In 2023, Texas legislators voted unanimously to raise car insurance rates by $1 per year to combat catalytic converter theft. The bill made no mention of ALPRs; lawmakers later told The Texas Tribune that they had not come up in discussions of how the money would be spent. The Tribune has since learned that the Motor Vehicle Crime Prevention Authority has allowed at least $30 million of that rate increase to be used on nearly 3,200 Flock cameras. The chairman of the authority had hoped in 2023 to “cover the entire state” with Flock cameras.1

Texas Governor Greg Abbott recently ordered state agencies to stop funding the deployment of Flock cameras in light of increasing reports of abuse and public concern. More than 1,200 cameras had been deployed for the Department of Public Safety under a three-year, $15.9 million agreement, with thousands more backed by grants to local departments.2 Texas had built a surveillance state without the legislature quite realizing it.

Noel Pichardo had the same experience in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. Pichardo was a police officer in 2023 and thought that an earlier effort to bring Flock cameras to Pawtucket had stalled. Pichardo later learned that the city had signed a two-year, $128,000 deal for 20 cameras and treated it as an administrative decision. Pichardo began to notice them around town and asked, “Wait a minute. When did we make this decision to put these up?”3

Cities all the time buy this kind of gear, and you’re not going to expect a city council vote over a software license or a printer. Flock is something else. It allows the government to hold on to massive amounts of information about people suspected of nothing and connected to no particular investigation. That is a surveillance policy, and one that needs to be in the open and discussed.

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Why Flock?

Flock is handy for police. In June 2026, the Kenosha County Sheriff’s Office used Flock data combined with other evidence to identify those involved after a shooting at the Bluebird Motel in Somers. Four people were taken into custody.4 When you’re dealing with serious crimes and time is of the essence, efficiency like that is important.

You can look up a license plate in public view without a warrant. Flock changes that by allowing police to store and later retrieve vehicle sightings before they have any indication that the driver might be relevant to an investigation. Information about vehicles police are looking for is stored in a much larger database of people suspected of nothing.

Police can query that data and start building a picture of where a given car has been. That may be enormously helpful in a serious investigation. But does that mean we want the government holding on to that much information about the rest of us?

The Washington Post has reported on at least 50 law enforcement officers charged with or accused of misusing license plate reader systems, 90 percent of which involved Flock.5 In Wisconsin, Milwaukee police officer Josue Ayala was charged with repeatedly using Flock for personal reasons.6 These officers didn’t hack the system. They had access, and they used it.

An audit might reveal that an officer abused the database, but the officer already has the information. The person being watched might not know the search took place, much less have an opportunity to challenge it.

The government’s experience with Section 215 of the PATRIOT Act is instructive. After 9/11, the government bulk collected metadata on phone calls because they believed that more access might prevent another terrorist attack. The bipartisan Privacy and Civil Liberties Oversight Board subsequently found that the program had only narrow value, and Congress scaled it back.7 Surveillance powers are easy to expand when the benefits are clear, and the costs aren’t. They’re much harder to scale back once the government starts relying on them.

The Fourth and Fifth Amendments were written with an inherent distrust of government power. The Founding Fathers had seen the government search, seize, and deprive people of liberty with broad brushstrokes. Their solution was to require the government to follow rules before it could intrude on our rights. Flock is handy, but that doesn’t mean we get to circumvent the process.

In 1755, Ben Franklin noted that “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”8 James Madison later wrote about representative government in Federalist No. 51: “You must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place oblige it to control itself.”9

If communities decide that Flock is useful enough to keep, the constraints on that power should be in place before police use it to gather information on people suspected of nothing.

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Checking the Government

The Supreme Court has not yet ruled on how the Fourth Amendment applies to a technology like Flock. Its location-tracking cases suggest that some tracking on public roads may be okay, while, more broadly, sweeping digital records of a person’s movements are constitutionally distinct.10 Flock falls somewhere between those cases.

This summer, the Court issued a ruling in Chatrie v. United States that taking a person’s Google Location History constituted a Fourth Amendment search requiring a warrant. The case has been sent back to the Fourth Circuit to determine whether the warrant satisfied constitutional requirements.11 Chatrie doesn’t answer the Flock question. But the government shouldn’t get to exercise the surveillance power enabled by technology while we all wait years for another case to reach the Court.

