From one of my favorite history blogs, History Can’t Hide by Khalil Greene. You can find it here: Historycanthide.substack.com. About Mr. Greene:

I’m Kahlil Greene, aka the Gen Z Historian, and one week after my 19th birthday, I became the first Black student body president in Yale’s 318-year history.

Now, I’m a Peabody-winning edutainer with 750,000+ followers and 30 million+ views across TikTok, Instagram, and LinkedIn, where I share history lessons that unpack the injustices shaping our world today.

I write History Can’t Hide, a newsletter uncovering buried and whitewashed histories, and I just premiered my first documentary series with National Geographic, bringing these stories to the screen.

Today, millions of Americans will wave flags, fire up grills, and celebrate the birth of freedom. Politicians will give speeches about liberty and justice for all. Children will learn about brave patriots fighting for independence against British tyranny.

But here’s what they won’t hear: More Black Americans fought against American independence than for it. Between 15,000-20,000 Black Americans joined British forces during the Revolutionary War, while only 5,000-8,000 served with the Continental Army. For enslaved people in 1776, the enemy offered freedom while the “freedom fighters” offered continued bondage.

The Fourth of July is a carefully constructed lie that erases the choices Black Americans actually made when liberty was on the line.

I’m fighting to document stories like these British Black regiments before they’re dismissed as “unpatriotic” or erased entirely, and I need your help!

With no corporate backing or wealthy sponsors, this work depends entirely on readers like you.

If everyone reading this became a paid subscriber, I could investigate these hidden histories full-time, but right now less than 4% of my 27,000 followers are paid subscribers.

If you believe in journalism that challenges July 4th mythology when others look away, please consider a paid subscription today!

History Can’t Hide from Kahlil Greene is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

British Promises of Freedom vs. American Slavery

In November 1775, Lord Dunmore, Virginia’s royal governor, issued a proclamation that changed everything. Any enslaved person owned by a “rebel” who joined British forces would be freed. It was strategic warfare designed to destabilize the colonial economy and terrify plantation owners. But for thousands of enslaved Americans, the motivation didn’t matter. It was a path to freedom.

The response was immediate and massive. Within months, hundreds of Black men formed Dunmore’s “Ethiopian Regiment,” wearing uniforms emblazoned with “Liberty to Slaves.” When British General Henry Clinton expanded the offer in 1779 through the Philipsburg Proclamation, promising freedom to any enslaved person who escaped rebel masters, an estimated 100,000 enslaved people fled to British lines during the war.

Conversely, when Black soldiers like Salem Poor and Peter Salem fought heroically at Bunker Hill in 1775, the Continental Congress banned Black enlistment entirely. George Washington, himself a slaveholder, initially expelled Black soldiers already serving. The Declaration of Independence proclaimed that “all men are created equal” while keeping half a million people in chains.

Black Americans chose the side that offered them humanity.

Black Soldiers in British Forces

Throughout the war, Black Americans served in multiple British units across different regions. The Black Dragoons operated as cavalry in South Carolina, conducting raids against Patriot forces. The Black Pioneers worked as combat engineers and laborers, building fortifications and supporting military operations from Charleston to New York.

Black soldiers fought alongside British and Loyalist forces in major engagements, not just in support roles. When Francis Marion’s Patriots encountered Black cavalry units, they found themselves facing skilled horsemen who knew the local terrain and fought with the desperation of people whose freedom depended on victory.

British military records show these soldiers received better treatment than most Black Americans who served the Patriot cause. They were paid as soldiers, not property, and they lived in military camps as free men. When the war ended, thousands evacuated with British forces to Nova Scotia, England, and eventually Sierra Leone, maintaining their freedom.

Continental Army Integration and Black Patriots

The Continental Army did include Black soldiers, but their path to service was far more complicated. Initially banned by Washington, Black Americans were only gradually accepted as manpower shortages became desperate. Even then, their service often came with broken promises.

Rhode Island created an all-Black regiment in 1778, promising freedom to enslaved men who enlisted. These soldiers fought bravely at Newport and served until Yorktown. A French officer described Washington’s army as “speckled” because of racial integration in most units. Black and white soldiers fought side by side in every major battle from Lexington to Yorktown.

But integration didn’t mean equality. Many Black soldiers who served the American cause were returned to slavery after the war. James Lafayette, the spy who helped secure victory at Yorktown, had to petition the Virginia legislature for his freedom years later. Others waited decades for promised manumissions, if they came at all.

