WASHINGTON _ It was 1777. The Revolutionary War was raging, and a small band of officers and seamen in the Continental Navy faced a dangerous dilemma.
Their commodore was one of the most powerful men in colonial America. But his subordinates had seen him engage in "barbarous" mistreatment _ torture, in their eyes _ of captured British sailors.
Eleven years before the U.S. Constitution was ratified, the 10 worried sailors became the new republic's first whistleblowers, reporting what they had witnessed to the Continental Congress _ and getting legal protection to shield them from retribution.
"Whistleblowing is really in America's DNA _ it's as American as apple pie," said Allison Stanger, a political scientist at Middlebury College whose book on the subject was published the same day last month that House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, spurred by a whistleblower's complaint, announced the impeachment inquiry into President Donald Trump.
The lonely individual speaking truth to power is an enduring American archetype. Whistleblowing _ when an "insider" in government or a private company or organization draws attention to illegal or unethical activity _ is codified in law, enshrined in history, immortalized in Hollywood movies and popular culture.
Whether celebrated or controversial, the recent roll call is long: from Karen Silkwood on nuclear power to "Deep Throat" in Watergate; from Frank Serpico in the New York Police Department to Erin Brockovich and water pollution in California; from Daniel Ellsberg in the Pentagon Papers to, his supporters maintain, Edward Snowden and government surveillance.
But a decision to come forward with damaging information can carry enormous personal costs. Virtually every whistleblower, according to those who study the phenomenon, is forced to confront the ugly flip side of a heroic image: Stool pigeon. Tattletale. Snitch. Rat.
Job loss and ruptured relationships are common consequences; so is grief over the loss of a once-shared identity. Whistleblowing can end with ignominy, imprisonment or exile. Sometimes it is a secret carried to the grave, or nearly so.
"I didn't, I couldn't, even use that word about myself _ whistleblower," said Jacqueline Garrick, 56, the founding director of a Department of Defense suicide prevention program who said she ran afoul of Pentagon officials when she raised still-contested allegations, first internally and then publicly, of fraud and abuse.
A former Army officer, Garrick likened her experience in the three years since she came forward to the post-traumatic stress sometimes suffered by combat veterans _ sleeplessness and anxiety, isolation and despair. She went on to found a peer-support group, Whistleblowers of America, to help others deal with the psychological and practical consequences of making accusations of workplace wrongdoing.
"You just don't realize at first," she said, "that your life is never going to be the same."