Virginia has already set guardrails around the use of automated license plate readers. Its law generally requires information to be deleted after 21 days, restricts how and with whom it can be used or shared, and requires public reporting.12 Wisconsin lawmakers considered different approaches during the 2025–26 legislative session, but neither became law.13

Flock has also adjusted some of its policies in response to criticism, recommending a seven-day retention period and requiring more documentation around searches.14 Those protections rely heavily on the person at the keyboard and on whether someone actually reviews their work.

An internal investigation in Alpharetta, Georgia found that officer Dustin Bozzo allegedly looked up a former lover’s license plate 56 times and another officer’s plate 29 times. When asked for a reason, he frequently chose “Wanted Person” or “Traffic Infraction,” options he later said were simply “just a quick keystroke.”15 Requiring a reason offers little protection if nobody actually reviews the search.

The ACLU of Massachusetts recently published a toolkit for defense attorneys to use to force disclosure of surveillance technology used by police departments. WIRED reported that defendants and sometimes even prosecutors may not be aware that a particular surveillance technology was used.[16] A defendant who doesn’t know how police found them can’t challenge it, and a judge won’t know whether the government crossed a constitutional line.

If the government wants a searchable database of the movements of people overwhelmingly suspected of nothing, it should explain why it needs that power before it deploys it widely. Citizens need enough information about how the system is being used to know whether those limits are being observed.

Some places might want Flock, but with guardrails. Others might not want that much power. Either is more defensible than letting the technology proliferate unseen until police rely on it and every proposed constraint sounds like taking away an essential tool of law enforcement.

Pichardo asked the right question: “When did we make this decision to put these up?” The answer isn’t after the cameras have been watching.

If police want databases that let them track civilians’ everyday movements, that power should be authorized by elected officials with clear boundaries the public can see and understand. The government doesn’t get to build the surveillance system, give police carte blanche access to it, and then ask us to trust them to behave going forward.

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The Revolution Remembered Backward

The American Revolution is usually remembered backward. We begin with 4 July 1776 and arrange everything before it as if the outcome had already been decided. What had been uncertain becomes, in hindsight, a road that could only lead to independence. The story is cleaner that way, but the people living through it did not have the comfort of hindsight.

Long before there was a Declaration, there was resistance. Americans were already asking how far imperial power could reach and whether Britain had crossed that line. The men who gathered in Congress did not announce a new nation. They argued from within the British Empire, insisting that they were defending inherited rights rather than inventing new ones.

They claimed the rights of Englishmen and the authority of colonial self-government against a Parliament that increasingly treated distance as permission. What sounded like loyalty in 1774 could look like submission by 1776, as a defense of inherited rights became an argument over who had the authority to govern.

Americans did not declare independence and then discover self-government. They had already begun practicing it. From Congress down to local committees, they were learning to act together while still appealing to the king and claiming the authority to judge imperial power.

In the strange middle ground before independence, Americans spoke the language of loyalty while building the habits of union. The Declaration would not create that reality so much as give it a name.

Resistance Before Independence

The First Continental Congress did not declare independence. It turned a Massachusetts crisis into a continental one. When delegates from twelve colonies gathered in Philadelphia in September 1774, Parliament had already passed the Coercive Acts in response to the Boston Tea Party, punishing Massachusetts and bringing local government more tightly under imperial control. The warning was clear: if one colony resisted, it could be made an example.

The other colonies had to decide whether Massachusetts was a warning or a common cause. Congress answered through common action. The delegates described their rights together and agreed on a shared response to British policy, even though they did not yet claim to speak for an independent people.

Their language remained cautious. Congress still appealed to British constitutional tradition, objecting to parliamentary overreach rather than monarchy itself. The delegates were not claiming that America had become a nation. They were arguing that Britain had broken the rules under which free people could be governed.

The colonies were not yet declaring independence. They were insisting that power had limits, and that consent was one of them. Yet the form of Congress pointed beyond its language. A group of colonies had assembled and spoken together. Long before they agreed on what that political body was, they had begun to act like one.

The Articles of Association carried Congress’s decision into daily life. A boycott of British goods depended on local committees to enforce it, which meant ordinary habits of trade and consumption now served a political cause larger than any one town or colony.

That discipline across colonial lines did not come from certainty that separation was coming. It came from the belief that British power had to be answered by American cooperation. Before Americans declared that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed,” they were already testing consent in practice.

