Law & Social Inquiry

Volume 40, Issue 4, 1058–1066, Fall 2015

Hate Speech, Group Libel, and “Ford’s

Megaphone”
Clyde Spillenger

WOESTE, VICTORIA SAKER. 2012. Henry Ford’s War on Jews and the Legal Battle Against
Hate Speech. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Pp. xv, 408. $55.00, cloth;
$24.95, paper.

This essay on Victoria Saker Woeste’s Henry Ford’s War on Jews and the Legal
Battle Against Hate Speech (2012) emphasizes that what made Ford’s broadsides
against Jews in the 1920s so dangerous was technology—his command of an
unparalleled network of distribution, through his nationwide Ford dealerships. In
addition, at the time of Ford’s libels, US legal culture had not yet absorbed the idea that
ideological and psychological subordination of minority groups was the principal harm
worked by what would later be called “hate speech.”

Vicky Woeste’s Henry Ford’s War on Jews and the Legal Battle Against Hate
Speech is an engaging account of an important and often misunderstood episode in
the history of US bigotry. Her “thick history” of Aaron Sapiro’s libel suit against
Henry Ford is consistently well-written and richly contextualized; and her sharp
judgment on the insincerity and inefficacy of Ford’s public apology for the anti-
Semitic articles published in the Dearborn Independent, his propaganda organ, is
compelling. Her book also offers an object lesson in how research on a first book or
dissertation can open up avenues for subsequent scholarly explorations. It was
through her research on her first book, The Farmer’s Benevolent Trust (1998), that
Woeste encountered the redoubtable Aaron Sapiro, b^ete noir of Henry Ford’s Dear-
born Independent and Ford’s worthy adversary in court. The result is a book rather
different from The Farmer’s Benevolent Trust in its focus, but one that builds on that
earlier work to suggest previously unremarked connections between historical actors
and themes. I am grateful to her for following this path and bringing us this dis-
cerning study of Sapiro v. Ford and the cultural dynamics surrounding that dispute.
Woeste’s title, which concludes with the phrase “hate speech,” makes clear why
this story resonates for us today; perhaps no modern-day issue better illustrates the
ambivalence underlying our societal commitment to free speech than utterances
directed toward the subordination of racial and other minorities. Of course, as Woeste
notes, Sapiro’s libel suit against Ford was not framed, legally, in terms of what we
today call “hate speech,” a phrase implying that the principal harm of the speech con-
sists in its appeal to the subordination of a minority group. Woeste nicely captures the
awkward dynamic between two distinct ideas: libel of an individual, which formed the
gravamen of Sapiro’s lawsuit, and public vilification of a race or religion, calculated to

Clyde Spillenger is Professor of Law, University of California, Los Angeles. He may be reached at
spilleng@law.ucla.edu.

1058 C 2015 American Bar Foundation

V
 “Ford’s Megaphone” 1059

stir up hatred against its members. Sapiro, while loathing the anti-Semitic thrust of
the Independent’s attacks on him, was concerned above all to defend his reputation
from the accusations of corruption and mismanagement leveled by the newspaper. By
contrast, Louis Marshall, the leader of American Jewry who ended up securing Ford’s
dubious public “apology” by way of ending the litigation, was most concerned with
countering the effects of the Independent’s falsehoods on public attitudes toward Jews.
The tension between these two foci help account for the unsatisfying conclusion to
the trial: Neither Sapiro nor Marshall came away with what appears to us as an
unqualified victory, although Marshall was slow to recognize the fact.
Divining the lessons of Sapiro v. Ford for the problem of hate speech as we per-
ceive it today requires us to focus more closely on the historically specific features of
Ford’s libels.1 I want to do this by placing the Ford case alongside the later case of
Beauharnais v. Illinois (1952), in which the Supreme Court upheld the application of
Illinois’s “group libel” statute to the circulation of a racist lithograph in Chicago
demanding government action to counter the “encroachment” of blacks on white
society. As I’ll explain, I think that Beauharnais was wrongly decided, and that Ford’s
utterances, while constitutionally protected, presented a far more serious situation.
Comparison of the two cases suggests to me two important features of the Ford case.
First, it is the problem of technology and scale—Ford’s ability to project his odious
message through an unmatched network of distribution, by requiring his local dealers
to carry the Dearborn Independent—that made his libels so dangerous. This makes the
Independent’s anti-Semitic campaign of vilification a problem of a different order from
that of the amateurish lithograph circulated by the defendant in Beauharnais. Second,
it is clear that, at the time of Sapiro v. Ford, our legal culture had not yet embraced
the concept that ideological and psychological subordination of the group is a cogni-
zable harm, perhaps the principal harm, effected by racist and other hate speech.
Instead, at the time of the Ford case and for several decades afterward, public author-
ities justified such legal action as they took against racially offensive speech by refer-
ence to their desire to avoid what they called “racial conflict,” a denatured
description of what amounted to the playing out of racial hierarchies. Unlike the sit-
uation with the growing black population in northern industrial cities in the years
following World War I, there was no prospect of a “race war” emerging between Jews
and Gentiles. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that Aaron Sapiro’s sole
recourse was to the private cause of action of defamation.

