The American Mistake

 America did not invent constitutional government in 1787.

The first constitutions written in the New World were extensions of royal charters granted to the thirteen Crown colonies. They already defined authority, limited power, structured offices, and bound governors to law. What Americans ratified in 1788 was not a novel form of government, but the transfer of sovereignty from Crown to People within an already-existing constitutional tradition.

Mistaking that transfer for invention proved fatal.

By believing the Constitution was something we created, Americans came to believe it was something we could manage—reinterpret, expand, suspend, or correct when inconvenient. Fidelity gave way to ingenuity. Obedience gave way to interpretation. Responsibility gave way to power.

The world accepted the myth. And America paid the price.

After nearly 250 years, the United States has been incorporated into existence but has never matured. It behaves like a corporation that confuses innovation with legitimacy and adaptability with wisdom. Constitutional violations are excused as policy disagreements. Oaths are treated as ceremonial. The Constitution survives not because it is obeyed, but because it is rhetorically admired.

A constitution that is understood as an invention can be improved.

A constitution that is understood as an inheritance must be honored.

America chose the first. History is now demanding the second.

 Today I am thinking about US Proclamation 10998 which became effective at 12:01 a.m. (January 1, 2026). It applies to all of us.  Not only to the countries mentioned. 

Avoid self-deception

Lying to others is easy. Lying to oneself is easier. Truth requires work.

Concluding Post: What This Series Was Really About

This series began with a simple problem: many Americans use constitutional language fluently but think about the Constitution incorrectly. We treat high crimes and misdemeanors as severe crimes instead of constitutional violations. We treat “legal” as if it meant lawful. We expect courts to fix constitutional failures they were never designed to address. And we forget that the Constitution assumes something essential: an engaged, attentive People.

Across five short essays, we rebuilt the Constitution’s basic architecture:

Part I showed that high crimes and misdemeanors are not bigger crimes, but a different category altogether—violations of the Constitution itself.

Part II explained why an action can be legal in form and yet unlawful in substance.

Part III clarified why constitutional violations begin with impeachment, why intent is presumed for constitutional officers, and why impeachment is not a political indictment.

Part IV demonstrated that the judiciary does not govern and was never meant to.

Part V returned responsibility to where the Constitution places it: with We the People.

Taken together, these ideas point to a single conclusion: constitutional government depends less on institutions than on constitutional understanding.

The Constitution does not protect itself. Courts do not protect it for us. And no officeholder can substitute for an educated sovereign People who understand what has been entrusted to them. Self-government is not self-executing. It must be practiced.

This series was not written to inflame, accuse, or persuade along partisan lines. It was written to restore clarity—because clarity is the precondition of responsibility. If the Constitution is to endure, We the People must remember how it was designed to work—and what it quietly asks of us.

Author’s Note

Why I Wrote This Series

I wrote this series because I have come to believe that many of our deepest constitutional conflicts are not the result of bad faith, but of bad classification. We argue endlessly about outcomes while misunderstanding structure. We debate power while ignoring responsibility. And we look to courts to solve problems the Constitution assigns elsewhere.

This series is not a legal argument and not a partisan intervention. It is an educational one.

My aim was to speak to non-lawyers in plain language about how the Constitution actually functions—what kinds of violations it recognizes, how accountability is supposed to work, and why the People themselves remain central to constitutional life.

The Framers assumed a citizenry capable of understanding these distinctions. That assumption may be strained today, but it has not been repealed. If these essays help even a few readers recover a clearer sense of their role as constitutional actors—not spectators—then they have served their purpose.

The Constitution is not just a document we inherit. It is a responsibility we either carry—or quietly surrender.

Why the People Are the Final Constitutional Authority

The most consequential misunderstanding in American constitutional life is not about courts, or impeachment, or even presidential power. It is about who bears responsibility for the Constitution itself.

Many Americans assume that constitutional authority ultimately resides in institutions—especially courts. When something goes wrong, we wait for a ruling. When power is abused, we ask what judges will say. When the Constitution is strained, we look elsewhere.

That instinct is understandable. It is also wrong.

The Constitution does not vest final constitutional authority in courts. It vests it in the People.

This is not a slogan. It is a structural fact.

The Constitution was not written by judges, interpreted into existence by courts, or enforced into legitimacy by lawyers. It was written by the People, ratified by the People, and sustained only so long as the People insist on fidelity to it.

Every constitutional officer—legislator, executive, judge—takes an oath not to a court, not to a party, not to a leader, but to the Constitution itself. That oath is not ceremonial. It is a declaration that authority flows from the People, through the Constitution, and only then into office.

Courts play an important role in this system, but they are not its guardians. They resolve disputes. They interpret law when asked. They do not initiate constitutional accountability, enforce constitutional fidelity, or supervise governance.

