officials served at their own expense” (34). In one moment, Young established a state in which he was simultaneously governor, church president, and the only public official who would be paid.

As such, Young was in a position to explain to his congregants on Sunday what was best for them, then on Monday wait for officeholders to draft laws reflecting what he suggested was best for them the previous day. Furthermore, the constitution was not democratically decided upon. Before the July 24 celebration, “Mormon leaders quickly wrote a state constitution [and] fabricated the results of a constitutional convention purportedly held the previous March” (Turner 197). The makeshift Constitution was dictated to, rather than ratified by, those who would celebrate it.

The State of Deseret became an apparatus of LDS leadership, rather than a separate entity. If the Saints acted as an ideologically interested party, then Deseret foreshadowed the party-state alliances that shaped so many twentieth century totalitarian governments.

The Church’s control was indeed far-reaching. In Deseret, land “might be privately held, but water and timber were held in common and allocated by church authorities. The church leadership ordained the founding of towns and farms” (Limerick 283). Deseret’s leadership rapidly and efficiently compartmentalized both land and people, creating something similar to the monarchical commonwealth that Thomas Hobbes describes in his political treatise Leviathan, in which citizens willingly rescind their rights to a single ruler with absolute authority over them for their own collective protection.

Or, at least, it was almost this way. Wallace Stegner suggests that Deseret’s Constitution was actually an appeal to bypass statehood procedures. Young did not want to be part of the US; he even stated that he was “prophet enough to prophesy the downfall of the Government” that had driven him out. The hastily drafted Constitution was a territorial performance for the federal government in the hopes that they would leave Deseret out of its debates over statehood and slavery. However, Deseret had always been engaged in this debate.

After Deseret disbanded, Young delivered a fiery speech in 1852 defending slavery not for economic reasons (plantations could not thrive in the desert), but to separate people on the basis of race. Mormons believed that Africans were the descendants of Cain, and had been cursed by God to a life of servitude. Race is foregrounded in Mormon doctrine. Believing they are God’s chosen people, early Mormons “imagined a chosen identity for themselves” linked directly to ancient Israel (Reeve 38-39). This doctrine of “believing blood” led Mormons to identify with a religious heritage, such that by 1860, “Brigham Young most fully enunciated an Anglo-Saxon-Israelite identity for the Saints” (Reeve 40). Had Deseret lasted, it would definitely have become a slave state for exclusively religious reasons, tipping the balance against the nation’s abolitionists.

Had Deseret lasted.

In the Compromise of 1850, California became a free state, Texas lost territorial New Mexico, and Deseret was shrunk to the Utah Territory. Brigham Young remained governor until 1858, when Utah almost started a civil war and he stepped down as another compromise. During the actual Civil War two years later, Young briefly recommenced the State of Deseret, believing the Union would dissolve in a divine apocalypse. Although this did not happen, the rigidity of Deseret’s laws, its fusion of state and religion, had a lasting influence over the west.

And yet, Brigham Young believed that he was destined by God to spread his family westward to the coast, ordered the extermination of Native Americans in the land he claimed, and built cities in the arid desert. He was the embodiment of Manifest Destiny, more than Texan ranchers or California’s gold miners, and as such, he demonstrated for the Union the violence inherent in westward expansion, the apocalyptic frenzy of its only logical conclusion. Maybe that’s why Utah was not granted statehood until nineteen years after Young’s death.


Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Penguin Books, 1976.

Limerick, Patricia Nelson. Legacy of Conquest. W. W. Norton & Company, 1987.

Morgan, J. Dale. The State of Deseret. Utah State University Press, 1987.

Reeve., W. Paul. Religion of a Different Color. Oxford University Press, 2015.

Stegner, Wallace. Mormon Country. Duell, Sloan & Pierce, 1942.

Turner, John G. Brigham Young. Harvard University Press, 2012.

Panic in the Era of Good Feelings

Stock Exchange

Trading at the New York Stock Exchange, 1889.