SCALE DOES MATTER

A few years ago, I read an item in the Los Angeles Times concerning what is
by now a depressingly familiar subject, the bullying of a young teenage girl by her
classmates, particularly through the use of social media. (I wish I could recapture
the article in order to give a proper citation, but I will have to rely on memory.)

1. In this essay, I frequently attribute the defamatory statements in the Dearborn Independent to Ford
himself, although he did not pen them. Woeste effectively demonstrates Ford’s facility, in a variety of set-
tings, in purveying his influence while maintaining a kind of “plausible deniability” through the use of
subordinates.
1060 LAW & SOCIAL INQUIRY

A couple of the classmates had taken to Facebook to make disparaging comments

about both the girl’s physical appearance and her chastity. Before long, the posts
had gone viral and hundreds if not thousands of people, most of them unac-
quainted with the girl, saw them. The girl’s parents ultimately withdrew her from
the school. Her injuries were real.
The school disciplined some of those responsible for the bullying, and the
parents of one of the disciplined students brought suit against the school district.
All this sticks in my mind because the lawyer for the plaintiffs was quoted in the
article as saying, roughly, “This [the Facebook posts] was protected speech. The fact
that social media amplify the circulation of the girls’ comments doesn’t affect the
analysis. Whether one or a billion people see the posts, it is still protected speech.
It is only the scale that is different.” And I remember thinking to myself as I read
the article, “That is the kind of non sequitur that only someone who has recently
gone to law school could utter with a straight face.” Yes, Virginia, there is a differ-
ence between being humiliated in front of one person and being humiliated in front
of 100,000 people. To alter a more familiar figure, scale does matter. Purist free-
speech doctrine does not always acknowledge this fact, but it is an integral part of
libel law, whose focus on injury to reputation implicitly links liability to the scope
of injury. The social “volume” of an utterance not only can effect unique psychic
harms, it can also crowd out competing voices, thereby distorting both the sub-
stance and the process of political choice.
Woeste’s account of Sapiro v. Ford raises cognate issues—concerning not just
the legal question of whether publications like Ford’s in the Independent are consti-
tutionally protected, but the more general question of whether the social value pro-
vided by particularly destructive forms of speech justifies the harm it wreaks. Of
course, not every rambunctious teenager who takes to Facebook is a little Henry
Ford, but the “viral” possibilities of today’s “new media” were disturbingly prefigured
by Ford and the demagogues in Europe and the United States who emulated his
success by exploiting the possibilities of radio and other new technologies. For Ford,
the medium itself was not new—the Independent was, after all, a typical “sleepy sub-
urban weekly” at the time Ford purchased it in 1918—but the manner of distribut-
ing it surely was. Ford’s unique ability to exploit his privileged access to the US
consumer, and thus insinuate the Independent’s falsehoods and distortions into every
corner of US culture, proved nearly as ingenious as the know-how that had helped
him build an automotive empire. This is what made it imperative to counter Ford,
by whatever legal and political means were available. Ford’s command of a ready-
made channel of distribution, his national renown and the ability to associate his
message with that renown, and the readiness of the public for homely sermons fix-
ing blame for the disruptions of post World War I society on a set of convenient
scapegoats gave the Independent an outsize influence. By the mid-1920s, the Inde-
pendent had a circulation estimated at around 700,000, not much less than the
nation’s largest dailies (Dinnerstein 1994, 81).
We cannot know the extent to which the anti-Semitic broadsides of the Inde-
pendent, whose circulation was largely in the suburbs Ford’s principal invention had
made possible, convinced those not already predisposed to blame the Jews for the
world’s troubles, but the saturation of this segment of the public sphere obviously
 “Ford’s Megaphone” 1061

