Wikipedia Deep Dive

51st state

10 min read

Here's a question that has haunted American politics for over six decades: why are there still only fifty stars on the flag?

The last time the United States added a state was 1959, when Alaska joined in January and Hawaii followed in August. Before that dry spell? Arizona had become the 48th state way back in 1912. So for most of the twentieth century, America was content with its territorial boundaries. But the twenty-first century has reopened the question with surprising urgency.

Today, the phrase "51st state" pops up in three very different contexts. Puerto Rico and Washington, D.C. both held referendums where voters chose statehood. And since the 2024 presidential election, Donald Trump has repeatedly floated the idea of annexing Canada—sometimes as a joke, sometimes in ways that leave diplomats genuinely uncertain.

The Constitutional Machinery

Adding a state isn't simple, but it's also not impossibly complex. Article IV of the Constitution gives Congress the power to admit new states. Historically, the process works like this: a territory's population expresses a desire for statehood, usually through a referendum. Congress then authorizes a constitutional convention. The territory drafts a state constitution, voters approve it, Congress passes a joint resolution, and the President signs a proclamation. A new star gets added to the flag.

Notice what's required: a simple majority in both the House and Senate, plus the President's signature. That sounds achievable until you remember the filibuster. In the modern Senate, passing anything controversial requires sixty votes to end debate—not just fifty-one to pass the bill itself. Nebraska remains the only state ever admitted through a congressional override of a presidential veto.

There's one crucial limitation the Constitution imposes. Congress cannot carve up an existing state or merge states together without the consent of those states' legislatures. This matters because some 51st-state proposals involve splitting California or Texas, and others involve merging the District of Columbia back into Maryland.

And once a state joins? It's permanent. The Civil War settled that question definitively. There is no constitutional mechanism for secession.

Washington, D.C.: The Capital's Paradox

More than 700,000 people live in Washington, D.C. That's more than the entire population of Wyoming or Vermont. These residents pay federal taxes, serve in the military, and live under federal laws. Yet they have no voting representation in Congress. Their license plates broadcast their frustration: "Taxation Without Representation."

The irony is sharp. The nation's capital, founded on revolutionary principles about democratic representation, denies that representation to its own residents.

Why? The Constitution's framers wanted the federal government to have exclusive control over its seat of power. James Madison discussed this in the Federalist Papers, worried about potential conflicts of interest if the capital were located within a state. The solution was creating a federal district that belonged to no state at all.

But Madison and his colleagues apparently didn't anticipate that this district would grow into a major city with a larger population than some states. The original vision of a small administrative zone surrounded by farmland didn't account for Washington becoming a genuine metropolis.

The statehood movement gained real momentum in the late twentieth century. In 1978, Congress passed a constitutional amendment that would have given D.C. full voting representation. But amendments require ratification by three-fourths of the states, and only sixteen approved it before the seven-year deadline expired in 1985.

In 2016, District residents voted overwhelmingly—86 percent—in favor of becoming a state. The proposed new state would be called Washington, Douglass Commonwealth, honoring both George Washington and Frederick Douglass, the famous abolitionist who spent much of his life in the District.

Here's how the proposal would work: the constitutional requirement for a federal district would be satisfied by shrinking it dramatically. The National Mall, the White House, the Capitol, the Supreme Court, and other government buildings would remain in a tiny federal enclave. Everything else—the neighborhoods where actual people live—would become the new state.

The House of Representatives passed statehood legislation in 2020 and again in 2021. Both times, the bill died in the Senate. Republicans uniformly oppose D.C. statehood, in part because the District's population is heavily Democratic—adding two reliably Democratic senators would shift the balance of power.

Some critics argue that the proper solution isn't statehood but "retrocession"—returning D.C. to Maryland, from which the land was originally ceded. Virginia already took back its portion of the original District in 1847. But this would require Maryland's consent, and neither D.C. residents nor Maryland voters have shown enthusiasm for the merger.

One delightful detail: in 2022, D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser ordered 51-star flags to be hung along Pennsylvania Avenue. The flags exist, even if the state doesn't yet.

Puerto Rico: America's Largest Territory

Puerto Rico's situation differs fundamentally from D.C.'s. The District was created to be a federal enclave. Puerto Rico is a territory—one of five permanently inhabited U.S. territories—acquired from Spain after the Spanish-American War of 1898.

Puerto Ricans are American citizens. They can serve in the military (and do, at high rates). They can move freely to any of the fifty states. But while living on the island, they cannot vote for President, and their representative in Congress cannot vote on legislation.

The path to Puerto Rican statehood would follow the template of most U.S. states outside the original thirteen colonies. Those states—from Ohio to Hawaii—typically started as territories, developed their populations and economies, expressed a desire for statehood, and eventually gained admission. Puerto Rico has now taken every one of those steps except the final congressional approval.

The island has held multiple referendums on its political status. In 2012, a majority expressed dissatisfaction with the current arrangement, and 61 percent of those who answered a separate question chose statehood. In 2017, another referendum showed 97 percent support for statehood—though turnout was only 23 percent because opposition parties boycotted the vote. In 2020, a simple majority voted yes on becoming a state.

