Jonathan Swanson Jacobs’ The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots

The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots: A True Story of Slavery (1855) exemplifies—both in its content and reception— the kind of uncomfortable, status quo-defying denunciation which is subjected to erasure, suppression, or misrepresentation. Even though its questions and provocations about 19th-century American slave society have never truly been addressed by the systems that followed, its recent rediscovery offers us an opportunity to (re-)engage with its damning indictment of the United States.

In this pithy text (its most recent publication takes up only 73 pages) which reads more like a manifesto than a standard slave autobiography, a formerly enslaved man who simply identifies himself as a Fugitive Slave pinpoints the moral hypocrisy that allows for slavery to thrive with the explicit support of the legal and religious institutions in the so-called “land of the free”. In condemning the Constitution as “the bulwark of American slavery,” the Fugitive Slave also deconstructs the false binaries that obscure the cross-party/state/institutional collaborations in support of this slavery, which he decries as the “unnatural offspring from hell”.

In the 21st century when many USians have been led to believe that they can only exercise their will by voting for one of two neoliberal parties, neither of whom represent their interests, there is a need to broaden the horizon of possibilities for those who want their nation’s laws to truly represent “the will of the people”. The Fugitive Slave’s claim that “the only hope of abolition of slavery is in separation from the Union” is not a nihilistic/cynical resignation to the oppressive status quo, but an affirmation of something more than merely settling for a “lesser evil”. People often cite the abolition of legalized slavery to challenge the need for complete separation from the Union, downplaying the fact that the persistence of slavery as punishment for a crime became yet another means to re-enslave Africans. The effect of this enduring loophole in the 13th Amendment underscores the Fugitive Slave’s assertion that legal and moral appeals against deeply entrenched systems of subjugation are a futile endeavor. Since 1855, liberal reforms have chipped away at oppressive systems without dismantling them, and in the wake of the largest wave of legal reforms, people of African descent are still mired in inequities and, in many ways, are worse off. In light of his call for complete separation from the settler-colony as the only viable path to liberation, it is worth reconsidering his argument today. The Fugitive Slave’s argument for liberation, long dismissed as too “radical,” remains as urgent as ever. Liberation has to be a courageous pursuit, and readers of the narrative are urged to fearlessly embrace mortality in the quest for dignity and true freedom.

Jonathan D.S. Schroeder’s rediscovery and publication of The United States governed by 600,000 despots: a true story of slavery: a rediscovered narrative, with a full biography (published May 2024 by University of Chicago Press) is undeniably significant and commendable; unfortunately this august event is tempered by Schroeder’s editorial changes, which have overwhelmed the original text and significantly altered its meaning. This review will therefore evaluate the original text as it was first presented—anonymously and fugitively—before separately considering Schroeder’s editorial modifications. Such a distinction is necessary to honor the integrity of the original work, which was largely ignored when it was first published, and to resist the co-optation of radical narratives by contemporary scholarly apparatuses.

Un/Making the Fugitive Slave

“Since I cannot forget that I was a slave, I will not forget those that are slaves” (p. 73).

Setting aside Schroeder’s endnotes which immediately disclose the author’s identity, the reader is struck by the narrative’s byline: “by a Fugitive Slave.” The fact that the Australian newspaper chose not to modify this attribution and maintained this preferred authorship (they even mention it in the foregrounding editor’s note) emphasizes that this approach was not just an oversight but a meaningful editorial and rhetorical decision. The astute reader may notice that the narrator inadvertently (or maybe it wasn’t?) identifies himself by name when he recounts his escape, so why was this name not used for attributing authorship? After all, most well-known narratives written in the 19th century by Africans were published with the authors’ names prominently displayed as a way to lend credibility to their accounts and make them more powerful as testimonies against slavery. There may have been some lesser-known narratives or accounts which might have used pseudonyms or initial anonymity to protect the author or others involved from retribution, especially if they were published before the abolition of slavery. (In some ways, this narrative was one of those lesser known ones, so that could be true…) There may be a case for this interpretation, given that the reinforced Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 (reinforced from the 1793 version) had made it such that there was “not a state, a city, nor a town left as a refuge for the hunted slave.” But there’s a stronger case that his choice to withhold his name from the byline and leave his identity somewhat open to interpretation reflects a strategic and intentional approach to narrative authorship, serving to underscore the duality of visibility and anonymity. Even when his name is revealed in a specific context, the overall framing of the narrative still prioritizes his identity as a fugitive, centering the lived reality and urgency of his escape rather than merely providing a personal account for consumption.