had a major impact in promoting the lies of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. The
usual (and usually persuasive) counter to calls for punishment of speech is that
“the fitting remedy for evil counsels is good ones,”2 but Woeste’s account vividly
demonstrates just how difficult it was for Louis Marshall and other opponents of
anti-Semitism to counter Ford’s libels. No industrial giant or national distributor of
consumer goods had the incentive to stamp its products with paeans to equal rights
or to paper its local outposts with protests against Ford’s anti-Semitic message.
Without access to a vehicle for their protests that could focus on a notoriously dif-
fuse population—US consumers—the campaign against Ford’s calumnies, impres-
sive though it was, appeared muted by comparison. As Woeste documents (2012,
64–68), Marshall and other leading Jews in the United States had already been
alarmed by the signs of an increasing anti-Semitism in Europe as well as in the
United States, including a flourishing “hate literature” in Germany. We must, of
course, avoid analyzing the mind-set and motivations of Marshall in the 1910s and
1920s by summoning our knowledge of what took place in the 1930s and 1940s.
But whatever his limitations of personality and political judgment—and Woeste
describes them unsparingly—Marshall plainly understood the perils of joining
emergent technologies of mass communication with the vein of radical anti-
Semitism and race hatred he saw emerging in US society. Subsequent events in
Europe in the 1920s and 1930s vindicated that concern.
The situation in Beauharnais v. Illinois (1952), the case that brought the con-
cept of “group libel” to the attention of the US Supreme Court, forms an instruc-
tive comparison. In that case, an organization called the “White Circle League”
distributed in a Chicago neighborhood a circular that was, in form at least, a peti-
tion to local government officials expressing dismay at the “encroachment” of “the
Negro,” declaring the need to prevent “mongrelization,” and making other racist
and offensive claims about blacks. The Supreme Court, in a 5–4 decision, upheld
the conviction of the defendant Beauharnais (an officer of the “White Circle
League”) under Illinois’s “group libel” law.3 (I will have more to say about the sur-
prising provenance of this statute in a moment.) While Beauharnais has never been
overruled, it has often been criticized,4 and it is doubtful that it would fare well
under today’s free-speech jurisprudence. To say that Beauharnais was “wrong the day
it was decided” might be to indulge in presentism; but, in retrospect, the Court’s
relative indifference to free-speech values in that case does seem ill-considered.
Ford’s campaign in the Dearborn Independent, not to mention later masters of
the airwaves like Father Charles Coughlin, had raised the specter that democratic
politics on a national scale could be distorted through appeals to racial or religious
bigotry, with (as seemed borne out by the European experience) potentially

2. Whitney v. California (1927) (Brandeis, J., concurring).

3. The Illinois statute read: “It shall be unlawful for any person, firm or corporation to manufacture,
sell, or offer for sale, advertise or publish, present or exhibit in any public place in this state any lithograph,
moving picture, play, drama or sketch, which publication or exhibition portrays depravity, criminality,
unchastity, or lack of virtue of a class of citizens, of any race, color, creed or religion which said publication
or exhibition exposes the citizens of any race, color, creed or religion to contempt, derision, or obloquy or
which is productive of breach of the peace or riots.”
4. Harry Kalven, Jr., rendered a particularly searching critique in an essay in his book The Negro and
the First Amendment (1965). See also Cover (1982).
1062 LAW & SOCIAL INQUIRY

