Centuries ago, a collective of co-equals collaborated to negotiate a new nation. The Federalists felt sure that all could trust a mega-Leviathan: an over-powerful, centralized, national government. Conversely, the anti-federalists envisaged a republic with several limited governments, whose laboratories of democracy would best secure, among the citizens, those citizens’ God-given rights. And the anti-federalists were willing to let a lesser Leviathan sit alongside all of this—if the Leviathan were wrapped in layers of checked and balanced chains.
As co-equals, the parts of the collective had to compromise. And so they compromised: the anti-federalists agreed to tolerate a much stronger Leviathan than had lived under the Articles of the Confederation; and in return, the federalists agreed to cede a series of explicit, fundamental limitations upon the Leviathan—the national government. These limitations, amended onto the proposed Constitution, became the Bill of Rights.
These civil rights—rather, these limitations to government authority—arose as fundamental terms to the U.S. social contract. Yet a contract is a set of promises and rules, and both promises and rules endure only by assurances for enforcement—just as a promise to respect rights requires a mechanism for redress.
The right to petition for a redress of government disrespecting citizens’ rights—this is among the promises of the first amendment that the federalists first conceded into the Constitution. To review: the first amendment was the most major limitation to government which the anti-federalists demanded in order to join in forming the new nation.
As to assurances for fulfilling the new constitutional contract: the co-equal federalists and anti-federalists all agreed that the new union would be voluntary. That voluntariness allowed for succession—the leaving of the union—by any colony that felt incurably aggrieved by the ways and means of the new union. That union, conceived in the liberty of mutual respect among co-equals, would not long endure.
Soon, Abraham Lincoln and his gang staged a successful overthrow of the union—ending the previous union and, for the new nation, replacing previous voluntariness with mandatory participation from the failed secessionists. Gatekeepers of the new nation have euphemized that overthrow as “the Civil War”—and mythologized its purpose as “freeing the slaves.”
In any case, the old union died under Lincoln, and with it died voluntary association, which was the only real assurance to enforce the social contract created under the former, now-mummified U.S. Constitution. The pretense of living under the former Constitution is a manifest fraud: there cannot ever be free-association—and thus never liberty—under laws which a mega-Leviathan can create by whim, with unchecked and unbalanced chains that are nowhere near strong enough ever to tame the monstrosity.
“You take my life when you take the means whereby I live” —The character Shylock, in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice.
Recently, various police officers, doctors, and patriots generally have spoken out calmly against these early stages of the U.S. civil war of 2020. One-by-one, those patriots have been censored or silenced, and even destroyed—financially or otherwise.
In their sentimentality, the patriots have all appealed to civil rights—constitutional rights—that plenty of the current government does not recognize in any meaningful sense whatsoever. Hysteria in time of peace and liberty stands out plainly—as the hysterical person scouts and shouts of things nonexistent. Also plain is uniform hysteria, in this time of tyranny, by the pets and puppets of these tyrants. However, less recognized is the hysteria of those too-long-suffering patriots: they are failing to update the rules of engagement for this war against those who do not, in any sense, consider you or me their co-equal. The tyrants and traitors against us would sooner kill than concede anything whatsoever.