Far from distancing himself from his enslaved past or using his newfound freedom as a platform for personal promotion, the author of “600,000 Despots” embraces the identity of Fugitive Slave as a badge of honor. Rather than aiming to present himself as a “respectable” figure, a freed man who had overcome his origins—something that would have been easy for him to do given that his “complexion would be hardly noticeable among the average specimens of the English face”—the Fugitive Slave’s self-identification reinforces his solidarity with the enslaved and emphasizes his commitment to “blot that out of existence which stands between man and his rights…the world and its progress”. His words, “Since I cannot forget that I was a slave, I will not forget those that are slaves,” suggest that he knew his freedom is inseparable from the fate of others still held captive. The Fugitive Slave then becomes a communal figure, representing both an individual path to freedom and an unbreakable connection to those who still “wear a tyrant’s chain”.

This stance aligns with the ethos of fugitivity found in the work of scholars like Fred Moten and Saidiya Hartman, which embodies not just physical flight but an existential rejection of the imposed limits of captivity and dehumanization. Hartman, in “Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-Making in Nineteenth Century America”, highlights how the figure of the fugitive refuses the terms of domination, taking on a unique agency that neither fully submits to nor ever fully escapes the forces of oppression. The Fugitive Slave exists in a liminal space, simultaneously outside the bounds of enslavement while bearing the indelible mark of the hunted, and remains compelled to disrupt the social order that categorizes his freedom aspirations as “criminal” and “pathological”. In refusing a conventional, respectable identity and instead foregrounding his legal status as a fugitive slave, the author of 600,000 Despots asserts at the outset his solidarity with and responsibility to those who remain oppressed.

The attribution of authorship to the Fugitive Slave, rather than a specific figure (as Schroeder imposes on this re-publication) therefore transforms the story from a simple personal account of slavery into a powerful collective condemnation of America’s contradictions—legal, religious, and moral (or rather, its hypocrisy). This deliberate refusal (in the original version, at least) to be confined to a singular autobiographical account (as the edited version does) amplifies the narrative’s reach across space and time, inviting readers to confront the broader, shared, persistent reality of enslavement within the Union. It is a defiant strategy: by emphasizing the systemic rather than the individual, the Fugitive Slave resists the liberal conceit that progress can be achieved through incremental, surface-level changes. The narrative then stands as a testament to an unyielding demand for justice, compelling readers to acknowledge the intertwined brutality and dehumanization that slavery perpetuates and to recognize the complicity embedded in American ideals.

The Co-Constitution of Brutality and Slavery: Turning the Eye to the Oppressors

The Fugitive Slave’s life under slavery was shaped by an early and profound hatred for the institution that was instilled by his father, a hatred which he was unprepared to conceal, and which led to frequent conflicts and punishments. His hatred was understandable, as the brutal realities of slavery made him aware that the enslaved were denied the very basic dignities of family life and self-determination. The goings-on of slaves were subject to the financial whims of slaveowners, and many slaves were stripped of their children, parents, and spouses if the master decreed so. This, perhaps, was a primary lesson in the dehumanizing power of slavery: no part of Black life, no family structure, no intimacy, was beyond its reach.

Despite highlighting how slavery was dehumanizing, and his own experiences of witnessing countless acts of violence, his descriptions of excessive acts of cruelty against the enslaved comprise less than a tenth of the book.decentering the extreme expressions of slavery’s violence, the Fugitive Slave refused to cater to the voyeuristic tendencies of white abolitionists, whose desire to dwell on the spectacle of extreme violence often bordered on the prurient. This is because he wanted to highlight the mundane, routine nature of slavery’s violence: the total control over the enslaved person’s body, the denial of family bonds, forced labor, surveillance, and the constant suppression of autonomy and dignity. He insisted that “brutality is inseparable from slavery” not because of the excesses, but because of the fundamentally violent, constitutive nature of slavery. Perhaps this is why a later publication of this narrative edits out many of these critiques.