That work belongs elsewhere.

When the Constitution is violated, the first constitutional response is not litigation. It is judgment by the People, acting through their representatives. That is why impeachment exists. Not as punishment. Not as politics. But as a mechanism by which the sovereign People decide whether constitutional power has been abused.

This design assumes something modern Americans are rarely told: self-government requires self-restraint.

The Framers did not expect constant constitutional violations. They expected constitutional obedience to be the norm. Impeachment was meant to be rare not because violations should be tolerated, but because officials were expected to govern within constitutional bounds.

At the same time, the People were expected to remain attentive. Not outraged at every disagreement, but alert to genuine abuses of authority. Not passive spectators waiting for courts to intervene, but active custodians of constitutional order.

When we forget this, the consequences are predictable.

Legislators stop asking whether a law exceeds constitutional authority and ask instead whether it might survive judicial review. Executives test limits until someone tells them to stop. Citizens wait for verdicts rather than exercising judgment. Courts, pulled into roles they were never designed to play, become both blamed and overburdened.

This is how constitutional government weakens—not through collapse, but through misplacement of responsibility.

The Constitution does not protect itself. Courts do not protect it for us. And no institution can substitute for an engaged, constitutionally literate People.

That was the Framers’ bet.

They trusted that a people capable of establishing a Constitution would also be capable of sustaining it—by recognizing violations when they occur, by refusing to normalize them, and by holding constitutional officers to the standard their oaths require.

Self-government does not end at the ballot box. It begins there.

If the Constitution is to endure, We the People must stop treating it as someone else’s job to enforce—and remember that it was always ours.

Why the Judiciary Does Not Govern — and Never Was Meant To

 Americans are often told that the judiciary is a "co-equal branch of government." The phrase is repeated so often that it feels self-evident. But the Constitution does not actually say this—and more importantly, it does not function this way.

The belief that courts govern alongside Congress and the President is not just a harmless civic shorthand. It is one of the quiet misunderstandings that has reshaped our expectations of constitutional responsibility, weakened democratic accountability, and encouraged a dangerous form of civic passivity.

To see why, we need to make a basic distinction that modern discourse routinely blurs: the difference between governance and adjudication.

Governance consists of two powers. First, the power to make rules that bind society. Second, the power to execute those rules in the real world. These are the legislative and executive powers, and the Constitution assigns them explicitly and affirmatively.

Judicial power is different in kind.

Courts do not initiate action. They do not make policy. They do not enforce outcomes on their own. They wait. They respond. They adjudicate disputes that others bring before them. Without a case or controversy, courts are constitutionally silent.

This is not an oversight. It is a design choice.

The judiciary cannot investigate on its own. It cannot indict. It cannot impeach. It cannot remove officials from office. It cannot repair constitutional injury directly. Even its judgments depend on the executive for enforcement and on the legislature for correction or revision of the law.

A power that cannot initiate, cannot enforce, and cannot act without being asked is not a governing power. It is an adjudicative one.

This structure explains something that often confuses the public: when the Constitution itself is violated, courts are not the first responders.

They never were meant to be.

Violations of law are handled in courts. Violations of the Constitution are handled through impeachment. That is not because impeachment is a political shortcut or a substitute for criminal prosecution, but because constitutional violations are not legal violations. They are breaches of public trust committed by officers who hold power under oath.

Courts interpret law. The People judge whether constitutional authority has been abused.

Over time, however, Americans have come to treat courts as the ultimate guardians of the Constitution. This belief is understandable. Courts speak in the language of principle. Their opinions are written, reasoned, and public. They feel authoritative.

But this belief is constitutionally false—and practically dangerous.

Courts can declare laws inconsistent with the Constitution when a case is properly before them. They cannot ensure constitutional fidelity across government. They cannot police the daily exercise of power. They cannot substitute for legislative restraint, executive responsibility, or civic vigilance.

When we ask courts to govern, three things happen.

First, legislators begin to outsource constitutional judgment. Rather than asking whether a bill exceeds constitutional authority, they ask whether it might survive judicial review. Constitutional responsibility becomes a litigation strategy.

Second, executives test boundaries. If the courts have not yet said "no," power is treated as available. The oath becomes symbolic rather than binding.

Third, citizens retreat. If courts are the guardians, then the People become spectators—waiting for rulings instead of exercising judgment.

This is how self-government erodes. Not through a single decision or crisis, but through the steady misplacement of responsibility.

But this misplacement of responsibility doesn't just make governance less constitutional—it makes adjudication worse.

When courts are expected to function as constitutional enforcers rather than dispute resolvers, they begin generating broader holdings, more policy-inflected reasoning, and pronouncements that look less like case resolution and more like legislative direction. The judiciary becomes distorted by being asked to perform a function it was never designed to handle.