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Petitioning the King While Taking Up Arms

By 1775, the contradiction had become impossible to miss. The colonies petitioned the king even as they prepared for war. They still used the language of loyalty, but their actions were making it harder to restore imperial control.

After Lexington and Concord, the Second Continental Congress faced a crisis the First Congress had tried to prevent. Blood had been shed, Boston sat under military pressure from both sides, and Americans were no longer arguing only over whether they should resist. They had to decide who could organize that resistance.

Congress stepped into that role by creating the Continental Army and placing George Washington in command. What had been a scattered colonial military response became something closer to a common American force. The colonies were not yet independent states, but they were no longer acting only as separate colonies.

Even then, reconciliation had not disappeared from view. In July 1775, Congress sent the Olive Branch Petition to George III as “your Majesty’s faithful subjects,” still asking the king to restore peace and preserve the imperial connection. At almost the same time, it issued the Declaration of the Causes and Necessity of Taking Up Arms, explaining why Americans believed armed resistance had become necessary.

The contradiction was now on paper. Congress was appealing to the king while preparing to fight the king’s army. Separation was not yet the answer, but resistance already was. The Declaration of the Causes and Necessity of Taking Up Arms made that tension plain:

Congress denied separation at the very moment it was organizing armed resistance. The claim was not dishonest so much as strained by events. Americans still hoped the empire could be repaired, but Britain would not accept the premise repair required: that the colonies had political rights Parliament could not override, and that Americans had the authority to defend those rights even before they declared independence.

The Habit of Self-Government

The formal break came on 4 July 1776, but the habit of self-government had taken shape earlier, when Americans claimed the right to judge power for themselves. The colonists did not merely complain that Parliament had passed bad laws. They argued that government could act through legal forms and still violate the rights of free people. Once they made that claim, obedience could no longer be treated as automatic.

Resistance now needed structure. Congress gave it a continental voice, while local committees carried it into daily life. Through boycotts and military preparation, self-government became less an idea than a discipline, something Americans had to practice through institutions of their own making.

None of this was clean or complete, and none of it yet made America a nation. But a people long practiced in local self-rule began to discover that they could also act together across colonies. The Declaration of Independence would later give this argument its most famous language: governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed. Before Americans declared that principle, they were already acting as if legitimate authority required their participation.

Independence was not inevitable. The old relationship simply became harder to sustain. Britain still imagined obedience as the answer to disorder, while Americans increasingly saw obedience without consent as the disorder itself.

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Before Independence Had a Name

The Declaration of Independence did not begin the American experiment. It gave public language to a political reality already taking shape through resistance. Nations often tell their origin stories as if the decisive moment explains everything, but this one resists that kind of neatness.

Before independence, the colonists had learned that liberty could not survive as an inherited claim. It had to be practiced through common action, and Congress had begun to provide the form that action required. What started as a meeting of colonial delegates was becoming an authority the British Empire could not easily explain.

The men who gathered in Congress were not yet ready to declare a new nation. Their petitions still reached for reconciliation, and their explanations still fit resistance inside the old constitutional order. But by 1776, they had begun acting like a self-governing people.

Independence became the name for a choice they had been moving toward through action. They did not simply announce a nation into being. They recognized, with all the danger and uncertainty that came with it, that the work had already begun.

The Revolution was not a straight road to 4 July. It was a long argument over who had the authority to govern in common. Before there was independence, there was the harder work of becoming capable of it.

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Every Fourth of July, we return to the Declaration of Independence, or at least to the lines most Americans know best.

That sentence deserves its place in our civic memory. It gave Americans a standard the country would spend generations trying to meet. Later generations would use it to challenge the nation, often more forcefully than the founders themselves had imagined.

But the Declaration was not written only to announce a principle. It was written to defend a decision.

The men who approved it were not writing from the safety of victory. They were speaking for a cause that could still fail. The colonies had been fighting Britain for more than a year, but independence remained a step many Americans had not yet accepted. Before Congress could ask the world to recognize a new nation, it had to explain why separation was justified. That argument had been building for years, but most of it had not begun as an argument for independence.

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Before Independence

The Declaration did not appear out of nowhere. By the summer of 1776, the colonies had been arguing with Great Britain for more than a decade, and most of that argument had not been about independence.