Hypocrisy of Euro-American Christianity / Unctuous Piety of Northerners

One of the narrative’s most provocative points is that the North’s moral high ground was an illusory attempt to evade culpability by touting their non-slaveholding status while benefiting economically and politically from the slave system. The non-slaveholding whites often adopted a posture of helplessness, presenting themselves as morally opposed to slavery yet bound by the rule of law so that they could claim moral superiority and innocence while actively upholding the structures of slavery. Despite their supposed distaste for the institution, these individuals rarely risked their own safety and privilege by offering sanctuary to fugitives, or by resisting the Fugitive Slave Act, which mandated the return of escaped enslaved people to their so-called owners. The Fugitive Slave did not validate this performance of helplessness in his narrative, and called out the Northerners. He argued that rather than undermining slavery, their complicity helped to preserve a system that benefited even those who did not directly own slaves, exposing the insincerity of their moral posturing.

The Fugitive Slave also delivered a sharp rebuke to white Christians who, while professing faith in a gospel of love and equality, justified or ignored the oppression of enslaved Africans. He exposed the deep hypocrisy of these individuals and institutions, pointing out that their commitment to Christian teachings was often overridden by a desire to maintain economic and social dominance. While these so-called Christians recited Biblical principles condemning oppression and cruelty, they simultaneously rationalized slavery as either a “necessary evil” or, even more disturbingly, as a benevolent system benefiting the enslaved. Many white Christians in both the North and South maintained a façade of piety while cooperating in the capture and return of those fleeing bondage.supporting or ignoring such laws, they showed a clear prioritization of earthly gains over spiritual principles. This selective application of their faith reflects what the Fugitive Slave saw as a worship of Mammon—a fixation on wealth, status, and economic power that directly contradicts Christian teachings of compassion and equality. By elevating their material interests above spiritual imperatives, they effectively placed capitalism and racial domination at the center of their moral framework, while relegating their professed Christian values to a rhetorical tool used to soothe their consciences. But the Fugitive invokes Matthew 6:24 to remind these white Christians that “No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money.”

The Fugitive Slave’s critique remains relevant today, where wealth drives political influence, and those in power prioritize economic interests over genuine public service. Just as 19th-century Christians justified slavery to protect their social standing, today’s leaders often sacrifice integrity for the favor of wealthy donors, showing that the worship of Mammon still shapes American governance.

THE CONSTITUTION AS A BULWARK OF SLAVERY: A Black Radical Legacy of Legal Critique

One of the most unique aspects of the narrative is the legal critique that the Fugitive mounts. He exposes the legal apparatus upholding slavery as a national institution embedded within American laws and federal mandates, including the Constitution itself. In its broader implications, “600,000” is a powerful precursor to the work of Derrick Bell and other critical legal scholars. Bell’s concept of “interest convergence” suggests that the legal system’s concessions to Black people occur only when it serves white interests. Reflecting on his own experiences as a civil rights lawyer in Faces at the Bottom of the Well, Bell came to the sobering conclusion that even post-integration United States could not deliver (in fact, it could only impede) genuine liberation for Black Americans because even the “converged” interests are ultimately harmful for Black people. The Fugitive Slave shares this skepticism about an earlier iteration of American society, recognizing that appeals to American law are futile within a system built on Black exploitation and exclusion. He notes how terms like “slave” are strategically avoided in legal texts, obscuring the direct endorsement of slavery while preserving all its brutal, exploitative mechanics.

Condemnation of Slaveholders and Non-Slaveholders Alike

Through his sharp critique, the Fugitive Slave expands the circle of culpability far beyond individual slaveholders, implicating every white citizen who upholds laws that sustain the institution. The fugitive’s condemnation of gradual emancipation reflects this broader critique: any delay or compromise with slavery, he argues, only perpetuates the system’s inherent wrongness, allowing “a lingering death” to claim “the last glimmer of hope that cheered their [the enslaved’s] sinking souls.” Slavery, in his words, was not just a collection of abuses but a totalizing force that eroded every aspect of life.