Legislation has been introduced repeatedly in Congress. The Puerto Rico Admission Act has had bipartisan support in the House. But like D.C. statehood, it faces opposition in the Senate, and the political calculations are complicated.

Some oppose Puerto Rican statehood on cultural grounds, arguing that the island's Spanish-speaking majority would change the character of American statehood. Supporters counter that the United States has always been multilingual and that Puerto Ricans have been Americans for over a century.

Economic concerns run in both directions. Statehood would make Puerto Rico eligible for more federal benefits, which could cost the federal government billions. But it would also subject the island's residents to full federal income taxation, from which they're currently exempt. The net effect is genuinely uncertain.

Canada: From Running Joke to Diplomatic Tension

For decades, "51st state" was used as gentle mockery of Canada—a way of tweaking America's northern neighbor for its cultural similarities and economic integration with the United States. Canadians generally didn't find the joke amusing.

Then Donald Trump made it weird.

Following his 2024 election victory, Trump repeatedly suggested that Canada should become part of the United States. He called Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau the "governor" of Canada. He threatened massive tariffs unless Canada negotiated some kind of merger. At times he seemed to be joking; at times he seemed entirely serious.

The historical precedent Trump might cite is that the United States has, in fact, annexed sovereign nations before. Texas was an independent republic before joining the union in 1845. Hawaii was an independent kingdom, then a republic, before becoming a territory and eventually a state. Vermont was briefly an independent republic before becoming the 14th state in 1791.

But those annexations happened under dramatically different circumstances. Texas actively sought admission after winning independence from Mexico. Hawaii's annexation was controversial even at the time and is now widely viewed as an imposition on the native Hawaiian population. In none of these cases was a large, prosperous, democratic nation voluntarily absorbed against the wishes of its population.

Canada has 40 million people, a trillion-dollar economy, universal healthcare, and absolutely no interest in becoming American. Polls consistently show overwhelming Canadian opposition to any such merger. The idea exists primarily as a negotiating tactic or provocation, not as a serious policy proposal.

Splitting the Giants

Not all 51st-state proposals involve adding new territory. Some involve dividing existing states.

California, the most populous state by far, has spawned multiple partition movements. Rural northern California has little in common with coastal Los Angeles or San Francisco. Proposals have suggested splitting the state into two, three, or even six separate states. None have gained serious traction, but the political tensions that fuel them are real.

Texas has a unique wrinkle. When Texas joined the union, the annexation resolution included a provision allowing the state to divide itself into as many as five states. Whether this provision remains legally valid is debated, but it's occasionally invoked by Texas partition enthusiasts.

There's genuine historical precedent for state-splitting. Kentucky was carved out of Virginia in 1792. Maine separated from Massachusetts in 1820. Most dramatically, West Virginia broke away from Virginia during the Civil War, after Virginia seceded from the Union and the western counties refused to go along.

The constitutional requirement is consent: the existing state's legislature must agree to the split, and Congress must approve. This makes partition extremely difficult politically. Why would a state legislature vote to reduce its own power and representation?

What Would Change?

If a 51st state were admitted tomorrow, several practical consequences would follow immediately.

The flag would need redesigning. Currently, the fifty stars are arranged in alternating rows of six and five. Adding a 51st star would require a new pattern. Various designs have been proposed, and the Army Institute of Heraldry has reportedly prepared contingency designs. Interestingly, under federal law, existing flags never become "obsolete"—you could legally fly a 48-star flag forever.

The Senate would gain two new seats. Currently, the three classes of senators (who serve staggered six-year terms) have 33 or 34 members each. A 51st state would bring the total to 102 senators, with classes of 34-34-34. The political impact would depend entirely on which party the new state's voters preferred.

The House of Representatives would gain at least one seat, probably allocated from whichever existing state was closest to losing a seat in the next census reapportionment. The Electoral College would similarly expand, changing the arithmetic of presidential elections.

The Politics of Expansion

Every statehood debate inevitably becomes a partisan calculation. Republicans have opposed D.C. and Puerto Rico statehood in large part because both populations lean Democratic. Two new states would likely mean four new Democratic senators—potentially flipping control of the chamber for a generation.

But this wasn't always a partisan issue. Alaska was expected to vote Democratic and Hawaii Republican when both were admitted in 1959—yet both parties supported their admission. The idea of expanding the union was seen as patriotic and inevitable, not as a power grab.

The deeper question is whether the United States should continue to hold millions of citizens in a kind of constitutional limbo. Puerto Rico's population is larger than that of twenty existing states. D.C.'s population exceeds Wyoming and Vermont. These Americans pay taxes, fight wars, and contribute to the national economy—but cannot fully participate in choosing their own government.

Whether that changes depends on whether Congress can find the political will to act, or whether the filibuster continues to make expansion effectively impossible. The 51st state remains perpetually on the horizon—visible, conceivable, but never quite arriving.