The contrast with British treatment was stark. While American Black soldiers faced uncertain futures, those who evacuated with British forces began new lives as free people in British territories worldwide.

Revolutionary War’s Racial Reality

The real story of Black Americans in the Revolution exposes the central lie of July 4th mythology. This was a war between two colonial powers, with Black Americans forced to choose which offered them the better chance at liberation.

Most chose Britain because British promises, however strategically motivated, were more reliable than American promises of universal liberty that explicitly excluded them. The numbers tell the story. Roughly 20,000 Black Americans sided with Britain versus 8,000 with the Patriots, a ratio of about 2.5 to 1.

Those who chose America often did so hoping the revolution’s ideals would eventually include them. Some northern states did begin gradual emancipation after the war. But many Black Patriots died still enslaved, having bet their lives on a freedom that never materialized.

The thousands who evacuated with British forces were refugees from American slavery, seeking the liberty that the “land of the free” denied them. They established some of the first large-scale free Black communities in the Atlantic world, from Nova Scotia to Sierra Leone.

Modern Implications of Hidden History

Every July 4th, America celebrates a sanitized version of its founding that erases the choices Black Americans actually made when freedom was on the line. We’re told to honor the founders’ vision of liberty while ignoring that most Black Americans who lived through the Revolution judged that vision inadequate and chose differently.

The same mythology that turns a slaveholding revolution into a pure freedom struggle shapes how we understand racial justice today. When we pretend the founding was about universal liberty rather than white independence, we make current racial inequalities seem like deviations from American values rather than continuations of them.

So tomorrow, when the fireworks light up the sky and the speeches celebrate American liberty, remember the 20,000 Black Americans who saw through the contradiction and chose differently. They understood that freedom isn’t about what flag you salute, but whether that flag represents your liberation or your continued oppression.

The British offered imperfect freedom, but it was freedom nonetheless. America offered perfect rhetoric about liberty while maintaining perfect bondage. For Black Americans in 1776, the choice was obvious, even if it meant fighting against the country that would eventually, grudgingly, centuries later, acknowledge their humanity.

But here’s the grim reality: stories like these 20,000 Black Americans who fought for British freedom are being systematically erased from American classrooms and museums.

Right now, state legislatures are banning discussions of how enslaved people made rational choices about which side offered real liberation. School boards are removing any Revolutionary War content that complicates the “patriots vs. tyrants” narrative.

Even the Smithsonian, which published research on Black British soldiers just months ago, is now facing pressure to present a “more patriotic” version of American history. The same institutions that should preserve these complex truths are proving they can’t withstand political demands for sanitized history.

The reality is stark: we need independent historians documenting these stories before they disappear entirely from public memory.

From one of my favorite history blogs, History Can’t Hide by Khalil Greene. You can find it here: Historycanthide.substack.com. About Mr. Greene:

I’m Kahlil Greene, aka the Gen Z Historian, and one week after my 19th birthday, I became the first Black student body president in Yale’s 318-year history.

Now, I’m a Peabody-winning edutainer with 750,000+ followers and 30 million+ views across TikTok, Instagram, and LinkedIn, where I share history lessons that unpack the injustices shaping our world today.

I write History Can’t Hide, a newsletter uncovering buried and whitewashed histories, and I just premiered my first documentary series with National Geographic, bringing these stories to the screen.

Today, millions of Americans will wave flags, fire up grills, and celebrate the birth of freedom. Politicians will give speeches about liberty and justice for all. Children will learn about brave patriots fighting for independence against British tyranny.

But here’s what they won’t hear: More Black Americans fought against American independence than for it. Between 15,000-20,000 Black Americans joined British forces during the Revolutionary War, while only 5,000-8,000 served with the Continental Army. For enslaved people in 1776, the enemy offered freedom while the “freedom fighters” offered continued bondage.

The Fourth of July is a carefully constructed lie that erases the choices Black Americans actually made when liberty was on the line.

I’m fighting to document stories like these British Black regiments before they’re dismissed as “unpatriotic” or erased entirely, and I need your help!

With no corporate backing or wealthy sponsors, this work depends entirely on readers like you.

If everyone reading this became a paid subscriber, I could investigate these hidden histories full-time, but right now less than 4% of my 27,000 followers are paid subscribers.

If you believe in journalism that challenges July 4th mythology when others look away, please consider a paid subscription today!