The narrative incisively critiques the false binaries propagated by the supposed divisions between a pro-slavery South and an antislavery North, or a proslavery state and an antislavery church. It dismantles the myth that one side of these dichotomies embodies justice or moral high ground, exposing the complicity of both state and religious institutions in the brutal system of slavery. The Fugitive Slave underscores that legal and religious justifications for slavery do not differ in essence; both uphold a system of subjugation that is fundamentally violent and oppressive. This critique resonates beyond the immediate context of slavery, inviting reflection on modern political dynamics. His argument suggests that merely choosing the lesser of two evils does not disrupt oppressive structures but rather entrenches them, echoing the frustrations many feel with the limitations of our current two-party system.

Constructing Abolition Through Complete Cleavage: American Liberalism as Anathema to Freedom

The Fugitive’s cynicism about United States politics echoes the arguments later put forth by radical abolitionists who argued that true abolition could only be achieved through disunion, a stance seen as dangerously radical at the time. Rather than seeking to negotiate gradual emancipation, these people asserted that any compromise with slaveholders perpetuated slavery’s legacy and influence. This Fugitive Slave similarly advocates for a complete and immediate dismantling of these structures, asserting that gradual abolitionism would merely facilitate a transition between modes of oppression. Refusing to compromise was not simply an idealistic commitment to certain moral principles, but also a strategically informed stance.

Furthermore, this narrative implicitly critiques liberalism, which professes equality, freedom, and universal rights but in practice enforces and justifies oppression. Liberalism’s contradiction, as scholars like David Graeber and David Wengrow argue in The Dawn of Everything, is not a byproduct of misalignment between theory and practice; rather, it is intrinsic to liberalism’s foundations. Emerging partly as a response to Indigenous critiques of feudalism and capitalism, liberalism presents a veneer of high ideals, allowing European powers to deflect criticism of their exploitative practices. This Fugitive Slave foreshadows such critiques by showing that American liberalism’s lofty rhetoric about freedom obscures its deep entrenchment in the institution of slavery. Saidiya Hartman’s Scenes of Subjection offers a contemporary perspective that parallels the Fugitive’s critique of moderate abolitionism. Hartman argues that emancipation negotiations paved the way for systemic adjustments rather than liberation, transitioning from overt slavery to equally binding systems of racialized control. The Fugitive Slave foreshadows Hartman’s view, pinpointing the true radicalism required for meaningful change and exposing how liberal institutions fail to secure genuine freedom.

The Fugitive’s own escape from slavery exemplifies this uncompromising stance. His final act of defiance, boldly leaving behind a letter that simply stated, “I have left you not to return,” demonstrates his rejection of any obligation to the enslaver, even one who had shown him a degree of “kindness.”walking out of his master’s rooms and onto a ship, the fugitive seized his freedom, no longer willing to play the part of a deferential servant. Signing his note “no longer yours” makes a clear declaration that freedom could never be a “gift” from the enslaver but was something he had claimed for himself. This defiant act, an unyielding repudiation of both bondage and benevolence from a master, underscores his view that freedom could not be negotiated or granted piecemeal. His unshakeable conviction—that true freedom means to never again compromise with those who seek to dominate—serves as a striking critique of any half-measures or gradualist approach to liberation.

Modern liberal institutions have conditioned us to believe that our freedoms are gifts bestowed by the very systems that subjugate the oppressed, creating an illusion of gratitude toward structures that perpetuate inequity. This dynamic is exemplified by [French President Emmanuel Macron’s recent assertion](https://www.reuters.com/world/europe/still-awaiting-thanks-stopping-islamists-sahel-macron-says-2025-01-06/) that Sahel states should express gratitude for France’s military interventions, suggesting that without such support, these nations might have lost their sovereignty. Such statements perpetuate the narrative that liberation is granted by external powers, diverting attention from the underlying systems of oppression and control.framing freedoms as concessions—rights “granted” rather than inherent—these institutions instill a sense of dependency on their authority. This perspective constrains our understanding of freedom as something conditional, revocable, and bound to the rules of the system rather than intrinsic to our existence. Similarly, people often cling to familiar systems and ideas, even if those systems are uncomfortable or repressive. The known feels secure because it offers predictable patterns, while the unknown is unsettling and filled with uncertainty. This attachment to familiarity can be deeply psychological and sociocultural. Systems of power, like liberalism, exploit this inclination by presenting themselves as the only stable “reality,” framing alternatives as impractical, risky, or even dangerous. Yet, as the Fugitive Slave exemplified with his bold declaration of “no longer yours” to his former enslaver, true liberation lies in renouncing this dependency and refusing to identify with structures that thrive on exploitation and control. To claim our freedom authentically, we must not only sever our psychological allegiance to these institutions but also act in ways that defy the limits they impose. Embracing a mindset of self-sovereignty means recognizing that freedom cannot be granted or taken away by external authorities; it must be asserted, reclaimed, and embodied as an inherent right, independent of any system’s approval.

