Our Declaration: A Reading of the Declaration of Independence in Defense of Equality

“Political philosophers have generated the view that equality and freedom are necessarily in tension with each other. As a public, we have swallowed this argument whole. We think we are required to choose between freedom and equality. Our choice in recent years has tipped toward freedom. Under the general influence of libertarianism, both parties have abandoned our Declaration; they have scorned our patrimony.”

Allen argues that misinterpretation of the Declaration has profound consequences. By falling too strongly under the sway of political philosophers who argue that freedom and equality are always in competition, readers of the Declaration have missed its commitment to equality. Allen asserts that her project of reinterpretation is not partisan—all of America’s political leaders are making this error. Their failure is not merely intellectual but moral: They have “scorned [their] patrimony,” and all Americans have been deprived of their inheritance and birthright. In losing equality, they have lost something precious that is theirs by right.

“The point of political equality is not merely to secure spaces free from domination but also to engage all members of a community equally in the work of creating and constantly re-creating that community. Political equality is equal political empowerment.”

Allen often returns to this definition of equality, which stresses Humans as Social Beings. Importantly, it is about shared access and shared capacity. Government belongs to all people, and every citizen has the right to participate. Empowerment is not the same as power or ability. Not all citizens are equally influential or intelligent, but all of them have the right to shape their own lives and the spaces they live in.

“To my embarrassment, however, I never read the Declaration slowly, the way I had been taught to read, until I did so with my night students. It’s a cliché to say that we fell in love, but we did. Its words became necessary for us; they became our Declaration. Through reading them slowly, we came into our inheritance: an understanding of freedom and equality, and of the value of finding the right words.”

Fostering connection with her readers, Allen admits she was like any other American in her lack of familiarity with the Declaration’s arguments. She then presents the solution to this misunderstanding: slow reading, which resulted in a new kind of relationship as Allen and her students became emotionally engaged with the Declaration and its promises. In presenting this as an “inheritance,” Allen sees equality as something given by right, like the terms of a will. Appreciating and understanding language is inextricable from this new understanding of citizenship and the Declaration’s vision of humanity.

“The desire to escape from abusive power was alive in me. Even in my own small circumstances, I had that—a little spit of flame. And somehow I wanted that release for all people. I could free myself from my grandmother by ignoring her, but this was a far remove from what is necessary for escaping tyrannical power. I started banging my head then, I believe, against the question of how people might slip such bonds. I worked on that question for years—in an undergraduate degree, two master’s degrees, and two PhDs as well as books I wrote on punishment, on citizenship, on rhetoric.”

Allen connects her personal history, as a reader and family member, to her academic work. She became interested in freedom for all people based on her experiences learning to transcend her grandmother’s taunts. However, her choice of metaphor suggests that understanding freedom is not easy—she bangs her head, rather than, say, jumping smoothly over hurdles. Graduate school was its own process of slow reading for many years, but this description of credentials establishes Allen’s credibility with the reader; she has studied many subjects and written extensively.

“By reading the Declaration slowly, we help ourselves as readers. We help ourselves as writers. We deepen our capacity for moral reflection—for making good judgments about our own actions and those of others. Most importantly, we grow as citizens. In coming to understand political equality, we grasp how to make it real for ourselves and others. We come to feel its necessity. This is the transformative experience I hope to share with you in Our Declaration.”

Allen frames her arguments about the Declaration, like her arguments about how it is misunderstood, as universal and nonpartisan. Instead, her reading project is devoted to human growth in every sphere. However, nonpartisan does not mean free from value statements. Allen sees proficiency with language as a good in itself and as intimately connected to people’s ability to assess the morality of their actions. She argues that by reading the Declaration, Americans become better democrats with a small “d”—champions of democracy for everyone. This clarifies Allen’s point that her aims are more philosophical than historical: Her project is deeply grounded in the present, since it will allow readers to shape their own lives, not merely to understand the history behind the Declaration.

“But the authorship of the document belongs to all those who participated in the conversations leading up to the decision to declare independence and to all those who wrangled over the consensual statement of justification. Lee and Adams stand out, but only as the most engaged gladiators. Matlack entered the fray, too, and countless unnamed others. Ultimately, we have to realize that, when we sit down to read the Declaration, it is their argument that we read, not Jefferson’s alone. It is the art of democratic writing—process as much as product—that we must learn how to appreciate.”