History Can’t Hide from Kahlil Greene is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

British Promises of Freedom vs. American Slavery

In November 1775, Lord Dunmore, Virginia’s royal governor, issued a proclamation that changed everything. Any enslaved person owned by a “rebel” who joined British forces would be freed. It was strategic warfare designed to destabilize the colonial economy and terrify plantation owners. But for thousands of enslaved Americans, the motivation didn’t matter. It was a path to freedom.

The response was immediate and massive. Within months, hundreds of Black men formed Dunmore’s “Ethiopian Regiment,” wearing uniforms emblazoned with “Liberty to Slaves.” When British General Henry Clinton expanded the offer in 1779 through the Philipsburg Proclamation, promising freedom to any enslaved person who escaped rebel masters, an estimated 100,000 enslaved people fled to British lines during the war.

Conversely, when Black soldiers like Salem Poor and Peter Salem fought heroically at Bunker Hill in 1775, the Continental Congress banned Black enlistment entirely. George Washington, himself a slaveholder, initially expelled Black soldiers already serving. The Declaration of Independence proclaimed that “all men are created equal” while keeping half a million people in chains.

Black Americans chose the side that offered them humanity.

Black Soldiers in British Forces

Throughout the war, Black Americans served in multiple British units across different regions. The Black Dragoons operated as cavalry in South Carolina, conducting raids against Patriot forces. The Black Pioneers worked as combat engineers and laborers, building fortifications and supporting military operations from Charleston to New York.

Black soldiers fought alongside British and Loyalist forces in major engagements, not just in support roles. When Francis Marion’s Patriots encountered Black cavalry units, they found themselves facing skilled horsemen who knew the local terrain and fought with the desperation of people whose freedom depended on victory.

British military records show these soldiers received better treatment than most Black Americans who served the Patriot cause. They were paid as soldiers, not property, and they lived in military camps as free men. When the war ended, thousands evacuated with British forces to Nova Scotia, England, and eventually Sierra Leone, maintaining their freedom.

Continental Army Integration and Black Patriots

The Continental Army did include Black soldiers, but their path to service was far more complicated. Initially banned by Washington, Black Americans were only gradually accepted as manpower shortages became desperate. Even then, their service often came with broken promises.

Rhode Island created an all-Black regiment in 1778, promising freedom to enslaved men who enlisted. These soldiers fought bravely at Newport and served until Yorktown. A French officer described Washington’s army as “speckled” because of racial integration in most units. Black and white soldiers fought side by side in every major battle from Lexington to Yorktown.

But integration didn’t mean equality. Many Black soldiers who served the American cause were returned to slavery after the war. James Lafayette, the spy who helped secure victory at Yorktown, had to petition the Virginia legislature for his freedom years later. Others waited decades for promised manumissions, if they came at all.

The contrast with British treatment was stark. While American Black soldiers faced uncertain futures, those who evacuated with British forces began new lives as free people in British territories worldwide.

Revolutionary War’s Racial Reality

The real story of Black Americans in the Revolution exposes the central lie of July 4th mythology. This was a war between two colonial powers, with Black Americans forced to choose which offered them the better chance at liberation.

Most chose Britain because British promises, however strategically motivated, were more reliable than American promises of universal liberty that explicitly excluded them. The numbers tell the story. Roughly 20,000 Black Americans sided with Britain versus 8,000 with the Patriots, a ratio of about 2.5 to 1.

Those who chose America often did so hoping the revolution’s ideals would eventually include them. Some northern states did begin gradual emancipation after the war. But many Black Patriots died still enslaved, having bet their lives on a freedom that never materialized.

The thousands who evacuated with British forces were refugees from American slavery, seeking the liberty that the “land of the free” denied them. They established some of the first large-scale free Black communities in the Atlantic world, from Nova Scotia to Sierra Leone.

Modern Implications of Hidden History

Every July 4th, America celebrates a sanitized version of its founding that erases the choices Black Americans actually made when freedom was on the line. We’re told to honor the founders’ vision of liberty while ignoring that most Black Americans who lived through the Revolution judged that vision inadequate and chose differently.

The same mythology that turns a slaveholding revolution into a pure freedom struggle shapes how we understand racial justice today. When we pretend the founding was about universal liberty rather than white independence, we make current racial inequalities seem like deviations from American values rather than continuations of them.