In addition to his legal and religious critiques, the Fugitive Slave mounts a robust argument against the notion of freedom as something that can be “granted.” He insists that freedom must be seized by the enslaved rather than received as a gift, echoing later anti-colonial thinkers like Che Guevara, who once asserted, “I am not a liberator. Liberators do not exist. The people liberate themselves.” This philosophy also finds resonance in Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, which warns against revolutionaries who attempt to deliver liberation “from above.” Freire and Amilcar Cabral argue that for true liberation, people must actively engage in their own freedom struggles; only then can they achieve meaningful autonomy.seizing his freedom and refusing to allow benevolent abolitionists to purchase his freedom for him, the Fugitive Slave challenges the paternalism embedded in narratives of emancipation. This defiant self-liberation—particularly when compared to figures like Frederick Douglass, whose freedom was purchased and who eventually adopted a more conciliatory stance towards the United States—allowed him to maintain a staunch, uncompromising stance toward the United States even as a free man.

He challenges the assumption that freedom should be something negotiable within established legal or institutional frameworks.portraying both the state and the church as intertwined forces that affirm each other’s lies, he asserts that subjugation cannot be meaningfully debated or reformed from within. This critique is particularly relevant when examining today’s systems that claim moral or legal authority but perpetuate exploitation and harm. The implication is clear: genuine change cannot arise from appealing to institutions that are inherently designed to sustain power imbalances. This insistence on questioning the entire system calls us to recognize how contemporary politics, too, often offers superficial alternatives without addressing deeper injustices.

The narrative’s call for resistance, unmediated by political or religious permission, remains powerfully resonant.rejecting the notion that a corrupt system can be reformed from within, he invites us to reimagine what it means to seek freedom—free from compromises that prioritize the comfort of the powerful over the dignity of the oppressed.

It also has many implications for our current moment of US politics, in which voters are choosing between the two dominant parties who both support the genocide of the Palestinians, and enacting a never-ending war in the middle east. So many thinkers have arrived at the realization that liberalism’s promise of “freedom” or “equality” is hollow, yet there’s this pull to believe that reforms within the system can achieve real change. The Fugitive and other radical abolitionists knew it in the 1800’s, Derrick Bell realized in the 1990’s, and we know now the futility of liberal reforms. The system’s capacity to repackage its goals makes it seem like incremental improvements are within reach. It has this way of presenting liberal values as the only conceivable framework for progress, as if anything outside those bounds is “too radical” or “unrealistic.” This not only silences alternative ways of thinking but also co-opts the energy of those who seek change. The result is a repetitive cycle where efforts to “reform” just reinforce the status quo. So refusing to support genocide enablers through the vote is considered “unrealistic,” but also challenging these genocidaires by validating their hegemony is the only conceivable way of securing change (a change that will never come).

When it seems like reform is happening, it’s often because the system itself benefits. Civil rights, for example, were made palatable when they also served to stabilize the U.S.’s image globally. And yet, these gains didn’t fundamentally alter the structures that perpetuate racial and economic inequality. So people keep returning to the system, hoping for different results but being met with the same limitations. We are caught on a hamster wheel of liberal reformism, attempting to escape a maze that is designed to keep us looping back to the start. Breaking free might mean shifting entirely away from these systems and mindsets that keep us in the loop, or it could simply mean rejecting the rat race. The challenge is imagining and building outside of these confines, but maybe there’s power in the sheer act of recognizing the wheel for what it is.

