We seek to explain how states govern big cities. Political scientists' accounts of urban politics either fail to treat the state systematically or place state hostility at the center of such an account. Accounts by historians, by contrast, offer tools political scientists can use to theorize urban politics in the state arena. We use those tools, and we find that cities can manage the legislative process. This power starts with bill introduction and carries through to the vote on the floor. This ability results from a central feature of American state politics: on bills about big cities, state legislators now and in the past find their primary voting cues in the unity of local delegations. The city delegation, then, has tremendous power to manage the state's involvement in city affairs. In many respects, ours is an account of a special kind of divided government, with two institutional arenas where urban government is carried out.

The aim of this research note is to begin to develop the idea that trade unions are historically constructed as much through considerations of social identity as they are through calculations of economic self-interest, market power, or functional adaptation in the face of changes in the division of labor. By social identity, I mean the desire for group distinction, dignity, and place within historically specific discourses (or frames of understanding) about the character, structure, and boundaries of the polity and the economy. Institutions such as trade unions, in other words, are constituted through and by particular understandings of the structure of the social and political worlds of which they are part. In making this argument, it should be immediately said that I in no way intend to claim that trade unions are only to be understood through the lens of identity or that they do not engage in strategic calculation either in labor markets or in the broader political economy. The point is that action along the latter lines presupposes some kind of commitment on, and even resolution of, issues concerning the former. The discussion below focuses on the emergence of trade union movements in the United States and Germany during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It Attempts first to develope the two cases as constituting a paradox and then, second, explains the paradox with an argument about identity.

A constitution is a set of rules written by current political actors designed to bind future political actors. As fundamental law, it stipulates basic rights and duties, defines collective goals, establishes institutions and procedures, and makes claims regarding both identity and allegiance. In their effort to control the future, constitutional founders usually include special provisions regarding change. Alterations to the fundamental law are more difficult to accomplish than alterations to more ordinary laws. Founders often require super-majorities, even special, repetitive, or con-current super-majorities, as a condition for amendment. In this sense, even democratic constitutions impose conscious constraints on the exercise of democratic will. The intention is to limit the pace of adaptation and also to bias the pattern of outcomes.

In this essay I argue that in the Gilded Age (the last quarter of the nineteenth century), delegates to constitutional conventions in the western territories designed state governments to manage, as best they could, the development of their economies. They were, and understood themselves to be, citizens of the periphery of the United States. Delegates to the conventions hoped to shield their states from the worst possible outcomes of that peripheral relationship, and foster the best ones. My arguments contribute to our understanding of state constitutions and, more broadly, to central concerns of American political development—regionalism, labor law, and state building.

“The first Tuesday after the first Monday in November”—by this simple rule, Americans organize 435 congressional election contests into one simultaneous collective event. Many—including not a few political scientists—treat this scheduling requirement as though it were an enduring feature of American political history, perhaps even one of the Framers' constitutional stipulations. In fact, the historical pattern is richer and more variegated. For much of the country's first hundred years, diversity, not uniformity, was a defining feature of the congressional election schedule. The non-synchronous character of this first American scheduling regime manifested itself in two especially critical ways. First, non-synchronicity within states separated congressional and presidential elections in time, creating a host of problems for political parties, from the challenges of multiple mobilization efforts, to the difficulties of ensuring a unified party vote across federal elections that could be separated by several months. Second, non-synchronicity across states in congressional elections meant that legislative races unfolded sequentially over time, exposing these predominantly local contests to distinctive interstate contagions—not unlike contemporary presidential primaries—with unexpected partisan showings in early state races helping to shape outcomes in subsequent state contests.