Allen’s view of the Declaration as a piece of democratic writing challenges a conventional perspective on historical events even as she insists that she is not writing a historical work. Jefferson now stands in proportion to others rather than looming large as an isolated genius or sole author. Likewise, the Declaration is presented as more than a single event—instead, a multitude of debates and conversations produced it. Democratic writing is even compared to combat here, implying it is drawn out and difficult but worth doing.

“As ever speedier modes of duplication and communication have emerged, memos have become only more common and more important. Those who write the best memos set policy for businesses, cultural organizations, and governments. Because of their impact on our memories, writers rule. They wield the instrument by which our world is organized.”

Viewing the Declaration as a memo may seem almost sacrilegious given the text’s role in American life and society. However, Allen argues that memos are central to everyday life, to institutions and social groups. The image of the writer as ruler is also significant, given that this particular memo dethroned a monarch and established a new form of government. Writers are active in this vision of the world; they “wield” words as instruments of power rather than being passive thinkers far from events.

“Words can be used not only to tell a story or express emotions or explain ideas but also to ‘do things,’ to bring about change in the world. Just as when a couple says, ‘I do,’ the words of the Declaration make a new reality. Because these words have been uttered, the text declares, a new confederation of states now exists, and their members have pledged one another their lives, property, and honor. In this the Declaration sounds something like a wedding.”

This simile, like the announcement that the Declaration is a memo, emphasizes the power of language. Commitments, Allen argues, reshape the world and the circumstances of those who make them. Weddings happen often, in many human societies—words, then, are powerful in many contexts, and however elevated its language, the Declaration has a common link to everyday social rituals. This strengthens Allen’s argument that the Declaration is for everyone.

“Just as membership in the candid world is not restricted in time, it is not restricted in space. Membership is open to citizens of the United States, immigrants, visitors whose home is someplace else entirely. When the Declaration asserts that the whole world can and should judge its arguments, when it asks the world to judge it over and over again, the Declaration acts out its belief in human equality. The writers obviously believe that the whole world can judge.”

This assertion establishes that while the Declaration may have a specific subject—the concerns of the colonists and their new status—its reach is not circumscribed. The Declaration’s invitation to judgment is for all of humanity, just as its claims about government and reason apply to everyone. Although Allen contends that the Declaration displays both Optimism and Pessimism About Humanity, this is an aspect of the former; the “candid world” is not restricted to elites, geniuses, or powerful people.

“When the colonists referred to the course of human events, they were taking responsibility for observing the currents within human action that pull us toward destinations, as identifiable—once we arrive, that is—as the Gulf of Mexico. It is our job as citizens to understand those currents—and to debate them and their direction—in the public square, so that we can see, as early as we can, as best we can, and despite the fogs of doubt and misdirection, the destinations that politicians and leaders are steering toward.”

This summation of the Declaration’s first words relies heavily on nature metaphors, especially water imagery. Leaders may be steering the boat, but that does not mean citizens can relax into passivity. They must always be on guard, vigilant observers of the present and its possible relationship to the safety and security of the future. Nature is almost like a book, with citizens as diligent and slow readers, just as Allen has invited readers to approach the Declaration word by word.

“This capacity of the colonies to organize their collective lives was equal to the capacity of Great Britain, France, and Spain to do the same for themselves. The remarkable idea expressed here is that neither wealth nor military power increases the capacity of society to organize itself. That capacity is something a society either has or doesn’t have. The capacity of the colonies for collective self-organization was at a bare minimum, but it existed.”

Allen unpacks the possible distinctions between equality and sameness and discusses what self-government means. When states can organize themselves, that distinguishes them from colonies, even if they are not exactly alike when compared to other states. Collective identity and commitment make statehood more than power does. This harkens back to Allen’s earlier arguments about language and community: Words do things, and the colonies achieved their collective organization through language, especially writing.

“The segregationists piggybacked on the iconic language of the Declaration to pretend that the sort of separation they proposed had a noble lineage. ‘Separate but equal’ became their slogan, which sounded good to people because it sounded lofty, and it sounded lofty because the Declaration opens with ‘separate and equal.’ But it was a verbal sleight of hand, and their very language betrayed them. By slipping from ‘and’ to ‘but,’ they admitted that the kind of separation they pursued does not and cannot bring equality.”

Allen acknowledges that language can shape oppressive realities as much as offer new worlds of revolution. The Declaration is America’s inheritance—and that inheritance, like any piece of property, can be manipulated and misused, as the segregationists did. At the same time, attentive reading can combat such distortions. Because Allen has already established the value of the “and” in the Declaration, the segregationists’ word choice takes on new meaning and significance.