“The Constitution was essentially an economic document based upon the concept that the fundamental private rights of property are anterior to the government and morally beyond the reach of the popular majorities.” -Charles A. Beard, 1913

“Beard described his ideal world as ‘a workers’ republic’. . . He possessed a radical analysis; he proposed public alternatives to private property; what he lacked was a radical politics to implement his ideas. This was a task he left to others.” -Ellen Nore, 1983


In early 1817, a handful of stockbrokers in New York City, meeting on Wall Street, drafted the Constitution of the New York Stock and Exchange Board, adding amendments throughout the year. In US history, 1817 is also considered the beginning of the “Era of Good Feelings,” marked by growing nationalism and economic expansion under president Monroe and, to a lesser extent, his successor John Quincy Adams, who helped draft the Monroe Doctrine. The era of Jacksonian populism, often portrayed as a backlash to Monroe/Adams republicanism, immediately followed. Common to both eras were regularized economic “panics” in 1819, 1825, and 1837, the defining feature of a longer era of contentious economic expansion.

Initially, brokers in New York signed a contract in 1792 called the Buttonwood Agreement to manage war-related securities investments. After the War of 1812, brokers wanted a more complex contract. In 1817, two Buttonwood signers, Nathan Prime and John Benson, were elected president and secretary of the freshly consolidated Board, and helped establish a “tradition whereby brokers on the exchange had a more privileged position than outsiders who simply dealt with or for the public” (Geisst 15).

This specialized privilege is evident in the text of the 1817 Constitution, which includes an amendment deeming that “no member of this Board, nor any partner of a member, shall hereafter give the prices of any Stock, Exchange, or Specie to any Printer for Publication.” Brokers, then, incorporated a means of controlling the flow of information into their constitution.

Walter Werner and Steven Smith detail the extent to which brokers secluded their operations, writing that not only “did keeping membership exclusive maintain the price-fixing cartel, it also sustained the practice of charging outsiders higher commission rates” (Werner & Smith 29). Stockbrokers initially restricted financial information as another commodity. Information, both factual or rumored, was central to nineteenth century America, such that by 1832, newspapers “generated only 15 percent of the revenue of the post office but 95 percent of the weight transmitted by horse and stagecoach” (Lepler 14). But controlling information to make it easier to exploit outsiders was part of a larger trend in risky land investments related to western expansion.

Even the newly established national bank began participating in rampant land speculation, resulting in the Panic of 1819. George Dangerfield suggests in his 1952 text about the era that the 1819 panic marked a downward spiral, writing that when “the prosperity began to collapse, nationalism as a unifying principle faded with it; and sectionalism, or the maneuvers of different sets of social and economic arrangements, took its place” (175). The republic into which Prime and Benson brought their Stock Exchange was economically centralized and nationally unified. Power was concentrated among landowners (southern slave owners, western frontier colonists, and northern investors) whose elected representatives did nothing to regulate the banking system that corresponded to the landowners’ aggressive, often militaristic expansion. Dangerfield describes this as a land bubble that burst in 1819.

Reaction to the land bubble’s bursting resulted in hostility toward the national bank. Jackson rode this hostility into the White House in 1828, and after reelection “ordered all federal deposits withdrawn from the bank as a sign of his lack of support” (Geisst 19), as part of his supposedly populist agenda. The national bank closed, causing smaller banks to close, which in turn prompted widespread payment suspensions, sparking the Panic of 1837.

The use of the word panic was a popular indictment of political leadership. Jessica Lepler notes that in the Jacksonian era, Americans used the word panic because “it implied individual innocence. By turning to the term panic in May 1837, rather than revulsion, crash, or the times, American authors blamed their troubles on collective forces beyond the control of all but political elites” (4). Monroe and Adams let wealth stratify, but under Jackson, the next panic was worse.

What is clear is that the national bank and private investments were so inseparable that by the time Jackson leveled the former out of populist extremism, the latter was unable to sustain itself for much longer. The federal government was often criticized in the early nineteenth century for its “relations with wealthy merchants and bankers” and for allowing “the commercial class [to operate] without much government interference” (Geisst 21). This is often misconstrued as a conflict between government and private enterprise, but this interpretation misses an important point.

Here, Charles Beard’s 1913 An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States provides a useful framework for understanding that the US Constitution was written for the same reason stockbrokers wrote their own constitution on Wall Street. Hardt and Negri nod to Beard’s framework when they argue that constitutional republics were designed to protect private property first and foremost. They note that “Behind every formal constitution. . . lies a ‘material’ one” which, as Beard points out, foregrounds the economic interests of its drafters, including land, slavery, and securities (Hardt & Negri 10). The republic was created to protect its creators’ property rather than the general population. When it could not protect investors from their own rampant speculation, those investors blamed the republic rather than their own practices.

