In 1866, members of the Joint Committee on Reconstruction introduced the Fourteenth Amendment into the House of Representatives and the Senate, respectively. Several speakers indicated that the force of the new amendment would be to protect basic or fundamental citizen rights against adverse action by state governments, and would allow Congress for the first time to protect such rights against such state action. The clause that would do this was the privileges or immunities clause: “No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States.”

Perhaps the most striking feature of the Senate's practice of advice and consent today is the deference accorded home state senators in reviewing presidential appointments to the federal bench. Although the Constitution calls for the advice and consent of the Senate body, informal norms of the Senate provide home state senators with a potential veto of nominations to fill federal judgeships within their states. One norm—senatorial courtesy—historically ensured that senators would defer to the views of the home state senator from the president's party. Another practice—the Senate “blue slip”—allocates special procedural rights to both home state senators regardless of political party. A single objection from a home state senator from either party has historically been considered sufficient to defeat confirmation of a nominee. The blue slip also allows home state senators to influence the course of nominations prospectively—encouraging presidents to heed the preferences of home state senators in selecting new federal judges.

It is now a commonplace assertion among scholars of regulation to say that new regulatory statutes follow “crises,” “tragedies,” or “scandals.” The content and form of these critical events varies considerably. They include acts of journalism or research such as the publication of the Nader Report (which purportedly led to new federal automobile safety regulations) or Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (which eased the path for the Pure Food and Drugs Act of 1906). They include instantaneous disasters such as the Union Carbide gas leak in Bhopal, India, as well as slowly materializing epidemics like the thousands of horrific birth defects that resulted from widespread use of the sedative thalidomide in Europe and Australia in the late 1950s. As Lawrence Rothenberg describes this argument, it amounts to a meta-narrative of the origins of regulation, an alternative to capture theory. In the tragedy narrative of regulation, “public opinion becomes energized by some dramatic event or condition illustrating the pitfalls of a market's unobstructed operation; the outcry spurs elected officials to promulgate governmental regulation.” This story, as he notes, is at least as old as the work of Marver Bernstein and Anthony Downs.

How has representation changed over time in the United States? Has responsiveness to public opinion waxed or waned among elected officials? What are the causes of such trends as we observe? Scholars have pursued these crucial questions in different ways. Some explore earlier eras in search of the “electoral connection”, i.e. the extent to which voters held office-holders accountable for their actions and the degree to which electoral concerns motivated politicians' behavior. Others explore the effects of institutional changes such as the move to direct election of senators or the “reapportionment revolution.”

“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.

The transformation from nineteenth-century proprietary capitalism to twentieth-century corporate capitalism involved fundamental changes in the rights of business corporations as market actors. At the end of the Civil War, corporations were controlled by individuals and families. At the turn of the twentieth century, corporations were in the midst of a merger movement that resulted in firms with concentrated capital, large numbers of shareholders, and control residing in management. New legal rights needed to be put in place to support this more advanced level of capitalist development. Most scholarship on the transformation of business corporation rights has focused on changes in the courts and in Congress, principally in regard to antitrust regulation. In addition, however, there was another locale essential to transforming the shape of the business organization: state legislatures developed and allocated corporate rights. Nineteenth-century state laws sought not only to enable the corporation to exist, but also to regulate its place within the state economy. With the advent of corporate capitalism at the turn of the twentieth century, state capacity to regulate through statutory law waned.

Interest groups can seek legislative action through state and national legislatures, partnerships with presidents, governors, or mayors for direct executive action, litigation in the state and federal courts, or grassroots mobilization on popular referenda and ballot initiatives. These numerous institutional venues foster various advocacy strategies. How and why do interest groups target different venues to achieve their objectives? What factors affect an interest group's capacity to act within, and thus its subsequent targeting of, particular institutional venues to pursue social reform?

Between 1971 and 1975, congressional leaders quietly transformed the character and politics of public assistance in the United States. Three legislative initiatives were passed in quick succession and with little debate—the Talmadge Work Incentive amendments (WIN II), Supplemental Security Income (SSI), and the Earned Income Tax Credit (EITC). Although they drew little attention at the time, their combined impact was significant in two respects. First, by redefining the terms and target populations of income assistance, they established the elements of a workfarist approach to federal antipoverty policy, one that turned the ends and means of federal assistance away from traditional needs-based New Deal welfarism and toward the principle of rewarding, encouraging, and enforcing work. In addition, the initiatives helped to create the political capacity for subsequent retrenchment of traditional welfare programs, notably Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC).

On the opening day of the 1972 Democratic convention, the women's caucus gave George McGovern a standing ovation. Its first meeting was packed, with 700 female delegates in attendance, exuberant over their numbers at the convention—triple the representation from four years earlier—and their new clout in presidential politics. Of all of the presidential candidates appearing, only Shirley Chisholm, the first African-American woman to run for president, was greeted with enthusiasm comparable to the warm reception for McGovern. Most of the women at the meeting were fervently anti-war and respected McGovern for his early and courageous stance on Vietnam. However, the size of the gathering attested to another of McGovern's achievements: his chairing of the reform commission that had rewritten the Democratic Party's rules on delegate selection, leading to the huge leap in the representation of women. As Liz Carpenter, a former White House aide to LBJ, put it when introducing McGovern, “We know we wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for you.”

Civil rights cemented its place on the national agenda with the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, fair housing legislation, federal enforcement of school integration, and the outlawing of discriminatory voting mechanisms in the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Less recognized but no less important, the Second Reconstruction also witnessed one of the most punitive interventions in United States history. The death penalty was reinstated, felon disenfranchisement statutes from the First Reconstruction were revived, and the chain gang returned. State and federal governments revised their criminal codes, effectively abolishing parole, imposing mandatory minimum sentences, and allowing juveniles to be incarcerated in adult prisons. Meanwhile, the Law Enforcement Assistance Act of 1965 gave the federal government an altogether new role in crime control; several subsequent policies, beginning with the Crime Control and Safe Streets Act of 1968 and culminating with the Federal Sentencing Guidelines, ‘war on drugs,’ and extension of capital crimes, significantly altered the approach. These and other developments had an exceptional and long-lasting effect, with imprisonment increasing six-fold between 1973 and the turn of the century. Certain groups felt the burden of these changes most acutely. As of the last census, fully half of those imprisoned are black and one in three black men between ages 20 and 29 are currently under state supervision. Compared to its advanced industrial counterparts in western Europe, the United States imprisons at least five times more of its citizens per capita.

Although scholars of American political development (APD) have helped transform many aspects of the study of U.S. politics over the last quarter-century, they have barely begun to use the powerful analytical tools of this approach to elucidate the relationship between government and citizens. APD research has probed deeply into the processes of state-building and the creation and implementation of specific policies, yet has given little attention to how such development affects the lives of individuals and the ways in which they relate to government. Studies routinely illuminate how policies influence the political roles of elites and organized groups, but barely touch on how the state shapes the experiences and responses of ordinary individuals. As a result, we know little about how governance has influenced citizenship over time or how those changes have, in turn, affected politics.