catastrophic results. Thus could renowned journalist Dorothy Thompson, who had
covered European developments in the 1920s and 1930s, refer to herself in testi-
mony before Congress in 1937 as “an observer at the collapse of constitutional
democracies . . . a researcher into the mortality of republics.” The “perversions of
the majoritarian forms of politics” (Cover 1982, 1293 n.17) seemed to include not
only the machinations of parties in power, but intimidation by private groups
through command of the public sphere. True, the Independent had published its
anti-Semitic articles in the more complacent 1920s, and it would be hyperbolic
now to suggest that those articles could reasonably give rise to the risk of the down-
fall of republican government. Yet the breadth of attention to his bigoted views
that Ford was able to command through the Independent illustrated the uncertain
and even irrational connection between mass communication and public opinion
that Walter Lippmann (1922, 1925) and others were beginning to explore at the
very same time.
The situation in Beauharnais was different. (Obviously, its imagery was anti-
black rather than anti-Semitic, but that is not the difference I have in mind.) First,
the “volume” of Beauharnais’s circular was lower; the harm it could spread was lim-
ited. It did not represent, as Ford’s libels did, an exploitation of the channels of
mass communication, capable of altering consciousness a thousand miles from its
source. Moreover—and here again there is the danger of reading the sense of the
time through our knowledge of subsequent events—Beauharnais’s primitive broad-
side, if not necessarily one of the “poor and puny anonymities” referred to by Justice
Holmes in his dissent in Abrams v. United States (1919), had the feel of a rearguard
action. The lithograph was plainly an appeal for residential segregation, and the
Supreme Court had sounded the death knell for judicial enforcement of racially
restrictive covenants in 1948, just as it had struck down municipal residential segre-
gation laws thirty-one earlier.5 Although intense racial conflict remained deeply
embedded in US society in 1951, Truman’s order desegregating the armed forces
and a series of Supreme Court decisions prefiguring the holding in Brown v. Board
of Education (1954) suggested for the first time that the norm of antidiscrimination
represented national policy. However hateful and offensive Beauharnais’s circular, it
was the local grievance of a beleaguered outpost, not the deployment of a unique
mode of mass communication by a captain of US industry. Thus, what distinguishes
Beauharnais’s utterance from Ford’s is not only the former’s limited geographic
reach, but also the fact that it was swimming against the strong current of contem-
poraneous events.

KEEPING THE PEACE VERSUS HARM TO THE GROUP

To be fair to the Court in Beauharnais and to the authorities that initiated the
prosecution in that case, violence and social conflict, including racial conflict, were
certainly rife in the United States in the post World War II years. Although

5. Shelley v. Kraemer (1948); Buchanan v. Warley (1917). Of course, the Court’s ruling in Shelley did
not sound the death knell for residential segregation effected by means other than enforcement of racially
restrictive covenants.
 “Ford’s Megaphone” 1063

Beauharnais specifically concerned racist speech directed at blacks, several of the

other free-speech cases decided by the Supreme Court in this period revealed that
anti-Catholicism, anti-Semitism, and the emerging Cold War politics of anti-
communism also formed part of a combustible mixture leading to a “battle for the
streets” in major US cities.6 It would be facile to disparage or minimize contempo-
rary concerns about such conflict simply because its locus was local rather national.
But there is a difference in theory, even if difficult to pinpoint on the ground,
between regulation of speech (hateful or otherwise) due to fear of the conflict that
might ensue and regulation of speech based on a desire to protect a targeted group
from harm. In considering public efforts to control hate speech or “group libel,” it
is interesting to trace the roles played, respectively, by (1) the general desire to
avoid class, racial, or religious conflict, (2) the fear that a strong group (exemplified
by the Fascists in Italy and the Nazis in Germany) can intimidate competitors and
control the public sphere through scapegoating and appeals to racial and religious
prejudice, and (3) a specific concern with the cultural and psychological harm to
minority groups, whether in the 1920s, the 1950s, or the present. While, today, we
are apt to credit conceptions of racial, religious, and cultural identity and the
notion that certain forms of speech can constitute psychological and emotional
harms to minority groups, those concepts were only beginning to emerge in works
of scholarship and social criticism during the 1920s. Instead, local efforts to punish
or regulate public displays of racially or religiously hateful speech were grounded
either on opportunistic politics or on a more generic desire to avoid rioting and
violence.
Woeste’s account of the effort by Cleveland mayor William Sinton Fitzgerald
to ban street distribution of the Dearborn Independent and its ugly allegations about
a worldwide Jewish conspiracy illustrates this. Fitzgerald’s effort at prior restraint,
quaintly illegitimate by modern constitutional standards, met with failure. As
Woeste points out, Fitzgerald’s actions were largely motivated by his desire to court
Jewish voters in the city, rather than by any deep-seated sensitivity to their rights,
identity, or personhood. Of equal significance is Fitzgerald’s defense of his actions,
based on his contention that the Independent was “calculated to excite scandal . . .
had a tendency to create a breach of the peace . . . calculated to create racial
hatred.” However contrived Fitzgerald’s language may have been in this particular
setting—in a humorous if understated passage, Woeste records that no one in
Cleveland really seemed to care very much about Ford’s newspaper—the words he
used represented a familiar trope for urban governance in the United States during
the first half of the twentieth century. Social order, not the protection of particular
minority groups, was the publicly available justification for restrictions on street
speech.
Municipal reform and the challenges of urban governance amidst large-scale
immigration and migration of blacks from rural to urban areas had been a major
preoccupation of Progressive Era activists since the early twentieth century.
Under these conditions, avoidance of racial and ethnic conflict—“divisiveness,”
to use today’s more familiar code word—was apt to be seen as a “progressive” end

