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History
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Pi by Law: The Bizarre Story of Indiana's 1897 Attempt to Redefine a Mathematical Constant
In 1897, Indiana lawmakers nearly passed a bill based on an amateur's flawed proof that would have legally enshrined an incorrect value for pi. The legislation, offering the 'new math' for free to Indiana while charging others, was stopped only by a professional mathematician's timely intervention.
In the halls of government, laws are passed on everything from taxes to traffic. But in 1897, the Indiana General Assembly took on a subject far beyond its jurisdiction: mathematical truth. It very nearly passed a law that would have, in effect, legislated the value of the circle constant, pi (π), to be a flat 3.2. This wasn't a joke or a typo; it was a serious legislative effort born from the unshakeable confidence of one man and the scientific illiteracy of many.
The Doctor with a Divine Proof
The story begins not with a mathematician, but with Dr. Edwin J. Goodwin, a physician from Solitude, Indiana. Goodwin was a passionate amateur mathematician who believed he had solved one of the great impossible problems of antiquity: squaring the circle. This is the challenge of constructing a square with the same area as a given circle using only a finite number of steps with a compass and straightedge. In 1882, fifteen years prior to Goodwin’s bill, German mathematician Ferdinand von Lindemann had rigorously proven this to be impossible because pi is a transcendental number.
Undeterred by (or, more likely, unaware of) this definitive proof, Goodwin developed his own method. His 1894 paper on the subject, published in the American Mathematical Monthly under the heading "Queries and Information," was a confusing tangle of logic that produced several contradictory and incorrect values for pi, including 3.2, 4, and others. The journal even included an editor’s disclaimer stating the article was published "as requested by the author" rather than for its mathematical merit.
From 'Discovery' to Draft Legislation
Convinced of his genius, Goodwin didn't just want recognition; he wanted his discovery codified into law. He sought out his state representative, Taylor I. Record, and convinced him to introduce House Bill 246. The bill's full title was a mouthful: "A Bill for an act introducing a new mathematical truth and offered as a contribution to education to be used only by the State of Indiana free of cost by paying any royalties whatever on the same, provided it is accepted and adopted by the official action of the Legislature of 1897."
This framing was clever. Goodwin wasn't just asking the state to change math; he was offering Indiana a gift. His "truth" would be free for all Hoosier schools to teach. The rest of the country, however, would have to pay royalties to Goodwin for the privilege of using his revolutionary geometry. For legislators with little mathematical background, this sounded like a no-lose proposition: a chance to elevate the state's educational prestige and potentially generate revenue, all at no cost.
On February 5, 1897, the bill was put to a vote in the House. After a brief debate where one member suggested sending it to the Finance Committee (since it involved potential state revenue) and another joked it should go to the Committee on Swamplands (since it was incomprehensible), it passed with a unanimous vote of 67-0.
A Mathematician in the Statehouse
As the bill moved to the Senate, fate intervened in the form of Professor Clarence Abiathar Waldo. A respected mathematician and head of the mathematics department at Purdue University, Waldo was at the Statehouse that day to lobby for funding for the Indiana Academy of Science. He was stunned when a representative approached him, eager to introduce him to the genius behind House Bill 246.
I was pointed out as a mathematician, and a member of the House, who was a farmer, came to me and told me that he had a Bill that he would like to have me examine. He was very much interested in the Bill, said that it was a good thing, and that he was going to see it through. He asked me to come over and meet the author, who, he said, was a great man. The author proved to be a mathematician of the simple-minded, crank type, who had the legislature hypnotized.
After a bewildering conversation with Goodwin, Waldo realized the full absurdity of the situation. The bill had already passed the House and was on its way to becoming law. That evening, he began speaking with senators, explaining that the state had no power to define a mathematical constant and that accepting Goodwin's work would make Indiana a global laughingstock. The education he provided was swift and effective.
The End of the Line
By the time the bill came up for its second reading in the Senate on February 12, the mood had changed. News of the bizarre legislation had spread, and newspapers like the Indianapolis Journal and the Chicago Tribune began running articles mocking the proceedings. One senator, upon hearing the bill read, reportedly commented that the Senate had already wasted enough time on it. The motion to postpone the bill indefinitely passed without a single objection. The Indiana Pi Bill was dead.
Today, the story serves as a classic, almost comical, cautionary tale about the intersection of politics and science. It highlights the danger of legislating objective reality and stands as a testament to the importance of expert consultation. While Dr. Goodwin’s flawed geometry has been forgotten, Indiana’s brief flirtation with redefining pi remains a fascinating footnote in the history of both mathematics and government.