Politico Magazine recently published a guide to etiquette for life in the District of Columbia. One of the rules went well beyond simple etiquette, highlighting a provision of America’s unwritten Constitution: “If someone has ever been elected or appointed to anything, ever, they are to be addressed by that title going forward—a requirement that does not expire at death.”

Highlighting what now? Does the United States not have a written Constitution, unlike the United Kingdom? Do Cato Institute interns not walk around with physical copies, while even insurrectionists claim to adhere strictly to its text? Sure, the United States has a written Constitution as well. But it is difficult if not impossible to understand without a thorough knowledge of its unwritten counterpart—one that perhaps outsiders such as myself are better placed to grasp than Americans raised with a sweetly innocent civics-class understanding of how the system works.

Take the rule at hand. The title of nobility clause in Article 1, Section 9 of the written text states: “No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States.” But what are titles like ambassador, general, president, and senator—used for life and not just to indicate a temporary appointment—if not titles of nobility? It is not just Politico readers who use them: The federal government does, too. It is the U.S. equivalent of a life peerage, a British noble rank that is not hereditary.

And it does not stop there. Former presidents are entitled to a retinue, foot guards, and various other benefits. Former members of Congress enjoy access to the floor of the chamber in which they served as well as access to congressional facilities. The Army has its own Institute of Heraldry. The explicit constitutional ban has been supplanted, through long-standing practice, by an unwritten mandate.

This should not be that surprising. The United States’ constitutional order is old by Western standards and, while revolutionary for its time, underpins a political culture that is more hierarchical than that of the constitutional monarchies of Western Europe. This reflects both the enduring strengths and successes of the U.S. constitutional design and the dramatic changes wrought by war, genocide, and other forms of political upheaval on the other side of the Atlantic. It would be strange for a political culture so directly connected to 18th-century thinking not to adopt the kind of titles that are so characteristic of the ancient regime.

This formalization of aristocratic cultural traits matters, of course. The creation of a permanent ruling class runs directly counter to the spirit of the example famously set by George Washington. It perpetuates hierarchy without accountability or responsibility. And, one may argue, it creates additional barriers for outsiders in a system that already limits political representation through its adherence to first-past-the-post elections, restrictive ballot access for new parties and candidates, and high costs associated with election campaigns.

But perhaps you believe this is all trivial and these titles of nobility do not actually matter much in practice.

Let us look at a different provision then, the first part of Article 5: “The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary, shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by the Congress.” This provision sketches two ways to amend the Constitution, and the naive reader may assume this is an exhaustive list.

The careful observer of reality knows better. In practice, there is, in fact, a third way to amend the Constitution, and it is by far the most commonly used one: a simple majority vote in the Supreme Court. Examples of de facto amendments passed via this route abound. The 1954 amendment, passed unanimously, that banned racial segregation of children in public schools is among the most celebrated. The 7-2 1857 amendment that said those of African descent were not, and could not be, free citizens of the United States, on the other hand, was so unpopular that it helped produce a civil war. More recently, in 2015, the Supreme Court decided in a 5-4 vote that same-sex couples would have the right to marry in every state. What we have here is an unwritten provision that formalizes the passage of unwritten amendments, for good and bad.

The court, like other legislatures, is, of course, not infallible. Sometimes it amends the Constitution and then comes to regret it. Just last year, the court overturned the 1973 Roe v. Wade amendment legalizing abortion nationwide. This decision is reminiscent of the 21st Amendment’s repeal of the nationwide prohibition of liquor, which had been introduced just 14 years earlier through the 18th Amendment.

Having practice, not text, shape constitutional law in this way has its advantages, such as adaptability to societal change. But it is at least in part a mere workaround to avoid the amendment process as stipulated in the written Constitution, which broke down decades, if not longer, ago. Of the written amendments currently in effect, about half had been ratified by 1804, and the last one to be ratified successfully was in 1992—after being originally proposed in 1789. (I challenge any reader to remember offhand what it does.)

But an unwritten Constitution, or a partially unwritten one, has its downsides as well.

For starters, it is uncomfortable for legal types who are committed to blackletter law and the idea that, no matter one’s ideology, its true meaning can be discerned.

More importantly, the Supreme Court, which plays such a central role in the amendment process as provided for in the unwritten basic law, is elected in an awkward, indirect manner—and for life, if they choose. Among other issues, an incumbent justice can effectively call an election for their seat in a way that heavily influences the likely partisan affiliation of their successor. And, as we’ve learnt recently, they can enjoy financial relationships that would, at the least, raise eyebrows for a politician.

Part of the problem here is the Founding Fathers did not foresee the tendency toward factionalism that rapidly developed. Another part is that the body was originally meant to serve as a court of last resort, instead of playing both judicial and legislative roles. Perhaps not coincidentally, the U.K. House of Lords used to occupy a similar position. Its judicial function was severed in 2009, when the Law Lords surrendered power to the U.K. Supreme Court.

Finally, unwritten constitutional provisions create even more uncertainty about unexplored territory than written ones do. My understanding is that under the United States’ unwritten Constitution, (former) presidents enjoy immunity from federal prosecution, like Europe’s monarchs of old. But you tell people this, and their immediate response is usually, “No, that is not true. No one is above the law. Robert Mueller/Merrick Garland/Jack Smith is coming.” Yet the provision seems to be binding, no matter how extraordinary the crimes.

It is an unpleasant conversation for everyone involved and one that could have been avoided if this unwritten provision were a written one instead.