A federal role in funding and constructing internal improvements – building roads, canals, and railroads, river and harbor projects, and erecting lighthouses and other aids to navigation – was one of the most persistent and contentious issues of antebellum American politics. Elites based in the various regional economies of the American coastal plain shared an interest in developing the transportation infrastructure of the country: They were isolated from one another by poor inland transportation links and the legacy of colonial trading patterns; furthermore, they were separated from the interior by formidable geographic obstacles. Many Americans also shared the belief that increased interregional communications would strengthen the fragile union by fostering shared economic interests. The case for federally funded internal improvements was thus strong – the program could serve both local and national economic interests as well as a critical nation-building role. Further, promoters made a convincing case that only the federal government could effect the desired projects – the federal budget typically operated in surplus while the states lacked adequate resources, and the states faced difficult coordination problems best solved through national political institutions (see, for example, Albert Gallatin's 1808 plan). Despite all of this, a significant and sustained federal internal improvements program was not achieved, although appropriations did increase long enough for us to identify a short-lived “era of internal improvements” extending from about 1825 to 1837 (18th through 25th Congress). In short, the study of internal improvements is a study of political failure, which we can define as the prolonged failure of a majority to establish its favored policy.

In the decade following the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a spate of significant advancements in civil rights provided new hope and opportunity for African Americans. On December 5, 1946, in an unprecedented move, President Harry Truman created a civil rights committee “to study and report on the problem of federally secured civil rights, with a view to making recommendations to Congress.” In little less than a year, the committee drafted and submitted a report more sweeping than Truman had likely expected. Entitled To Secure These Rights, the report called for no less than an outright “elimination of segregation, based on race, color, creed, or national origin, from American life.” To achieve this goal, the committee stressed that the federal government would have to assume much greater responsibility in the protection of civil rights. It recommended both an ever more vigilant Justice Department and the enactment of comprehensive national legislation. On February 2, 1948, the president called on the Congress to endorse his ten-point civil rights program in order to “correct the remaining imperfections in our practice of democracy.”Truman's 1947 State of the Union address, January 6, 1947, Public Papers of the Presidents: Harry S. Truman, 1947 (Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office, 1962), 9; The President's Committee on Civil Rights, (PCCR) To Secure These Rights (New York: Simon and Schuster, October 26, 1947), 166; Truman's Special Message to the Congress on Civil Rights, February 2, 1948, Public Papers of the Presidents: Harry S. Truman, 1948 (Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office, 1964), 126. On July 26, 1948, acting alone, Truman issued two executive orders; one designed to end racial discrimination in federal employment, the other barring segregation in the armed forces.

Antitrust law in the United States—framed in the Sherman, Clayton, and Federal Trade Commission (FTC) acts and their subsequent amendments—establishes a policy toward industrial concentration and business practices that sets the United States apart from other industrial democracies. In Europe and Japan, large-scale industry has been perceived as a national and international asset and, while particular abuses may be condemned at the government's discretion, emotional antibigness rhetoric and statutory prohibition of monopolistic practices are largely absent.

This article examines the historical significance of Barack Obama's creation of “OFA,” a presidential grassroots organization. It attempts, as Theda Skocpol has put it, to analyze American political development “as it happens.” Born as “Obama for America” during the 2008 campaign, OFA was renamed “Organizing for America” and ensconced in the Democratic National Committee during Obama's first term, where it served as the “grassroots arm” of the party. After 2012, it was spun off as a nonprofit social-welfare entity called “Organizing for Action” dedicated to advocating for Obama's second-term objectives: immigration reform, efforts to fight climate change, gun safety legislation, LGBT rights, and the implementation of health reform in the face of continuing intense opposition. That OFA was kept intact after Obama's successful election and reelection efforts marks it as an especially pioneering effort. Making use of several personal interviews, a wealth of primary documents, and data on spending and mobilization tactics, we explain how Obama's paradigm-shifting organization marked an effort to meet the challenges of forging a new progressive coalition in a fractious polity. More broadly, the article considers how this digital age grassroots effort has been influenced by, and in turn has contributed to the advance of an executive-centered partisanship characterized by high expectations for presidential leadership in a context of widespread dissatisfaction with government, strong and intensifying political polarization, and high-stakes battles over the basic direction of domestic and foreign policy programs.