So tomorrow, when the fireworks light up the sky and the speeches celebrate American liberty, remember the 20,000 Black Americans who saw through the contradiction and chose differently. They understood that freedom isn’t about what flag you salute, but whether that flag represents your liberation or your continued oppression.

The British offered imperfect freedom, but it was freedom nonetheless. America offered perfect rhetoric about liberty while maintaining perfect bondage. For Black Americans in 1776, the choice was obvious, even if it meant fighting against the country that would eventually, grudgingly, centuries later, acknowledge their humanity.

But here’s the grim reality: stories like these 20,000 Black Americans who fought for British freedom are being systematically erased from American classrooms and museums.

Right now, state legislatures are banning discussions of how enslaved people made rational choices about which side offered real liberation. School boards are removing any Revolutionary War content that complicates the “patriots vs. tyrants” narrative.

Even the Smithsonian, which published research on Black British soldiers just months ago, is now facing pressure to present a “more patriotic” version of American history. The same institutions that should preserve these complex truths are proving they can’t withstand political demands for sanitized history.

The reality is stark: we need independent historians documenting these stories before they disappear entirely from public memory.

This article is taken from the History News Network. For the full article: Open in browser

February 4, 2025

“What is the role of history, the historian, and the principal U.S. organization that represents them?”

That is the question posed by historian Barbara Weinstein at the outset of this week’s HNN feature, which we commissioned in the wake of last month’s decision by the American Historical Association to veto a resolution condemning “scholasticide” in Gaza. The resolution had been overwhelmingly approved by members at the AHA’s annual meeting, leading many to question the motives of the group’s leaders, especially in light of the AHA’s other public pronouncements about both domestic and international politics. In her piece, Weinstein — a past president of the AHA — acknowledges the need for limits on the group’s advocacy efforts, while at the same time making a case for a more capacious understanding of historians’ role in society.

Further down in the newsletter, there’s a new Bunk Exhibit that offers historical context for this week’s skirmishes around tariffs and trade policy. And as always, you’ll find a sampling of recent history writing from around the web.

Featured

What Is the Role of the Historian?

Barbara Weinstein

The annual meeting of the American Historical Association (AHA) is rarely an occasion that sparks intense controversy, but this year’s gathering of historians proved to be an exception. At the business meeting on January 6, 2025, AHA members overwhelmingly passed (428 to 88) a resolution condemning Israel’s “scholasticide” — i.e., intentional decimation of educational and archival infrastructure — in Gaza. Given the lopsided nature of the vote, it then came as a shock to many AHA members and observers that the 16-member AHA Council subsequently decided to veto the resolution, declaring that it was beyond the scope of the association’s mission. Aside from a widespread sense of dismay, this ongoing dispute has prompted many of us to consider whether it is appropriate for our learned society to take a position on “political” issues. Or to put it more broadly, what is the role of history, the historian, and the principal U.S. organization that represents them?

This is not the first time this question has arisen for the AHA. During the Vietnam War, there were repeated attempts, all of them unsuccessful, to pass resolutions condemning U.S. involvement in that conflict. These failures may explain why there were no significant attempts by AHA members to prod the association to take stands on matters that were not exclusively of an academic nature during the rest of the 20th century. In the 1990s, the AHA judged it to be within its purview to investigate allegations of academic dishonesty, though it abandoned the initiative a few years later because it was resource-intensive and exposed the association to legal reprisals. In contrast, the Iran-Contra Affair a decade earlier — a scandal that reflected numerous distortions of historical fact and interpretation — passed unremarked upon by the leading U.S.-based historical association, as did the 1994 massacre in Rwanda, also fueled by specious historical claims.

Things began to change in the early 2000s in response to a series of policies adopted by the George W. Bush administration and the newly-created Department of Homeland Security. Massive re-classification orders threatened to deprive historians of access to crucial archival sources. The denial of visas to anyone, historians included, who could by some extreme stretch of the imagination be categorized as a threat to national security, impeded the movement of scholars who had been offered academic positions or invited to speak at conferences in the U.S., precisely at a time when the discipline of history was becoming more and more transnational. These problems escalated with the invasion of Iraq in 2003 and the broader “War on Terror.”