Jacksonian populism was not the antithesis to Monroe/Adams republicanism, but the transformation of it. Giovanni Arrighi notes in The Long Twentieth Century that by the 1790s, “civilians were mobilized to sustain indirectly, and often unknowingly, the war-making and state-making efforts of rulers” (50), leading to inter-state systems taking on the previous tasks of monarchs through “the democratization of nationalism” (52). Individual states took on the task of governance for the ideological reasons Beard examines, which led to nationalist cooperation to accumulate capital. State-making became a civilian matter, and those civilians reacted negatively to the Panics of 1819 and 1825 by directing their state-making capacity toward localized interests, what Dangerfield calls “sectionalism.” This is how the Era of Good Feelings became, rather than precipitated, Jacksonian populism.

Wall Street survived Jacksonian populism because it acted, from its inception, as a state in itself, no more responsible for national financial panics than any other individual state. The Commonwealth of Wall Street took on the same duties of state-building as New York or Virginia.

Ellen Nore states that Beard’s analysis is only a framework for understanding national problems, but she also hints that Beard’s analysis implicitly invites radical solutions. Beard indicts the Constitution as a financial agreement between brokers, such that panic is inherent in its logic. One way to escape such panic, at least, is to imagine life beyond the rigid logic dictated by the past.


Arrighi, Giovanni. The Long Twentieth Century. Verso, 1994.

Beard, Charles A. An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the U.S. Macmillan, 1925.

Dangerfield, George. The Era of Good Feelings. Harcourt, Brace & World, 1952.

Geisst, Charles R. Wall Street: A History. Oxford University Press, 2012.

Hardt, Michael, Antonio Negri. Commonwealth. Harvard University Press, 2011.

Lepler, Jessica M. The Many Panics of 1837. Cambridge University Press, 2013.

Nore, Ellen. Charles A. Beard: An Intellectual Biography. Southern Illinois University Press, 1983.

Werner, Walter, Stephen Smith. Wall Street. Columbia University Press, 1991.

Imagining the Frontier Before Drawing It

“Up to our own day, American history has been in a large degree the history of the colonization of the Great West.” -Frederick Jackson Turner, 1893

“Like many historians, Turner was interpreting the past in light of recent events. This presentism had great benefits and also great risks. History was bound to to go on. . . Turner himself moved on. In his later essays, he kept adding ‘more history’ as it accumulated. . .” -Patricia Nelson Limerick, 1987


On February 19, 1807, Vice President Aaron Burr was captured after escaping his earlier arrest when President Jefferson accused him of treason for his role in a conspiracy to colonize parts of Mexico. Seven days later, on February 26, Lieutenant Zebulon Pike and the members of his expedition into the Southwest (which Jefferson ordered) were captured by Spanish authorities and taken to Chihuahua, then under Spanish control. He used the opportunity to analyze New Spain’s weaknesses for the possibility that the US would try to colonize parts of Mexico. The American Frontier, as Turner insists in his “Frontier Thesis,” shaped American historiography, but in 1807, what became the frontier was a highly militarized border zone.

The Pike Expedition began the year Lewis and Clark returned from their own expedition to the Northwest. Exploring modern-day Colorado, Pike lost members to abandonment or bad weather while wandering across the porous border into Mexico.

In his journals, Pike kept careful account of what he encountered, gathering information about local governments and geography. On their way to Chihuahua, Pike notes on March 27 that he “saw the Gazettes of Mexico, which gave rumors of colonel Burr’s conspiracies, the movement of our troops. . . stated in so vague and undefined a manner, as only to create our anxiety without throwing any light on the subject” (Pike, Journals, 240). He later notes on April 24 that he was reprimanded for discussing “subjects of religion or politics” but that he was held as a guest “under coercion of the Spanish government” and not as a prisoner of war. Pike then writes that he patriotically declared to Spanish authorities (over dinner with them): “To my government I am certainly responsible, and to no other” (246).

Because he was so dedicated to his government, Pike ended his 1810 account of his expedition by offering one final conclusion about US-Mexico relations:

Should an army of Americans ever march into the country, and be guided and governed there by these maxims, they will only have to march from province to province in triumph, and be hailed by the united voices of grateful millions as their deliverers and saviors” (Pike, Expedition, 806). As Vice President Dick Cheney put it two centuries later, “we will, in fact, be greeted as liberators.” This is how the US framed the frontier at the beginning of the nineteenth century: as a foreign nation in need of democracy and order.