Legacy of Armed Resistance and Revolutionary Suicide

The slave narrative powerfully asserts the inevitability of resistance to slavery, invoking a call for liberation by any means necessary. This ethos resonates with the spirit of the Haitian Revolution, the militant strategies of John Brown, and the uncompromising stance of figures like Martin Delany, Malcolm X, and the Black Panthers. Such figures and movements have long recognized that freedom cannot be handed over by the oppressor but must be seized, often through forceful struggle. The narrative’s acknowledgment of this unrelenting resistance speaks to a legacy where people of African descent, along with their militant allies, have consistently understood the necessity of confronting and dismantling systems of bondage through collective and sometimes revolutionary action.

The Fugitive Slave narrative offers a profound meditation on death as both an escape from bondage and a dignified assertion of humanity. The enslaved person’s relationship to death is marked by a paradoxical embrace of mortality: not as a defeat, but as a final liberation from oppression. Statements like “death frees the slave from his chains” encapsulate this sentiment, positioning death as the ultimate release from an existence defined by the brutality and inhumanity of slavery. This understanding complicates conventional fears of death, suggesting that the enslaved hold a unique willingness to face mortality if it means securing freedom or at least escaping the clutches of enslavement.

When the Fugitive says he would choose “liberty with a cannibal, rather than slavery with a professed Christian”, what he is underscoring the lingering spiritual and physical death of slavery. This philosophy underscores a radical reimagining of life and death, where existence itself holds value only if it is lived free from tyranny. Here, the narrative resonates with Norman Ajari’s reflections on Black people’s complex relationship with death, where the pursuit of dignity may necessitate a readiness to die rather than submit to ongoing subjugation. When Frantz Fanon observes in A Dying Colonialism that resistance fighters would boldly embrace their mortality in the struggle against colonial powers, when George Jackson proudly declares his brother’s death to be a martyrdom in the fight for true freedom, they were reflecting the recognition among freedom fighters across the ages that true freedom is worth the ultimate sacrifice. Death comes for us all. We might as well embrace it.

The existential shift—from death as something to be avoided to something to be wielded—represents a radical transformation in the collective psyche of the oppressed. For Black people, this reorientation is not a passive acceptance of mortality but an active choice to face down the specter of death with resolve, knowing that the fight for liberation may demand it. Rather than letting death be an instrument of subjugation, it becomes a means of self-determination—a refusal to live a life dictated by subjugation and fear.

Today, even as people lament that the “lesser evil” didn’t win, the Fugitive’s words remind us that the lesser evil is still, after all, evil. We still live under the shadow of the same compromises, governed by a system that, while reshaped, remains bound to its origins in exploitation and subjugation. If his vision of liberation sounded extreme in 1855, it now feels prophetic, raising hard questions about our present reformist approaches. Instead of building ramparts higher, as he put it, and extending the life of unjust systems, his words challenge us to ask if true freedom requires something more radical.

In light of the path chosen by the Union—non-transformative abolition without dismantling the structures, including the Constitution, that enabled slavery—his cautionary words resonate even more deeply today. Writing in 1855, he warned against ending slavery without also ending the United States as it was then constituted, recognizing the futility of freedom within a system built on subjugation. The civil war would indeed bring emancipation, but not the liberation he envisioned. Now, as we witness the limited returns on integration and reform, his skepticism toward system-bound solutions feels prescient. Rather than doubling down on approaches that have repeatedly fallen short, perhaps his words invite us to question the wisdom of relying on half-measures that only extend the life of oppressive structures.

No Longer Fugitive: The Re-Covering of a Rediscovered Narrative

Despite Jonathan D.S. Schroeder’s stated goal of “supplementing rather than supervising [the Fugitive Slave’s] own words…[in order] to create a model for undoing the Black message/white envelope structure of the slave narrative,” it is not evident to this reviewer how (if at all) Schroeder meets this goal (p. 78). In The United States governed by six hundred thousand despots: a true story of slavery: a rediscovered narrative, with a full biography, the Fugitive Slave is identified as John Swanson Jacobs, the brother of Harriet Jacobs (Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl), and one-time companion of Frederick Douglass. Schroeder provides a lengthy introduction and a comprehensive nine-generation biography of the Fugitive Slave and his family. While this biography undeniably adds context and depth to the world in which the Fugitive Slave lived, it also risks overshadowing the narrative itself. The editor, a literary historian, presents himself as merely a custodian of the text, but the reality is more complex: more than half of the book is devoted to his own analysis and framing. The biographical insertions throughout the Fugitive Slave’s narrative are a quintessential example of the types of editorial overreach which dismantle the anonymity that the author crafted, and take the role of overseeing a narrative that was originally shaped by the author’s refusal to be fully visible.