Opposition to these hindrances culminated in the passage of a 2007 AHA resolution denouncing “US Government Practices Inimical to the Values of the Historical Profession,” which focused on the War on Terror’s negative impact on historians. Underlying the careful wording of the resolution was a widespread opposition to the invasion of Iraq among AHA members — certainly the factor that explains the lopsided vote (1,550 to 498) in favor of the resolution. In a similar vein, the AHA Council issued a statement in 2022 vigorously denouncing the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and the historical mythology purveyed by Putin to justify the invasion. Once again, the denunciation included a nod to historical issues, but anyone reading the text of the statement could easily conclude that the main motivation was not Putin’s spurious historical interpretations, but a sense of urgency and generalized outrage at the incursion into Ukraine.

Debating Presentism

Then there is the resolution passed at the 2025 AHA meeting condemning “scholasticide” in Gaza. Once again, the authors of the resolution — AHA members affiliated with Historians for Peace and Democracy — went to great pains to focus on the destruction of archives, libraries, and university campuses, as well as the deaths of more than 95 university professors and hundreds of teachers. There is no reference in the text of the resolution to genocide; there is no call for a boycott of Israel or Israeli institutions. Even the issue of “intent” is left somewhat ambiguous, being mentioned only in a quote from a statement by UN experts. What is stated as a matter of fact is only what can be considered beyond dispute: that the IDF’s campaign in Gaza has obliterated all 12 universities in the territory and led to the deaths of hundreds of teachers and professors, not to mention thousands of young students. Indeed, the authors of the resolution assumed that its publication in the monthly AHA bulletin prior to the meeting indicated that its content met the existing standards, making the subsequent council veto all the more disturbing.

The wording of these resolutions could be chalked up to expediency: in order to be published in the AHA monthly magazine, Perspectives on History, and presented for a vote at the annual business meeting, a resolution has to coincide with the concerns and objectives of the historical profession as defined, if rather vaguely, by the AHA. Anyone seeking to engage in “advocacy” through the association has had to acquiesce to those real, if ill-defined, boundaries, by prioritizing the implications for historical research and education, rather than (in the case of Gaza) the deaths of many thousands of small children. What we’ve seen over the last 18 years is not a rejection of those boundaries, but rather an attempt to re-define them less narrowly and more capaciously. Far from demanding that the AHA remove all guardrails, most historians inclined toward activism have tacitly accepted the assumption that there should be some limits on what controversies the AHA wades into, or at least on how it wades into them.

This gradualist approach to rethinking the limits of the AHA’s engagement in advocacy is quite remarkable given that any survey of early- to mid-career historians and doctoral students in leading North American history departments in 2025 would almost surely reveal that most scholars in these cohorts were drawn to the study of history by concerns they would describe as “political.” Of course, this is not to imply that earlier generations of AHA members were apolitical — it is, after all, a learned society whose presidents include actual presidents (Theodore Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson), as well as public figures like Alfred Thayer Mahan, Frederick Jackson Turner, and Arthur Schlesinger Sr. But a very restricted definition of politics and a broader faith in the revelations to be found in archival sources allowed previous generations of scholars (roughly, prior to the 1960s) to maintain the notion, or better, the fiction, that their political engagements did not taint or color their historical writings.

In certain respects, this sensibility has persisted within the AHA even as its membership has become more inclined to see political concerns as inseparable from historical inquiry. Yet I don’t think this persistence can be attributed exclusively to “tradition.” A quick glance at AHA conference programs from over the years will illustrate how much the subjects of historical inquiry have changed and diversified — though historians of Palestine would argue that this has been more apparent in some areas than others. The fact that I am writing this as a past president of the AHA is evidence that another longstanding tradition — the dominance of white men in AHA leadership who study the U.S. and Europe— has significantly eroded. As with academia overall, this shift has been more substantial with regard to gender diversity, but gradually the leadership has also become more diverse in other ways. Had the members attending this year’s business meeting not been so distracted (and understandably so) by the resolution condemning scholasticide in Gaza, they might have paid closer attention to a moment that was definitely “historic” for the AHA: not only was Thavolia Glymph, the first Black woman to be president of the association, completing her term at the meeting, but she was passing the presidential gavel (the historian’s version of “the torch”) to Ben Vinson, a historian of colonial Latin America and president of Howard University. It was the first time in the AHA’s 140-year history that one person of African descent was succeeding another of African descent as president.