Judges, sensing that they are being treated as the last line of constitutional defense, begin to write opinions that reach beyond the case before them. They craft tests and standards meant to guide future conduct across government. They issue sweeping declarations about constitutional meaning that read more like statutory provisions than case law.

This is not judicial overreach in the usual sense. It is judicial response to structural abandonment. When the other branches stop exercising constitutional judgment and citizens stop demanding it, courts fill the vacuum—not because they seek power, but because someone must say something about constitutional boundaries.

The result is a judiciary that looks increasingly political, precisely because it has been forced into a governing role it was never meant to occupy. Confirmation hearings become ideological battlegrounds. Judicial appointments feel like elections. Court decisions are analyzed for their policy outcomes rather than their legal reasoning.

The system degrades in both directions simultaneously: governance becomes less democratically accountable, and adjudication becomes less judicially constrained.

This mutual corruption is not accidental. It is the natural consequence of asking one institution to do the work of three—and expecting technical legal analysis to substitute for political judgment, executive restraint, and civic engagement.

The Framers assumed something very different. They assumed courts would resolve disputes, not supervise governance. They assumed legislators and executives would take their oaths seriously. And they assumed the People would remain attentive to the use of constitutional power.

Judicial power was meant to support constitutional order—not replace it.

Calling the judiciary "co-equal" may feel respectful, but it obscures the Constitution's deeper lesson: not all powers are governing powers, and not all accountability flows through courts.

If we want constitutional government to endure, we must stop asking judges to do the People's work—and start remembering what that work is.

Why Constitutional Violations Begin with Impeachment — and Why Impeachment Is Not a Political Indictment

The Constitution recognizes two different kinds of wrongdoing. 

Ordinary crimes and misdemeanors are violations of laws. High crimes and misdemeanors are violations of the Constitution.

This difference is not about severity. It is about what has been violated—and who bears responsibility.

How violations of law are judged

In ordinary criminal law, intent matters. To convict someone of a crime or misdemeanor, prosecutors generally must show that a law was violated, and that the violation was intentional, knowing, reckless, or negligent, depending on the offense.

This makes sense. Ordinary citizens are not presumed to know the law in full detail, and criminal punishment is severe. Intent must therefore be established.

That is the proper standard for violations of law.

How violations of the Constitution are judged

Violations of the Constitution are judged differently. They begin with impeachment, not because impeachment is easier than prosecution, but because constitutional officers operate under a different presumption. Public officers swear an oath to support and defend the Constitution.

That oath changes everything.

For high crimes and misdemeanors, intent is presumed, not because officers are malicious, but because they voluntarily accepted constitutional authority, they swore fidelity to the Constitution, and they are charged with knowing the limits of their power

A constitutional violation by an officer is therefore not excused by claims of ignorance, carelessness, or political necessity. The question is not what they meant. The question is what they did to the Constitution.

Why impeachment carries no presumption of innocence

The presumption of innocence is a protection in criminal law. It exists because criminal punishment is severe (imprisonment, fines, execution). Citizens cannot be expected to know every law. The state bears the burden of proving both violation and intent. Liberty is at stake

Impeachment operates under entirely different conditions. Impeachment does not punish. It removes authority that was conditionally granted. The officer is not presumed innocent of constitutional violation because the officer voluntarily sought constitutional authority, and the officer swore an oath establishing their burden of fidelity

Constitutional injury does not require criminal intent

What is at stake is not the officer's liberty, but the Constitution's integrity. In criminal law, the question is: "Can the state prove you violated the law?" In impeachment, the question is: "Can you demonstrate you maintained constitutional fidelity?"

The burden is reversed because the relationship is reversed. The state must justify taking a citizen's liberty. An officer must justify retaining the People's trust.

This is not a lowering of standards. It is a recognition that constitutional office is not a right to be taken away, but a trust to be maintained. When an officer fails to maintain that trust, the presumption favors the Constitution, not the officer.

Understanding the difference: A parallel to professional accountability

We already recognize this distinction in other contexts. A doctor can face professional discipline for actions that cause no criminal liability. A lawyer can be disbarred for conduct that violates no statute. Professional accountability operates separately from criminal law because professionals voluntarily accept responsibilities that ordinary citizens do not bear.

Importantly, professional review boards do not presume innocence in the criminal sense. A doctor accused of malpractice must demonstrate adherence to professional standards. A lawyer facing disciplinary proceedings must show fidelity to ethical obligations. The burden falls on the professional to maintain the trust their license represents.

Constitutional officers operate under the same framework. The oath creates professional obligations to the Constitution itself. Impeachment is constitutional accountability for constitutional officers—separate from, and prior to, any question of criminal liability.

Why impeachment comes first

Impeachment exists to answer a single constitutional question: Has a public officer violated the constitutional trust placed in them?