“We must reckon first with the fact that Americans take for granted their right to do on their own property anything they please regardless of their neighbors,” Edward Bassett told his compatriots in the New York City zoning movement in 1913.Appended Report, Zoning and Districting, Minutes of the Heights of Buildings Commission, June 9, 1913, Heights of Buildings Commission, New York City Municipal Archives, Box 2507. Bassett, who has come to be known as the father of zoning, captured the thoughts of many planning advocates when he criticized the legal system for giving real estate owners almost total control over the use of their property. American cities would remain ugly, disorderly, and inefficient, Bassett and other aspiring planners feared, because the law did not adequately permit municipal authorities to regulate the use of private property.

Prior analyses of congressional action on the issue of black civil rights have typically examined either of the two major Reconstructions. Our paper attempts to fill the large five-decade black box between the end of the First Reconstruction and the beginning of the Second, routinely skipped over in scholarship on Congress, parties, and racial politics. Using a variety of sources—bill-introduction data, statements by members in the Congressional Record, roll-call votes, and newspaper reports, among others—we challenge the common assumption that civil rights largely disappeared from the congressional agenda between 1891 and 1940, documenting instead the continued contestation over racial issues in Congress. By examining several failed anti-lynching initiatives, this article uncovers a largely untold story about how and when the Republican and Democratic Parties reorganized around race, finding that the realignment began earlier than is commonly understood.

Adam Sheingate has made an important contribution to the literature on political entrepreneurship. He takes a concept that has been widely but casually employed by political scientists studying institutions and policies and sets out to supply that concept with clarity and content. Appropriating the concept for historical institutionalism, he connects the role of the political entrepreneur to the processes of institutional change, posing a powerful challenge to the familiar view of institutions in equilibrium. Especially important for readers of this journal, he expands upon previous uses of the concept by arguing that it offers a new vantage point on American political development, with political entrepreneurs posited to be critical sources of endogenous change.

The struggle for Native American voting rights has lasted more than two centuries. Although the 1924 Indian Citizenship Act granted citizenship to indigenous peoples born within the geographic boundaries of the United States, it did not ensure the right to vote. Because the Constitution gives states the power to determine the “times, places, and manner of holding elections,” many states statutorily denied Native Americans the franchise until federal lawsuits forced them to change. Having the statutory right to vote, however, did not ensure that it could be exercised in a meaningful way. Since the passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act there have been more than ninety voting rights cases involving Native Americans. While the overall historical trend has been toward extending the vote, periods of enhanced voting rights often have been followed by periods of retrenchment. In this article, we argue that the traditional frameworks used to explain racial inequalities fail to account for the unique character of relations between indigenous peoples and the U.S. government, and we propose a tripartite approach that draws from studies in core–periphery development and “racial institutional orders,” but also considers the many ways that tribal identities intersect with these.

In the 1950s, the Sierra Club emerged as a leader of the nascent environmental movement. In challenging a proposal to build two dams within the boundaries of Dinosaur National Monument, the Club found its voice as a public advocate for the preservation of wilderness and in the process introduced a new type of politics to old conflicts over conservation. Born out of the Dinosaur dam conflict was a new environmentalism characterized by confrontation with state authorities and emotion-laden appeals to the public for political support. The Sierra Club's success in pioneering these strategies launched it to the forefront of the new movement, elevated its executive director David Brower to icon status among environmentalists, and affirmed the philosophy of Aldo Leopold as the moral compass of the movement. In this essay, I argue that interest group entrepreneurs ought to be considered alongside institutional actors as agents of change within processes of political development. As the case of the Sierra Club demonstrates, the internal organizational politics of a group can be just as important in establishing a trajectory of political development as are processes of policy feedback.

Conventional wisdom maintains that the enduring structures of American politics make rapid policy change unlikely. This proposition is confirmed by much political science. Our institutions are designed to bridle and domesticate reform impulses, dissipating the constant pressures for new political and social arrangements. The separation of powers establishes numerous veto points, making initiatives of any kind difficult. The political culture's firm commitment to broad participation and due process places a much higher value on consultation than on decisiveness or direction. Special interests tolerate only incremental changes. The major parties clothe themselves in the familiar as they move toward the political center and its embrace of the status quo. New ideas are of only marginal importance; their transformative power is routinely blunted by one of America's oldest ideas, pragmatism. Stability, not innovation, is the master theme of our politics.