6. See, e.g., Feiner v. New York (1951); Kunz v. New York (1951); Terminiello v. Chicago (1949).
1064 LAW & SOCIAL INQUIRY

in itself, even if some of the means might strike us today as constitutionally ver-
boten. Thus, for example, even de jure residential segregation, struck down by
the Supreme Court in the doctrinally ambiguous but crucial case of Buchanan
v. Warley (1917), had a number of “progressive” defenders. “Separate but equal”
evoked little protest from most white Americans, and if (as a considerable
amount of contemporary pseudo-scientific learning claimed) racial “harmony”
and “understanding” were best promoted by separation of the races, why should
municipal segregation laws not be adopted by cities as a way of applying con-
scious intelligence to the social problem of race conflict? Save for an emerging
cohort of black advocates for legal and political rights and some white reformist
allies, most found the evil of racial violence in areas outside the South to lie in
its disturbance of social order rather than in the harm to, and subordination of, a
racial group.
The concept of “group libel,” which became most recognizable to mainstream
legal thought with the publication by David Riesman of his “Democracy and Defa-
mation” articles in 1942 in the Columbia Law Review (Riesman 1942, 1942b,
1942c), does embody the notion of group harms and the idea that insular minor-
ities can be uniquely vulnerable to those harms, as opposed to the importance of
simply “keeping the peace.” As Woeste points out, the “group libel” dimension of
Aaron Sapiro’s lawsuit against Henry Ford—the explicit calumnies and the
implicit derogations of Jews generally—became the rallying cry of Marshall and
many others seeking to publicize the trial and to counter Ford’s articles. But, prac-
tically speaking, no “group libel” civil remedy was available to Sapiro.7 Michigan,
perhaps unsurprisingly, had no “group libel” statute. In fact, the first “group libel”
statute worthy of the name8—the very one upheld by the Supreme Court in Beau-
harnais—was enacted by Illinois in 1917, and its remedies were criminal, not civil.
As Ellen Scott has recently shown, the Illinois group libel statute was actually a
film censorship law; it was championed by African American Illinois legislator Rob-
ert R. Jackson (no relation to Justice Robert H. Jackson), partly in response to
such cinematic instantiations of racial caricature and subordination as the recently
released Birth of a Nation (1915). Jackson’s recognition of the “profound psycholog-
ical effects” (Scott 2012, 227) of the “terrifying pageantry in segregation and
lynching” as well as of cinematic representations of black degradation might well
have been appreciated by Louis Marshall and others concerned about the effects of
equally ignorant if somewhat less malign public imagery concerning Jews.

7. Woeste (2012, 83) cites New York’s innovative 1913 civil rights statute, which barred both dis-
crimination on the ground of race or religion by hotels and other public accommodations, and the printing
by such establishments of what amounted to “Christians Only” advertisements. Evan Schultz describes this
latter part of the statute as being a step toward a true “group libel” law (Schultz 2000). Woeste’s suggestion
that Marshall could have used this statute to support a “group libel” suit against Ford for the Dearborn Inde-
pendent articles, however, is questionable, since the statute was framed in criminal terms (providing for a
fine for violators) and did not explicitly provide for a civil cause of action to be brought by an individual,
much less a religiously defined group. In all events, any injunction issued against Ford by a New York court
pursuant to the statute would have been ineffective beyond the state’s borders.
8. New York’s 1913 statute and the other state laws modeled on it were closer in conception to “public
accommodations” laws like the federal Civil Rights Act of 1875 than they were to what we think of as group
libel laws. In 1917, Illinois enacted both a law like New York’s and the statute upheld in Beauharnais.
 “Ford’s Megaphone” 1065