That inquiry does not require proof of criminal intent. It requires judgment about abuse of constitutional authority, breach of public trust, and injury to constitutional order

That is why impeachment results in removal and possible disqualification, not criminal punishment. Criminal liability may follow later, under ordinary standards of intent. Constitutional accountability must come first.

The matrix of governmental wrongdoing

This creates four distinct possibilities for an officer's conduct:

i. Legal, lawful, and no crime of any kind — Normal governance within constitutional bounds.

ii. Illegal but not a high crime — Officer commits an ordinary crime (embezzlement, assault) unrelated to constitutional duties.

iii. Legal but unlawful and a high crime — Constitutional violation without breaking any statute (as discussed in Part II).

iv. Both illegal AND a high crime — Statutory violation that also constitutes constitutional breach

These categories are not theoretical. They describe real patterns of conduct that require different forms of accountability:

Category 1 requires no response. Category 2 requires criminal prosecution. Category 3 requires impeachment (even though no law was broken). Category 4 requires impeachment first, then possible prosecution

Understanding these distinctions prevents us from collapsing constitutional judgment into criminal standards, or from treating criminal violations as automatically constituting high crimes.

What impeachment is not

The Constitution requires that high crimes and misdemeanors not be treated as severe crimes and misdemeanors. Impeachment is not any of the following:

A criminal shortcut,

A political indictment,

A referendum on popularity, or

An invitation to normalize constitutional violations.

The Framers assumed that constitutional obedience would be the norm. Violations were expected to be exceptional, not routine. Impeachment exists because constitutional violations must be addressed—but also because they must not be normalized.

The modern distortion: Two temptations

No one seriously argues that criminal indictment should precede impeachment. That is not the problem. The real danger comes from two opposite distortions, each undermining impeachment in different ways:

The first temptation treats impeachment as a political vote of no confidence. If sufficient members of Congress disapprove of an officer's policies, personality, or partisan affiliation, impeachment becomes justified. This approach asks: "Do we want to remove this officer?" rather than "Has this officer violated constitutional trust?"

The second temptation treats impeachment as requiring criminal standards of proof. Unless prosecutors could secure a criminal conviction—complete with proof of corrupt intent beyond reasonable doubt—impeachment is unjustified. This approach asks: "Can we prove criminal guilt?" rather than "Has constitutional injury occurred?"

Both temptations misunderstand what impeachment protects. The first treats the officer's retention of power as the default (requiring extraordinary proof to disturb). The second imports the presumption of innocence where it does not belong.

The constitutional question is: What did this officer do to the constitutional structure we entrusted to them? Not: Do we approve of them politically? Not: Can we prove criminal intent? But: Did they breach the constitutional trust their oath imposed?

How to distinguish constitutional judgment from partisan accusation

This raises the hardest question: How do we know when impeachment addresses genuine constitutional injury rather than partisan disapproval? The answer lies in what the judgment concerns.

Constitutional judgment examines:

Whether the officer exceeded constitutional authority. Whether constitutional structure was damaged. Whether the officer's conduct injured the constitutional order itself.

Partisan accusation substitutes:

Whether the officer's party is unpopular. Whether policies are disagreeable. Whether the officer is personally offensive.

The key difference: Constitutional violations are about what the officer did to constitutional boundaries, not whether their political opponents disapprove of them.

Consider two contrasts:

A president who refuses to execute laws passed by Congress has violated constitutional structure—regardless of whether those laws are popular or wise. The injury is to the constitutional relationship between legislative and executive power.

A president whose foreign policy critics disapprove of has not committed a high crime—even if the policy proves disastrous. Bad judgment is not constitutional violation.

The distinction is not always easy to draw. But the proper question focuses our judgment: Did this conduct injure the Constitution as a governing instrument, or did it simply offend political preferences?

When impeachment becomes routine rather than exceptional

When either distortion takes hold constitutional judgment is replaced by political motive. The oath of office loses meaning, officers are either held to impossible standards or to no constitutional standards at all, and impeachment becomes a partisan weapon rather than a constitutional remedy. That undermines the very Constitution impeachment was designed to protect.

Why courts cannot correct this

Courts cannot fix this distortion. Judicial power does not initiate constitutional accountability and it does not judge fitness for constitutional office. It does not substitute legal intent for constitutional responsibility. That responsibility belongs to the People, acting through their representatives.

Why this matters

If intent becomes the standard for constitutional violations, officers are rewarded for ignorance and recklessness.

If impeachment becomes a political indictment, constitutional fidelity becomes optional.

If impeachment is held to criminal standards, constitutional violations become immune from accountability.

The Constitution demands restraint on both sides. Officers must restrain themselves from violating the Constitution. The People must restrain themselves from trivializing impeachment

Self-government depends on both.