by: Cassie Clark, Where the Dogwood Blooms

In recent years, political violence has been decried as a scourge, met with pearl-clutching and gasps. But let’s not kid ourselves. Political violence isn’t new. And it isn’t always wrong.

This country was born in it.

And isn’t that what today’s really about? July 4th isn’t just fireworks and pig pickins. It’s a celebration of defiance—of ordinary people standing up to power and saying, “No more.”

The Declaration of Independence, signed in 1776, wasn’t some polite petition. It was a middle finger to a monarchy that taxed, silenced, and trampled its people. But that rebellious spirit didn’t start in Philadelphia.

It was alive and kicking in North Carolina long before Jefferson ever dipped his pen.

Here, ordinary people pushed back—with petitions when they could, with force when they had to. When the system stopped listening, they made themselves heard. Not out of bloodlust or ego, but out of principle. Out of sheer survival.

Now, let me be clear: I’m not cheering for violence for the sake of it. Bar fights over politics or chaos for chaos’s sake? That’s not my cup of whiskey. But when the powerful rig the rules, silence dissent, or rob people of their future—sometimes the only way to be heard is to break something.

John Culpeper knew that.

Culpeper’s Rebellion (1677–1678) unfolded nearly a century before the American Revolution, right here in the Albemarle region. Back then, the Carolina colony was a mess—run by the Lords Proprietors over in England, whose handpicked governors often ruled like petty tyrants. The worst of the lot? Thomas Miller. In 1677, he enforced the Navigation Acts to choke off trade and line English pockets, crushing local farmers in the process. He jailed anyone who opposed him, rigged elections, and seized power like it was his birthright.

The settlers had had enough.

Led by John Culpeper, George Durant, and John Jenkins, they rose up in December 1677. Armed and angry, they arrested Miller and his cronies, locked them in jail, and took over the government. They formed their own assembly, named Jenkins governor, and ran the colony themselves for almost two years—thumbing their noses at the crown and the elite who backed it.

Was it political violence? Absolutely. Guns were drawn. Power changed hands. But it wasn’t mindless. It was a deliberate stand against corruption and tyranny. Culpeper was eventually hauled to England and charged with treason—but he walked free. Why? Because even the crown couldn’t deny that the rebellion had exposed the rot.

The Proprietors reclaimed control, but the damage was done. The people had spoken—and acted.

And that rebellion wasn’t just a backwoods scuffle—it was a spark. The same kind of spark we celebrate every July 4th. Those settlers fought for a government that served them, not one that ruled over them from across the ocean. Sound familiar? It’s the same grievance laid out in the Declaration: no taxation without representation. No rule without consent. And when those ideals are ignored, fighting back isn’t just understandable—it’s the beginning of revolution.

That same spirit showed up again nearly a century later in Brunswick Town.

In 1765, the British Parliament passed the Stamp Act, taxing every piece of paper in the colonies—from newspapers to legal forms to dice. The money wasn’t staying here; it was going to fund Britain’s wars. For Brunswick Town, a booming port on the Cape Fear River, that was too much. When the British ship Diligence arrived carrying stamped papers, armed colonists met it at the dock, muskets in hand, and forced the captain to keep the stamps onboard.

By early 1766, the resistance had grown. Patriot leaders like John Ashe, Cornelius Harnett, and James Moore rallied hundreds—some say more than a thousand—to surround the royal governor’s mansion at Russellborough. They seized British ships. Arrested royal officials. And forced the governor to back down.

The Stamp Act was dead in North Carolina.

This wasn’t a peaceful protest. These were armed crowds. This was political violence. And it worked.

Judge Maurice Moore, son of Brunswick’s founder, backed the rebels with a fiery pamphlet arguing that only the colony—not Parliament—had the right to tax its citizens. This wasn’t just about stamps. It was about self-rule. The very heart of what the Declaration would later demand.

Brunswick’s uprising humiliated the British and showed that when the system refuses to listen, resistance—real, forceful resistance—can get results.

And the same was true for the Regulators.

The Regulator Movement (1766–1771) unfolded just as the colonies inched toward revolution. In western North Carolina, small farmers and tradesmen were bled dry by a corrupt colonial elite. Coastal sheriffs, lawyers, and power brokers jacked up taxes and seized property through rigged courts. Petitions were ignored. Protests dismissed.

So in 1770, the Regulators stormed the Hillsborough courthouse, dragged corrupt officials through the streets, and delivered justice with their fists. Violent? Absolutely. Justified? No doubt. When government becomes a tool for robbing the poor, smashing its gears—be they courthouses or the pride of crooked judges—isn’t just symbolic. It’s necessary.

They lost at the Battle of Alamance in 1771. But the rebellion laid bare the injustice at the system’s core—and stoked the fire that would ignite full-scale revolution just five years later.

The Regulators’ fight wasn’t a backwoods tantrum. It echoed the same grievances etched into the Declaration: abuses of power, denial of justice, and a government serving the few, not the many. Their willingness to rise up against tyranny previewed the revolution we honor every July 4th—a reminder that liberty often demands more than words.

Culpeper’s Rebellion. Brunswick Town. The Regulators.

These weren’t isolated incidents. They were chapters in the same story. A story of people who refused to stay silent when the system failed them. A story of resistance fueled not by rage alone, but by the conviction that freedom is worth a fight.

The Declaration of Independence declared that people have the right to “alter or abolish” a government that tramples their rights—by force, if necessary. That’s the heart of July 4th: not just fireworks and freedom, but the courage to stand up and say, “Enough.”

I’m not saying every disagreement needs a riot. But when the powerful burn your rights—your vote, your voice, your future—sitting still is surrender.

North Carolina’s rebels didn’t just grumble. They acted. And their legacy lives in every firework that lights the sky.

So this July 4th, as the echoes boom and the smoke curls, remember them—not just as names in history books, but as ordinary people who dared to fight back.

The system has never been neutral. It’s often propped up by force. If we want to keep the spirit of independence alive, we can’t always ask nicely.

Sometimes, we have to fight like hell.