In this article, we will probe two distinct historical questions. First, we explore why congressional representatives from the South, who had generally supported the Democratic Party on labor issues during the 1930s, joined with Republicans to oppose the party's pro-labor orientation in the 1940s. We also examine why the class-based union movement that mobilized so assertively after the passage of the Wagner Act in 1935 became so cramped and pragmatic by the early 1950s. These puzzles, we believe, are closely related. Our explanation for why labor's horizons, topography, and prospects constricted to workplace issues, to some segments of the working population, and to limited geographic areas by the end of the Truman years points to how southern Democrats shaped the main institutions produced by New Deal and Fair Deal labor legislation.

The education and training benefits of the G.I. Bill of Rights are renowned for their redistributive effects among nonblack veterans, but their consequences for black veterans remain in question. Among non-blacks, the provisions are known to have expanded access to education across class lines, and to have generated positive socioeconomic consequences. They also fostered greater postwar involvement in civic associations and political activities, particularly among less advantaged beneficiaries. Given the widely perceived view that the G.I. Bill represents a landmark social program, it is imperative to investigate whether access to its social and economic benefits transcended the rigid color line of the postwar era. As well, consideration of how the education and training benefits affected African-American veterans' political participation may deepen our understanding of the relationship between governance and civic engagement.

While the Founding Fathers included a number of checks and balances in the U.S. Constitution as a way of dispersing power across the various branches of the federal government, they made no such allowance regarding the internal makeup of Congress. Specifically, Article I, Section 5, Clause 1 of the Constitution states that “Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections, Returns, and Qualifications of its own Members. . . .” This clause, in effect, provides each chamber of Congress with the exclusive authority to determine how its membership will be comprised. Thus, when an election is contested, that is, when a dispute arises regarding who is the rightful occupant of a seat after all votes have been counted and a winner announced, the given chamber operates as the sole arbiter, insulated completely from Executive and Judicial pressures or constraints.

In February 1937, members of the United Automobile Workers (UAW) celebrated their pioneering victory over General Motors by waving American flags as they marched out of Fisher Body and paraded through the streets of Flint, Michigan. Later that year, as the UAW turned to organizing Ford's massive River Rouge plant, the Ford edition of the United Automobile Worker described the complex as a foreign country and called on workers to “win this for America” and “win the war for democracy in River Rouge!” When a successful strike finally led to union recognition and an NLRB election in 1941, the UAW urged Rouge workers to “keep faith with America” and its greatest leaders, Washington, Lincoln, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, by voting for the inclusive unionism of the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) over the un-American alternative of the American Federation of Labor (AFL).

Charles Williams's essay on the nature of progressive Americanism takes me back to where my quest to understand this phenomenon began: the labor movement of the 1930s. The broad nature and intensity of working-class rebellion and mobilization during the Depression decade once led the historian Irving Bernstein to label this period, the “Turbulent Years.” I was part of a group of self-described “new labor historians” that set out to penetrate the mysteries of this movement and especially the consciousness of the workers who participated in it. Most of us undertook community or single industry studies, out of the conviction that the kind of in-depth investigations that such focused work allowed would yield fully realized portraits of working-class insurgencies and of the workplaces and communities out of which they emerged. I chose to explore a New England textile city while others opted to work on transit workers in New York City, dockworkers in West Coast port cities, electrical workers in Pittsburgh and Schenectady, teamsters in Minneapolis, and a broad range of industrial workers in Chicago. All of us, however, had one eye on the automobile industry in Detroit and its environs, for this industry had produced what became, arguably, the most successful, innovative, and progressive CIO union, the United Automobile Workers (UAW).

My comments on Charles Williams' “Racial Politics of Progressive Americanism” can be brief, because it is an excellent essay and I could not agree more with its central argument. Williams demonstrates that, even though United Automobile Workers (UAW) leaders used the language of racial equality to support some civil rights advances, Walter Reuther and others also invoked a merely formal equality to deny power to blacks thought to be allied with Communists, and to sustain the support of anti-black workers. They pretended that African Americans were an ethnic group like those of many European-descended Americans, ignoring the enormous differences in the oppression black Americans had long experienced and continued to experience (and still experience). In these ways, an Americanist language, arguably a “liberal” language, of equal rights worked against the racial equality it purported to honor. On these points, I am fully persuaded.

The purpose of this study is to amend both the recent literature on the development of the American state and the recent literature on the impact of slavery on American public policy. In fact, with this article, I am bringing together these two bodies of literature by demonstrating how slavery contributed to the development of the American state. While the first body of literature largely ignores how slavery affected the development of the American state, the second traces the proslavery biases of federal policies without discussing how those policies positively affected the development of the American state. The assumption common to both is that, to the extent slavery affected the development of the American state, it negatively affected that development. My goal is to correct that assumption.