In 1977, the United States Congress forbade the Food and Drug Administration to outlaw use of the food additive saccharin as an artificial sweetener for a period of three years. Subsequent legislation extended the congressional ban. It remains in effect today. Congress's saccharin action neatly represented late twentieth-century federal regulatory policy. The process had become decidedly antibureaucratic and ultimately democratic. Forces both for saccharin's prohibition and for its continued use outlined and debated their positions in public, letting their arguments contend in the marketplace of ideas. Following the conduct of this de facto national plebiscite, duly elected representatives weighed the respective cases and selected the course that their constituents seemed to favor.

A recurring theme in American political discourse is how to strike the appropriate balance between protecting the nation against threats to its security without eroding the liberty that is at the heart of its democratic character. Civil liberties versus national security is a choice apparently to be made in every crisis and every war, whether hot or cold. We can trace the debate from the Alien and Sedition Acts of 1798 through Abraham Lincoln's suspension of habeas corpus, to the Red Scares that followed both world wars. The classic case of going too far, and the most widely repudiated example, is the illegal mass internment of more than 110,000 Japanese Americans, most of them U.S. citizens, without charge, during World War II. Today, in what is commonly called the war on terrorism, hawks and doves take up their customary positions on opposing sides of the old argument as they debate the U.S.A Patriot Act, the imprisonment of foreigners at Camp Delta on Guantánamo Bay, and the indefinite detention of American citizens by presidential order.

Twenty U.S. states permit the indefinite detention of civilly committed sex offenders after the end of their prison sentences if their dangerousness is due to a “mental abnormality.” This article explores the origins of one such law by examining its predecessor, the Minnesota Psychopathic Personality Act of 1939. Passed in the wake of a panic over sex crimes and upheld by the Supreme Court in 1940, Minnesota’s psychopath statute extended a 1917 eugenics law providing for the compulsory civil commitment and institutionalization of “defectives” to persons alleged to have a psychopathic personality. Analyzing the 1917 and 1939 laws together shows how one state’s psychopath statute had less to do with psychiatric authority than with the legal and administrative framework established by Progressive-era eugenics. From the 1910s until today, dubious claims about the ability of science to identify potential criminals legitimized politically popular, but constitutionally questionable, forms of administrative and social control.

Equating the U.S. government with the national government, historians of the AIDS epidemic have hitherto ignored the role of the states in shaping the early policy response to the disease. Responding to this historiographical lacuna, this article argues that California acted as a policy innovator during the initial years of the epidemic, intervening more effectively than the federal government in the areas of AIDS health care, antibody testing, and prevention education. California’s policy leadership drew significant impetus from a group of gay policy makers, who entered state employment in the early 1980s and relied extensively on clandestine and illicit strategies, particularly a network of “closeted” bureaucrats. Charting the career arcs of these gay policy makers shines a spotlight on the organizational growth of state LGBTQ groups in the 1980s and the evolving role of the “closet” in the modern gay rights movement.

In 1765, as part of a series of economic and political reforms implemented by the Spanish Bourbons in their American colonies, the tobacco trade of colonial Mexico was monopolized and its management placed in the hands of royal bureaucrats. By the 1790s, Mexico's tobacco monopoly was one of the largest organized industries in colonial Mexico (along with silver mining and textiles) and employed almost 20,000 individuals. In fiscal terms, tobacco revenues were second only to the silver tithe as the most valuable source of government income and accounted for almost one-fifth of total state revenues at the peak of its production. Its organization approximated a vertically integrated industry: Production and supply of tobacco leaf was regulated through a series of contracts that determined who produced tobacco, how much they produced, the prices paid for it, and where it was to be grown. The reorganization of the tobacco trade under Bourbon management resulted in the restriction of tobacco production to one small specific geographical area in southeastern Mexico: the two small villas of Orizaba and Córdoba in the modern-day state of Veracruz. The tobacco produced, in turn, was manufactured into cigarettes and cigars in six state-managed tobacco manufactories, the largest located in Mexico City, the political and commercial capital. Monopoly goods were marketed through government licensed stores throughout Mexico. Private trading and manufacture in tobacco goods became an illegal offense. Compliance with such regulations was enforced by a military corps employed by the monopoly administration, although contraband trade of tobacco was never eliminated.