The Fugitive Slave’s identity and biography aren’t simply noted for the reader, but are forced into the limelight as a way to decode Jacobs’s motivations, intentions, or subconscious influences. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that his editorializing not only “fails to dismantle” the Black message/white envelope structure, but reinvents this dynamic in a manner that more subtly-but no less egregiously-asserts a controlling hand over Jacobs’s narrative. His imposition of identities and claims where Jacobs intentionally resisted identification reproduce the very structures of liberal authority and visibility that Jacobs’s narrative sought to elude, and in so doing re-covers key aspects of the recovered story.

The disservice of revealing and “centering” Jacobs’s biography is compounded by how Schroeder downplays the extent of his influence by labeling himself merely as an “editor” which typically carries the implication of a more hands-off role—making minor corrections, clarifications, and adjustments which facilitate the reader’s access to the original material, but not fundamentally reshaping or reinterpreting the work. I cannot ascertain Schroeder’s motivations for presenting himself in this manner for the publication, and I am uninformed about the politics of publishing. However, Schroeder does not fit the bill for “editor” given his very hands-on approach not just in terms of providing an introduction, biography, and face for John Jacobs, but also in terms of his supplementary comments on most pages of the Fugitive Slave’s narrative. It is not uncommon for recent editions of slave narratives to contain introductions or essays which provide historical context and argue for the text’s contemporary relevance. Some might even include endnotes to preserve the text’s flow or maintain the author’s original voice while providing historical context, but Schroeder’s version is quite unique in the copious footnotes providing explanations, citations, or background details within, not after a narrative written by slave. One cannot help but be confronted by these “supplementary” notes, some of which take up to 70% of the page. And while most of this information is very compelling if one is looking for biographical details (the extensive footnote on a slaveowner’s descendant who complained about Jacobs’ presentation of her ancestor, for example, was quite interesting), their ever-presence on most pages makes it very hard to describe them as merely ancillary in the way that Schroeder’s “editor” label implies.

Even if Schroeder presented the narrative in its true, unaltered form, his introduction and biography of Jacobs, which come to 121 pages (compared to the original narrative’s 73 pages), on their own should suffice as reason to list him as an author on the cover as well as the copyright page. This doesn’t even include the footnotes that Schroeder added to the narrative itself, which take up a total of nearly a third of the original narrative’s 73 pages.

The book’s cover design provides an evocative visual representation of Schroeder’s (or is it the press?) concealment of his impact. The original title and John Swanson Jacobs’s name (not the Fugitive Slave) dominate the layout, taking up most of the space in large, bold letters, while the “editor” and the mention of a “full biography” appear in much smaller print, confined to a total of about 1.25 inches of the 9-inch cover. This design choice subtly downplays the editor’s substantial influence over the narrative. The limited visual visibility of the editor’s byline suggests a minimal or supportive role whereas in reality, his contributions transform the work entirely, with extensive footnotes and a biography that outpaces the original text in length. The visuals lead the reader to believe they’re getting more of Jacob’s original work than the actual contents provide. It feels like a bit of a bait-and-switch, placing the editor’s byline out of prominent view and diminishing the sense of his heavy editorial AND authorial footprint.

Indeed, the editor’s choice to identify the Fugitive Slave and assign a portrait—presumably of the slave himself—further complicates the narrative’s politics of visibility and anonymity. This act of forcibly attaching a previously anonymous identity to the portrait seems to reinforce, rather than dismantle, the white envelope around the Black message.doing so, the editor may inadvertently perpetuate the very dynamics he claims to be undoing, highlighting the difficulties inherent in curating such a powerful historical document. In attempting to present the narrative as an academic artifact, Schroeder’s interventions risk overshadowing the raw urgency and subversive power that defined the text when it was first written.

Even with Jonathan D.S. Schroeder’s editorial impositions, the narrative’s rediscovery and publication allows the Fugitive Slave to take his rightful place among Africans (and other subjugated groups) across the centuries who have recognized that liberation from oppression demands resistance by any means necessary.