The AHA is not an organization frozen in time or forever clinging to the past; it has accompanied and adapted to the changes in the historical profession over the last half century. Even though the Radical Historians’ Caucus’ effort to elect Staughton Lynd president and pass a resolution condemning the Vietnam War went down to defeat in 1969, that turbulent episode convinced the organization’s leadership that steps had to be taken to expand and diversify the AHA Council, and maybe inject some variation into the nearly unbroken chain of white males who had occupied the presidency since the AHA’s founding. (It took another 10 years for an African American to be elected president, and a whopping 18 years until a woman occupied that position.) But the AHA has rarely, if ever, been in the vanguard of those changes. This may be a reflection of longstanding traditions, but also of the logic of long-established institutions. As one would expect, the AHA seeks to be as inclusive as possible, and once an organization starts taking explicitly political stands, or moves to the cutting edge, there are bound to be members with a different intellectual and/or political orientation who no longer feel like they “belong.” And while the AHA is a membership society and its fiscal health depends primarily on membership dues and annual meeting participation, it also receives donations and grants from foundations and government agencies — sources of revenue that might be imperiled by taking explicit stances on issues deemed controversial by the leadership or its external supporters.

The cautious posture adopted by the AHA with regard to political issues was far less of a problem when the majority of its members could maintain the fiction of a sharp separation between their positions in the world and their intellectual pursuits, and remain untroubled by the succession of white males at elite universities who led the association. But that caution has persisted into an era when few historians would dissociate their scholarly work from their political commitments. I should emphasize here that I mean “political” with a small “p,” implying a broader meaning of the political, one that has allowed historians to expand their notion of the public sphere(s) and their definition of political actors and intellectual authorities. And these interpretive trends could only be possible in an atmosphere where critical innovation is encouraged, not suppressed, where scholars have regular access to archives and libraries, and classroom conversations can take place without fear of retribution or military incursion.

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New Questions and Answers

Q. In a recent Q&A, you insist that “et al.” can be used only for two or more individuals. But cannot “et al.” equally be an abbreviated form of the singular “et alius”? And, as such, can it not be used for a single individual?

A. You’re right, there’s no reason et al. couldn’t stand for et alius (“and another”) rather than et alii/aliae/alia (“and others”). For our answer we (mostly) relied on Merriam-Webster and the OED, both of which define et al. only as “and others” and both of which cite et alii (masculine), et aliae (feminine), and et alia (neuter) as the only spelled-out forms. Maybe the dictionaries are right. Or maybe they’re missing the occasional singular use hidden behind the abbreviation. And it’s not like the world would end if one were to use et al. to stand in for a single person. We’ll keep tabs on this issue and consider reconsidering our advice someday.

Q. When writing units of measurement for fractions between 0 and 1, is the unit singular or plural? For example, “We walked 1/4 mile yesterday and 7/8 mile today,” or “Gently fold in 2/3 cup of blueberries.”

A. Amounts of less than one can usually be treated as singular when expressed as simple fractions—as in your three examples—but plural when expressed as decimal fractions. The difference is related to how such expressions would be spelled out or read aloud:

1/4 mile = one-fourth of a mile or a quarter of a mile or a quarter mile (among other variations)

7/8 mile = seven-eighths of a mile

2/3 cup = two-thirds of a cup

A decimal fraction, by contrast, would normally be read as a plural:

0.25 miles = (zero) point two five miles (rather than twenty-five hundredths of a mile)

But note that an abbreviated unit of measure is usually the same for both singular and plural quantities. So you’d write “0.25 mi.” even though “mi.” would be read as “miles.” See also CMOS 9.21 and 10.73.

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Q. Is it Chicago style to not capitalize clauses in the US Constitution (the commerce clause, the due process clause, etc.)? If so, what is the reasoning?

A. Such terms are not normally capitalized in Chicago style; see CMOS 8.81, which includes the example “the due process clause.” The reason for lowercase is that the Constitution doesn’t have a Commerce Clause or a Due Process Clause—not with those titles anyway.

Instead, “commerce clause” and “due process clause” refer to certain passages in the Constitution that treat commerce and due process. We realize, however, that those terms (and others naming specific clauses) have acquired the status of proper nouns for many writers and are often styled with initial caps in published prose. And Merriam-Webster, though it uses lowercase in its headwords for such terms (see, e.g., the entry for “due process clause”), adds the label “often capitalized.”

If Chicago’s default style is too conservative for you, capitalization-wise, there’s nothing wrong with applying initial caps to such terms as long as you stick to clauses (e.g., the Due Process Clause, but the legal concept of due process).

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