During the twentieth century the United States has called upon its economy to support a war effort four times: for World War I, World War II, the Korean conflict, and the Vietnam War. The experience of these four military buildups has led to a formal body of mobilization planning incorporating a number of implicit assumptions as to an appropriate mobilization posture. This article reviews the mobilization record of each war and traces the development of the accompanying mobilization doctrine.

Portugal was a pioneer in state-led cooperative development. In 1867, the parliament passed legislation encouraging workers to organize their own collective businesses. In the view of the ruling elite, this would prevent the emergence of a class cleavage between labor and capital, contributing to the stability of the liberal economic and political order. Combining the historical method with John Kingdon’s multiple-streams approach to policy formulation, this article examines the complex array of domestic and external factors that shaped this policy intervention. Additionally, the study explores the impact of the policy on the involved stakeholders. Far from fulfilling the expectations of its promoters, the law on cooperatives seems to have only marginally stimulated the growth of the sector. Moreover, the government’s support to cooperatives seems to have undermined the legitimacy of the model in the eyes of a labor movement that was starting to see its interests as opposed to those of the ruling class.

Students of American corporate political behavior have long asked whether or not the corporate sector acts collectively to influence the public policy process. Corporate concentration of wealth in the late nineteenth century first suggested particular business interests enjoyed a privileged political position. After World War II American pluralists, while conceding that economic concentration posed a threat to democracy, noted that economic concentration could not be translated into political privilege without a high degree of corporate political unity. In this respect, they reasoned that big business was unlikely to engage in collective action because of the divisive nature of economic competition. For a long while, this optimism about the market's policing powers assuaged most fears of corporate political domination, even though several scholars offered contrary evidence. The recent corporate political mobilization, however, has renewed the debate on corporate political unity.

During the Clinton administration, for the first time in almost twenty years, the character and direction of the U.S. industrial relations regime has become a matter of serious public debate. Clinton-appointed chair of the National Labor Relations Board (NLRB) William Gould IV has sought with some success to revivify an agency that in the 1980s had come to seem almost superfluous. The 1994 report entitled The Commission on the Future of Worker-Management Relations (Dunlop Commission) stirred debate on the role of unions in the nation's future. Organized labor has sought, with some limited success, to place such critical topics as striker replacement on the national agenda. Meanwhile, congressional conservatives have sponsored measures to curb new organizing strategies such as “salting” anti-union workplaces with union activists. Even more moderate politicians, with support from at least some sections of the labor community, have proposed measures aimed at drastic recasting of the Wagner Act's Section 8(a) (2), which outlawed company unions, so as to permit so called “team” approaches to employee representation. The shake-up in the leadership of the AFL-CIO and the federation's launching of an unprecedented program of political mobilization, which in turn has drawn Republican counterfire reminiscent of the rhetoric of the 80th Congress, increases the possibility that basic matters of federal labor policy may, after a long absence from mainstream public discourse, may return to center stage.

During the mid-1960s, the governments of the United States and Canada each declared “war” on poverty. The former venture has received far greater scholarly attention, and for obvious reasons: its high-profile inception, the broader spirit of Great Society liberalism that it embodied, the profound crisis of American society and politics within which it soon became embroiled, the rapidity with which its prescriptions and hopes were extinguished. By comparison, the Canadian War on Poverty seems an unimportant venture, and one that lacks the stuff of which drama is made. It has, accordingly, been neglected by scholars on both sides of the 49th parallel.

The purpose of this issue is to explore the possible political futures of parties and movements of the “democratic left” in the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, the European Union, Poland, and Russia. The task could not proceed without clear definition, or definitions, of the “democratic left” because of national variations. There is “liberalism” or “progressivism” in the United States of many hues, but with no “social democracy” or politically viable socialism to the left. Socialism, in the old sense, of ownership of the means of production, has died in Britain, and the present government of “New Labour” refers to itself as the “Third Way” between capitalism and socialism. But there is much controversy at home whether “social democracy” has been also jettisoned in favor of a kind of “neoliberalism” that has embraced markets and trimmed social security. The large, democratic parties of the left in France and Germany derive from traditions of “social democracy” that have challenged many capitalist values and institutions, whether from Marxist or non-Marxist perspectives, and sought to establish a state and society organized around principles of social justice. These parties may win national elections but are torn between old left politics and the need to form larger coalitions in order to win. One might ask, Why include Poland and Russia? The purpose was to ask if new democratic forms of “social democracy” could be discerned in the ashes of defunct communist systems that might bear some resemblance to the politics of Western Europe.