For years, colonial leaders insisted they remained loyal subjects of the Crown. Their quarrel was not with British government itself, but with a government they believed had violated the rights British subjects were supposed to possess. They were not yet asking to leave the empire. They were asking the empire to honor its own principles.

Even after fighting broke out at Lexington and Concord, many Americans still hoped the breach could be repaired. By July 1776, Congress no longer believed that was possible. The Declaration gave that conclusion its public form. After years of arguing that British authority had violated British rights, Congress now had to explain why those violations justified leaving the empire altogether.

The Burden of Persuasion

By July 1776, Congress had already decided that the colonies would separate from Great Britain. The remarkable thing about the Declaration is not the decision itself, but what the delegates chose to do next.

Before speaking of equality or natural rights, and before listing a single grievance against the king, they paused to explain why they believed they owed the world an explanation.

Those are not the words of people who believed conviction alone settled the matter. The famous principles that follow are the beginning of a case Congress believed had to be made before independence could be defended.

Raising the Standard

The opening of the Declaration invites its readers to hear the case. The next paragraph tells them how to judge it. Jefferson begins with a thought that feels almost out of place: “Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes…”

Those words slow the document down just when we expect it to gather speed. Jefferson does not ask his readers to begin with the colonies’ grievances. He asks them to begin with the weight of the decision itself. Governments are not to be discarded because they disappoint us, nor is every injustice enough to justify revolution.

Only after establishing that principle does he turn to the conduct of George III. The grievances that follow are not simply a catalog of complaints. They are Congress’s answer to the standard Jefferson has already set. If long-established governments should not be changed for “light and transient causes,” then Congress had to show that Britain’s abuses were neither light nor transient. The Declaration is asking whether separation had finally become not a choice but a necessity.

The Citizen Appears

By the time Jefferson writes that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed,” Congress has already presented its case and left the judgment to its readers.

That is easy to overlook because we know how the story ends. The delegates did not. They could not assume agreement, much less demand it. The Declaration had to persuade its readers. It treated them not as subjects receiving an order, but as people capable of judging whether the case had been made.

Consent of the governed is usually read as a statement about the source of political authority. It is that, but it also says something about the people themselves. A government can rest on consent only if citizens are capable of judgment. The Declaration does not merely claim that power comes from the people. It assumes the people can decide whether power has been used justly.

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An Unfinished Experiment

The Declaration declared that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed,” but it left a question that would follow the republic from the beginning: who counted among the governed?

The question appeared almost as soon as independence did. Abigail Adams saw the problem before the Declaration was approved.

“We will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation.”

She was not rejecting the Revolution. She was asking whether its principles would be applied as broadly as its language suggested.

Nearly a century later, Frederick Douglass returned to the same question from the perspective of a man born into slavery.

“What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July?”

Douglass did not argue that the Declaration was wrong. He argued that the nation had failed to live under the principle it had already proclaimed.

Abraham Lincoln answered that challenge by returning to the Declaration itself. At Gettysburg, he reached past the Constitution to the nation’s first principle.

“Conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

For Lincoln, the Civil War was a test of whether the proposition announced in 1776 could endure.

A century after emancipation, Martin Luther King Jr. stood at the Lincoln Memorial and described the Declaration as a promise still waiting to be honored.

“A promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.”

King was making the same argument Abigail Adams had made before the republic was born. The question was not whether the principle had power. The question was whether Americans would extend it to the people still waiting to be included.

That is where the Declaration becomes harder to live with than to quote. It gave Americans a way to defend independence, then left behind a principle that did not stay where the founding generation tried to leave it. It moved outward, slowly and unevenly, carried by people who could read the words and see themselves missing from them.

That does not make the Declaration weaker. It makes our obligation clearer. If we claim its principles as an inheritance, we also inherit the work of upholding them.

What Comes Next

The sentence we remember still deserves its place, but the Declaration is deeper than its most famous line. Its strength lies not only in the fact that it declared independence. It gave Americans a standard for what they should become.

We have never fully lived up to that standard, but we have never stopped returning to it. Americans have fought wars over it, amended the Constitution for it, and unsettled old arrangements because of it. That history should not make us cynical about the promise. It should remind us how much Americans have been willing to do when the country has fallen short of its own principles.

That is the inheritance the Declaration leaves us: not perfection, and not surrender, but the work of drawing the republic closer to the promise it made at the beginning. We are not the first Americans asked to do that work, and we will not be the last. But for now, it is ours.

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