But those seemingly modern understandings about the harms to minority

groups produced by mass distribution of racially offensive imagery remained mar-
ginal to legal consciousness in the 1920s. The film censorship/“group libel” statute
was rarely enforced by Illinois authorities in the manner envisioned by Jackson, and
its focus on the psychological harms to a minority group and the ideological work
produced by public appeals to vicious racial caricature seems to have been ahead of
its time. Instead, municipal policy concerning conflict in racially tense urban areas
like Chicago was reactive, and its public justification was less a matter of protecting
minority groups than of keeping the peace. Days after enactment of Jackson’s
“group libel” law in the summer of 1917, a race riot in the downstate city of East
St. Louis claimed the lives of as many as 200 blacks (Rudwick 1964). Two years
later, as the combined effects of the “great migration” and rapid demobilization
after World War I placed unprecedented social and economic strains on many
northern and border cities, an even bloodier outbreak of racial violence paralyzed
Chicago for several days (Tuttle 1970). In the face of such obvious socioeconomic
foundations for the racial violence, there was little occasion on the part of even the
most thoughtful observers to consider less concrete matters like hate speech and
group libel.
Recognition in our fundamental law of the concept of “discrete and insular
minorities”—and the distortions in our politics that legalized subordination of those
groups—would have to await the Supreme Court’s decision in United States v. Carolene
Products (1938). Even then, the tension between the norm of protecting such minor-
ities and the norm of protecting speech that can, in its own way, reinforce the subordi-
nation of racial minorities remained unresolved. We are little closer to resolving it
today, at least as evidenced by the conflicting views of legal scholars. Meanwhile, we
can ask: Would it have been legitimate to bring the authority of our public law, by
means of a group libel statute or otherwise, down on Henry Ford for the campaign
against Jews he waged in the Dearborn Independent? Conventional constitutional doc-
trine says, probably not; and, though I find the case for regulation stronger than it was
in Beauharnais v. Illinois, I would have to agree. Nonetheless, Woeste’s thorough study
reminds us that Ford’s campaign was no sideshow, but a challenge to the American
commitment to civic and political equality.

REFERENCES

Cover, Robert M. 1982. The Origins of Judicial Activism in the Protection of Minorities. Yale
Law Journal 91 (7): 1287–1316.
Dinnerstein, Leonard. 1994. Anti-Semitism in America. New York: Oxford University Press.
Kalven, Harry Jr. 1965. The Negro and the First Amendment. Columbus, OH: Ohio State Univer-
sity Press.
Lippmann, Walter. 1922. Public Opinion. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company.
——. 1925. The Phantom Public. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company.
Riesman, David. 1942a. Democracy and Defamation: Control of Group Libel. Columbia Law
Review 42 (5): 727–80.
——. 1942b. Democracy and Defamation: Fair Game and Fair Comment I. Columbia Law Review
42 (7): 1085–1123.
1066 LAW & SOCIAL INQUIRY

——. 1942c. Democracy and Defamation: Fair Game and Fair Comment II. Columbia Law Review
42 (8): 1282–1318.
Schultz, Evan P. 2000. Group Rights, American Jews, and the Failure of Group Libel Laws,
1913–1952. Brooklyn Law Review 66 (1): 71–145.
Scott, Ellen C. 2012. Black “Censor,” White Liberties: Civil Rights and Illinois’s 1917 Film Law.
American Quarterly 64 (2): 219–47.
Woeste, Victoria Saker. 1998. The Farmer’s Benevolent Trust: Law and Agricultural Cooperation in
Industrial America, 1865–1945. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press.

CASES CITED

Abrams v. United States, 250 U.S. 616 (1919).

Beauharnais v. Illinois, 343 U.S. 250 (1952).
Whitney v. California, 274 U.S. 357 (1927).
Feiner v. New York, 340 U.S. 315 (1951).
Kunz v. New York, 340 U.S. 290 (1951).
Terminiello v. Chicago, 337 U.S. 1 (1949).
Brown v. Board of Education, 347 U.S. 483 (1954).
Shelley v. Kraemer, 334 U.S. 1 (1948).
Buchanan v. Warley, 245 U.S. 60 (1917).

FILM

Birth of a Nation (1915).

Copyright of Law & Social Inquiry is the property of Wiley-Blackwell and its content may
not be copied or emailed to multiple sites or posted to a listserv without the copyright holder's
express written permission. However, users may print, download, or email articles for
individual use.