“And tied to these questions about the real Jefferson is yet another conundrum—this one about words. Can it matter to a slave, buckling a shoe, whether this document holds one truth, two, or more? Little kids are also taught to chant, ‘Sticks and stones might break my bones but words can never hurt me.’ Perhaps if we think about the Declaration from the perspective of people who were slaves in 1776, it leaves us having to think, ‘sticks and stones will break my bones and words can never help me.’”

As Allen confronts Jefferson’s personal history, she admits that his decisions complicate her reading project. She may claim the Declaration as hers, but its words did not transform reality for enslaved people or subsequent generations who experienced racism and segregation. Allen’s personal history is tied to the efforts of Black Americans to improve their lives and become full citizens. Part of the Declaration’s history is bound up with white supremacy and its effects. Jefferson may be one among many authors, but his moral choices shape any reading of the Declaration in particularly painful ways.

“When we recognize the power of habit, we are left with an obvious question. Why do we celebrate principles so much, mere words, if habit is so much more powerful? Principles and the words that convey them are, at least, a starting point. They generate tensions, conflicts, dialectics, out of which over very long time spans, changes do emerge. Without them, where would we be? Also, we can change our ideas and our principles a lot faster than we can change our habits. There’s a lot to learn about human beings from studying what it takes to get our habits to catch up to words and principles that have run on ahead.”

Finally, Allen answers her earlier question about why words matter. Without words, there is no basis for social transformation, no hope that habits, from the ordinary to the oppressive, can be replaced with something better. The image here is both hopeful and realistic: Principles are a fast runner, while habit lags behind. The outcomes of these races can offer information about how to bring about further change.

“The fact that people seek their survival, freedom, and happiness and the fact that people seek to build functioning governments turn out to be equivalent. If we have a right to do one, we have a right to do the other. Our individual pursuit of happiness leads us to form collectivities through which we pursue the safety and happiness of the whole.”

This unpacking of the Declaration’s basic premises introduces another kind of equality: equality of importance. Humans need to survive and desire to flourish in almost equal measure. Government is not somehow secondary to these needs but the bedrock of how they are achieved. Allen noted earlier that the Declaration is frequently used to justify government noninterference; she now argues that this reading rests on a fundamental misunderstanding of what government is and how it relates to fundamental human rights. Slow reading puts equality back in its proper place—as something assured by government, not threatened by it.

“In an age in which the wealth required to pay for such a chariot—and for the wars of the man riding in it—required extraction from an empire that, with its various forms of exploitative labor, reached around the world, how radical it was to think of the happiness even of farmers and laborers as the ground and limit of politics. With their simple lines, the signers of the Declaration sought to overturn not merely then-existing governments but centuries of received opinion. And they called what they were doing a matter of self-evidence!”

Allen considers the historical context of the Declaration’s claims about government with a tone of amazement, perhaps even awe. Democracy was far from a given in the world of the Declaration’s authors; imperialism and social stratification were the norm. George III himself is presented as the embodiment of this sort of wealth and power—we are reminded just how much standing he held at the moment the colonists set themselves against him. The extent of the transformative power of words can only be appreciated through this context: The Declaration reshaped not only the colonies but also an entire universe of thought about the basis of government and how to form it.

“Politics is an activity we come by naturally that should enable us to prevent our degeneration into a post-apocalyptic landscape of unrelenting devastation. Second, the very fact that nature has given us an instinct for politics—an instinct that allows us to turn away from the path that leads from self-protection to mutual annihilation—is evidence that nature is organized to provide for our flourishing. Our tools of self-protection are good—we have a moral as well as a practical right to them—because they enable nondestructive forms of self-protection.”

Allen’s vision of life without politics is bleak—a desolate landscape in which life can barely hold on and certainly not flourish. Individual survival alone is not enough to guarantee the endurance of the species; we must collaborate with one another through governments. This serves as an implicit critique of libertarianism, which Allen makes more forcefully in her conclusion. In this reading of the Declaration, and human nature, there is no future without government. Government is not something artificially imposed but part of our inheritance from nature, and it is no less valuable than the patrimony of the Declaration itself.

“The colonists did just that. They did the very thing that the Declaration says we can do. They instituted new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them seemed most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Collectively, using politics, they inched their way toward happiness.”