While scholars have illuminated the effects of mass incarceration, the origins of the criminal justice policies that produced these outcomes remain unclear. Many explanations obscure as much as they reveal—in great measure because they either ignore or minimize the consequences of crime. Emphasizing the exploitation of white fears, the construction of black criminality, or the political strategies of Republican political elites, prevailing theories ignore black crime victims. In order to excavate the historical roots of the modern carceral state, this study traces the development of New York State's Rockefeller drug laws. Rather than beginning in Albany, this history focuses on Harlem, a community hit hardest by rising crime rates and drug addiction. Drawing upon a variety of primary sources, this study traces how African American activists framed and negotiated the incipient drug problem in their neighborhoods and interrogates the policy prescriptions they attached to indigenously constructed frames. It describes how middle-class African Americans facing the material threats of crime and crime-related problems drew upon the moral content of indigenous class categories to understand these threats and develop policy prescriptions. It reveals how the black middle class shaped the development of this punitive policy and played a crucial role in the development of mass incarceration.

The making of the Reed Rules – the source of today's U.S. House procedure – has often been studied, yet no one has previously noticed the extent to which they originated in a today forgotten Republican plan to federally regulate Southern House elections. This article shows how and why the Reed Rules and federal election regulation became fused in the 51st Congress. Republican members of the House not only had preferences over the internal governance of the House; they also simultaneously had preferences over the structure of the party system. In following this article's analysis of the linkage between the Reed Rules and the strategy of party conflict in the Gilded Age one comes to better appreciate the role of party building as a source of congressional development.

This article reconsiders early American state capacity through a close examination of the U.S. Army Corps of Topographical Engineers. The topographical corps, a bureau in the antebellum War Department, developed a form of conditional bureaucratic autonomy far earlier than recognized in previous scholarship, giving it a central role in shaping national economic development policies, especially in the nation's periphery. Unlike robust bureaucratic autonomy, such as that described by Daniel Carpenter (2001, 2010; see footnote 4), conditional autonomy is highly contingent and can quickly fracture if the surrounding environment changes. The long-serving chief of the corps, Col. John J. Abert, shaped the opinions of his supposed principals by managing the ideas, information, and proposals directed to them. When faced with challenges, the corps proved to be a flexible organization that adapted its methods to accomplish its preferred ultimate goals using different instruments. In the end, however, the corps' autonomy was threatened when it became involved in the sectional politics surrounding the potential building of a transcontinental railroad line. Once the corps lost several of the conditions supporting its autonomy, its downfall was swift. This article thus joins a recent wave of scholarship highlighting strengths within the early American state by foregrounding the role of the armed forces in statebuilding.

When Alexis de Tocqueville toured America in the 1830s, he found Washington occupying a lowly position in the political life of the country. In a footnote, Democracy in America informs the European reader, “America has no great capital city where direct or indirect influence is felt over the whole extent of the country.” Throughout the book, he expands on the effects of this decentralization. And we may fairly suspect that as much as any other, this observation led de Tocqueville to concentrate his inquiry on the performance of democracy in communities across the country.

Why do most African Americans and other racial liberals vote Democratic, whereas most racial conservatives—largely whites—vote Republican? To what extent is this alignment of race and party attributable to the strategic choice of GOP elites to take the party in a racially conservative direction during the mid-1960s? This paper exploits a little-known ballot initiative in postwar California to shed light on the question. Proposition 11, as it was known, would have outlawed discrimination in employment if it had passed. Instead, it failed by more than a two-to-one margin. Drawing on archival and statistical evidence, including the ecological analysis of precinct-level election returns, we find that Republican voters were much more likely than Democratic voters to oppose Proposition 11, despite Republican Governor Earl Warren's well-known support for fair employment practices (FEP) legislation. We conclude that many Republican voters tended strongly toward racial conservatism well before Republican elites decided to pursue racially conservative policies in the mid-1960s. We suggest that the emergence of the contemporary alignment of race and party may have been less contingent on elite strategy and more structurally determined than the conventional wisdom allows.