Spanish colonial officers were suspicious of Pike’s discussions of politics with the locals because they feared that the US, which had separated from the English crown, would inspire Mexico to separate from the Spanish crown, as independence became increasingly popular in the region. Coupled with vague rumors that rogue US politicians planned to conquer sections of North America for themselves, the Spanish authorities had good reason to be suspicious. In 1810, independence movements spiraled into nationalist protests and a bloody war, forcing Spain to grant Mexican independence in 1821. Years later, the US would follow Pike’s advice and invade Texas and northern Mexico in the Mexican-American War of 1846. Unlike Pike predicted, though, the US military was not greeted as liberators.

Meanwhile, Aaron Burr and his compatriots were punished for trying to instigate exactly what Pike recommended. Jefferson’s exertion of control over who could, and who could not, conquer parts of New Spain demonstrates his role in creating the concept of the “American frontier” as a strategic borderland, rather than a raw, untamed wilderness.

New Western historian Patricia Nelson Limerick notes that the “opening of the Mexican borderlands to American colonists and merchants made the region into what it remains today: a true frontier, in the European sense, in which two nations confront each other and compete for control” (228). She goes on to detail Burr’s plot, alongside General James Wilkinson, to colonize parts of the continent and create a new nation using the available resources, admitting that when “Zebulon Pike set out to explore the headwaters of the Arkansas River in 1806, he might have been acting as Wilkinson’s agent” (229).

Intelligence about the borders of New Spain, then, became part of the ideological basis for the American frontier. The distance between Arkansas and Chihuahua was labeled the frontier because it was a borderland rather than a boundary, like the no-man’s land between trenches on the Western Front in World War One. Turner’s “Frontier Thesis” says more about how Americans viewed themselves in the 1890s than in the 1810s. The frontier was framed as contested territory. By the time Turner delivered his thesis, there was no longer a contest in federal or popular imagination.

But the frontier was also about quantification. First, the US had to map, measure, and count everything available in the frontier space, to determine where the gold, silver, copper, fur, timber, coal, and indigenous communities could be found, and where they could be removed to. Knowledge of the land preceded the frontier, rather than the other way around. This is the way American contradiction manifests in the frontier thesis: Americans wanted to discover land that had already been discovered, to be given access to the land they were told to imagine. A blank map could not be tolerated. It had to be filled out.


Limerick, Patricia Nelson. Legacy of Conquest. W. W. Norton & Company, 1987.

Pike, Zebulon. The Expeditions of Zebulon Montgomery Pike. Harper, 1895.

Pike, Zebulon. The Southwestern Journals of Zebulon Pike, Ed. Stephen Hart & Archer Hulbert. University of New Mexico Press, 2006.

Turner, Frederick Jackson. “The Significance of the Frontier in American History.” In The Early Writings of Frederick Jackson Turner, Ed. Everett E. Edwards, University of Wisconsin Press, 1938.

The 1796 Treaty of Peace and Friendship

By Gardner Weld Allen (1856-1944) - Our Navy and the Barbary_Corsairs_1904

Decatur’s Squadron Off Algiers, by Gardner Allen Weld, 1905.

On June 7, 1797, the US Senate ratified a treaty with Tripoli, which President John Adams signed into law three days later. This Treaty of Peace and Friendship of 1796 was one of four maritime agreement between the infantile United States and the Maghrib States (Tripoli, Algiers, Morocco, and Tunis), known in the west as the Barbary Coast. These treaties were meant to protect American ships in the Mediterranean from pirates operating in the region.

The treaties soon failed, largely because of the toll of payments owed to the Maghrib States and the pirates’ continued ransoming of American sailors. President Adams opted to pay the ransoms and tributes, but his slave-owning Southern successor Thomas Jefferson refused to pay the North African states, sparking a war during the first year of Jefferson’s presidency, the first of two conflicts known as the Barbary Wars.

Late during the Obama Administration, several commentators on both the left and right compared Obama’s foreign policies to the Barbary Wars. An article in The Atlantic called US involvement in the 2011 Libyan Civil War “The Third Barbary War.” Others compared the Barbary pirates to ISIS, while those on the far right erroneously claimed that Jefferson went to war with Islamic terrorists.