This assertion combines slow reading with basic historical facts. Prior to this, Allen established that the basis of equality was the ability to judge the nature of one’s own happiness and to bring this about via access to government. This was not an abstract exercise for the Declaration’s authors—eventually, they put these beliefs into practice. Allen therefore argues that the Declaration has a unique kind of credibility to modern readers; that however short its authors fell of their ideals, they did carry out some essential aspects of their beliefs.

“The colonists will change—they will alter—their systems of Government. Alter: change. Like altering a dress so that it fits better. Such a small and quiet word for a revolution. The Declaration can get away with such a small, quiet word because the real revolution has already happened—as one of life’s turning points—when those who once suffered patiently suddenly see that he who is supposed to be a friend is in fact a foe. That experience is wrenching—painful but also forceful and dramatic.”

The comparison of altering a government to altering a dress may seem unexpected but speaks to Allen’s earlier insistence that access to government is fundamental to human happiness. Clothing is similarly central to everyday life. However, the Declaration describes an emotional shift as well as a practical one: The colonists have re-evaluated a previously valued relationship. They suffer from this knowledge and are not the same after they act on it. The personal tone Allen adopts while describing this realization recalls her prior discussion of the emotional abuse she experienced at her grandmother’s hands, once again emphasizing the Declaration’s day-to-day relevance.

“We are beginning to see how this list of facts works. It is by no means random, was not drawn up without thought or purpose, but is organized in clusters, each of which relates to a general principle about how politics should work. Here are our first two: We should have the rule of law. The people should have a say in their government. King George is a tyrant because he violates these principles, and the list of grievances in the Declaration provides a definition of tyranny. This definition, not the facts of the matter, is what we are in a position to judge.”

This explication of the list of grievances establishes why it matters, even if it is less well-known than other sections of the Declaration. It is an argument about government, which has already been established as fundamental to human happiness. The list of grievances is not a historical record (even if it does concern some historical facts), so readers can apply slow reading to these principles without recourse to historical archives. In earlier sections, Allen established that the Declaration “does things with words.” Its organization does this also since each group of grievances builds on the other.

“The Declaration tests its own hypothesis. It is constructed to prove that its claim about human equality is true. If all people can read or listen to it and understand how political judgment works in the Declaration without aids beyond the Declaration itself—which is to say, regardless of whether they have gone to school, or how much history they have learned—then the Declaration is right about human equality. We don’t want historical questions, important as they are, to obscure this fundamental feature of the text.”

This assertion brings up another aspect of the power of language. Earlier, Allen compared the Declaration to a wedding and a divorce, where the colonists separate from Britain and commit to each other. Her argument that the Declaration proves its own hypothesis about equality suggests that this particular memo makes a change in its readers. When they begin the document, they do not know for certain whether its claims about humanity are true. After reading, readers are able to exercise political judgments. This does not make historical truth unimportant, but it does suggest that the Declaration’s arguments about equality can be proven through a proper appreciation for language.

“This list of grievances was built out of much conversation. It reflects time spent comparing notes about experiences with the king’s officers. This list, in other words, is an example of the kind of knowledge that a community produces, when a multitude of eyes and ears collect evidence and collaborate through conversation to figure out what it all means.”

This explanation for the grievances’ origin brings back the importance of democratic writing, multiple authors, and the Declaration as a process rather than a single event. Jefferson and his editors may have put those grievances into the Declaration, but they first came into being through dialogue. Democratic writing, in this instance, means that this particularly famous text has authors whose names we do not know but who matter as contributors to a larger knowledge base—they matter as citizens of states who are forming judgments about their situation and what should come next.

“So let me put it this way. When we observe a person who says one thing and does another, we might be looking at a liar, but we might also be looking at a person who hasn’t yet been able to turn her ideas into a script that is concrete enough to guide her actions. What does it take for any given individual to change his basic day-to-day habits? This is the question one has to answer to understand why our ideas seem often to run so far on ahead of our habits. Ideas don’t change actions on their own. Our desires matter too. This, finally, is why a shadow of tragedy trails our Declaration.”

Allen continues to wrestle with the problem of hypocrisy in the Declaration and in American history writ large. She attempts to strike a balance between optimism and pessimism: People are capable of change, of making moral choices instead of immoral ones. However, this depends on something intangible; new choices must seem feasible, and people must be emotionally engaged with them. Many of Allen’s earlier assessments of the Declaration are hopeful, even excited; after all, the text transformed her night students into newly awakened political beings. She admits here that the picture is complicated—a “tragedy” that she can grapple with but never fully resolve.