Both camps miss the point: as usual, those on the right conflate terrorists with literally every other state-with-Muslims-in-it in history, while liberal commentators misrepresent Barbary piracy as comparable to religious terrorism. Historian Max Boot notes that both the US and Britain utilized piracy in the same ways, noting that “the corsairs of North Africa were no more–and no less–piratical than Sir Francis Drake or Sir John Hawkins. . . both of whom operated as privateers” and that “the US government was so attached to this practice that it refused to sign the 1856 Declaration of Paris outlawing privateering as a weapon of war” (8).

Furthermore, twenty-first century US Middle-Eastern policy differs ideologically from Jefferson’s. Edward Said points out that in the US, unlike Britain and France during this period, “there was no deeply invested tradition of Orientalism. . . the imaginative investment [in the Orient] was never made either, perhaps because the American frontier, the one that counted, was the westward one” (290). The US was interested in controlling the narrative, and therefore the economic value, of the American West (e.g. the Louisiana Purchase) rather than North Africa, which is perhaps the opposite of the Bush/Obama/Trump era.

While the Barbary Wars are easy to exploit for ideological op-eds, the pre-war treaties are more instructive. Specifically, the 1796 Treaty demonstrates that the early US conceptualized itself on equal footing with other seafaring powers, and was willing to alter the national identity it presented to that end.

Consisting of twelve articles, the 1796 Treaty proclaims first that there “is a firm and perpetual Peace and friendship between the United States of America and the Bey and subjects of Tripoli of Barbary” (Article I) and that the two states should avoid naval conflicts with one another. As such, the Treaty states that trade “is on the same footing with those of the most favoured nations respectively (Article IX).

Article XI is now controversial for its implications, and is worth quoting at length: “As the government of the United States of America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion,-as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion or tranquility of [Muslims],-and as the said States never have entered into any war or act of hostility against any [Islamic] nation, it is declared by the parties that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries.”

Here, the US emphasizes at length that it does not have a bias against the Maghrib States on religious grounds. Yet Article XI is still out-of-place. In a strictly economic treaty, the US stresses religious difference, or its indifference to religion. Despite Article XI’s clear message, there is overwhelming evidence of a legalized bias against non-Christians after Independence. Gaustad and Schmidt write that “Delaware’s 1776 constitution required all public officials to swear their belief ‘in God the Father, in Jesus Christ His only Son, and in the Holy Ghost.’. . Pennsylvania in 1790 vowed to deny state offices to any atheist as well as to anyone who did not believe in ‘a future state of awards and punishments.’ Only Protestants could be elected in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New Jersey, South Carolina, and Georgia–according to their constitutions” (131).

And yet, in the 1796 Treaty, the US publicly reshaped its cultural identity in order to make the treaty more appealing. American culture warriors insist that national identity is non-negotiable, but Article XI contradicts this at an international level. In contrast, the US crafted its national identity as an open slate, not just for states but as a union. From the beginning, malleability was intentional, not a growing list of exceptions to the rule. Malleability was the whole point of America.

I want to argue here that the US had a global consciousness from its inception, and not just when it entered World War One. Instead, it built its global consciousness on the trading and military strategies of Britain and France, as well as its own perception of itself as a frontier space, as a blank chalkboard upon which its leaders could draw and erase American identity.  Like the imagined Frontier, America was made to sustain multiple contradictions in what it was. A savage but easily conquered wilderness, a piratical state against piracy, not built on Christianity but where only Christians can be elected.

The land-owning businessmen who created America self-consciously crafted a flexible state that was easy to change as needed. The problem is that the mechanisms of change, of political dynamics, are still in the hands of economic elites.

The Barbary Treaties demonstrate a deliberate American flexibility, an exchange of identity for financial expansion. If this flexibility is more openly acknowledged, even utilized–if we finally recognized America’s founding blankness–then more people might be able to survive and even thrive in America. Until then, the nation is a chalkboard ruled by people who only know how to use the erasers.


Boot, Max. The Savage Wars of Peace. Basic Books, 2002.

Gaustad, Edward S. & Leigh E. Schmidt. The Religious History of America. Harper Collins, 2002.

Said, Edward. Orientalism. Vintage Books, 1994.