Okay, grab your calculator, a slice of pie (or pi?), and settle in—because you’re about to hear one of the most delightfully weird stories in American history: the Indiana Pi Bill. No, that isn’t a typo or a punchline (well, sort of). I’m talking about an actual moment when Indiana lawmakers almost rewrote the laws of math—yes, math—by declaring, through sheer legislative will, that pi would be 3.2. Every math teacher in the universe just fainted a little.
Now, why on Earth would a group of grown adults try to change the value of pi by law? That’s like passing a bill to make gravity optional on weekends. Yet, the Indiana Pi Bill isn’t some legend told to frighten kids away from geometry homework. It REALLY happened in 1897. I promise, I didn’t dream this after falling asleep on my algebra book.
The Indiana Pi Bill is the story of what happens when enthusiasm runs headfirst into a brick wall of mathematical reality, sprinkled with a dash of state pride, a generous helping of “trust me, I’ve got this,” and topped off with the kind of confusion that can only happen in a crowd. As someone who grew up getting nervous sweats the minute I saw a pi symbol on my math quizzes, I relate to this story on a spiritual level.
So, are you curious why people still talk about the Indiana Pi Bill whenever debates ignite over “facts” in politics? Wondering how an earnest Indiana doctor convinced a whole roomful of lawmakers to buy his math? Ready for a tale that’s equal parts inspiring, tragic, perplexing, and yes, knee-slappingly funny? Great. Welcome to the wild ride that is the Indiana Pi Bill saga. Let’s dig in—and try not to trip over our protractors.
The Indiana Pi Bill Origin Story: Ancient Puzzles and Big Dreams
Before Indiana decided to take a stab at math’s greatest mystery, people all around the world had spent centuries wrestling with circles and that pesky little letter π. Funny thing, pi isn’t just some fancy number: it’s the number you need if you want to do anything remotely fun (or dangerous) with circles. You can’t build a Ferris wheel, a pizza, or a hamster wheel without bumping into pi.
But what even is pi? It’s the magical ratio between a circle’s edge and its width—roughly 3.14159 and change, the digits rolling on forever like kids at a candy store. Ancient Greeks went bonkers trying to “square the circle” using only a compass and straightedge—basically, the Minecraft mode of ancient geometry. Archimedes got close with 22/7, like a schoolyard guess that holds up surprisingly well, but close doesn’t count when it comes to infinity.
Fast forward a couple of thousand years: greatest mathematicians in the 1700s officially said, “Guys, let’s stop trying, it’s impossible.” Mathematicians love a good lost cause, though, and in 1882, Ferdinand von Lindemann finally drops the mic: not only is pi irrational, it’s transcendental. You cannot square the circle, not with any ruler Indiana might legislate into existence.
Enter Dr. Edward J. Goodwin—The Man, The Myth, The Indiana Pi Bill
Picture this: It’s the late 1880s in rural Indiana. Step aside, boring math professors, because here comes Dr. Edward J. Goodwin—a real doctor, an amateur mathematician, and the kind of guy who looks at an unsolvable problem and says, “Hold my drink.” Goodwin was utterly convinced he’d pulled off the ultimate math magic trick: he’d solved squaring the circle and, by extension, cracked the true value of pi. The only problem? He was wrong. Really, REALLY wrong.
But Goodwin didn’t let a little thing like mathematical proof get in his way. He claimed the “true” value of pi was revealed to him by God in March 1888. (Yes, this story has everything.) His calculations ranged from the plausible to the “are you feeling okay?”—sometimes claiming pi was 3.2, other times soaring to 9.2376, which, let’s face it, would make for some pretty wild pizza parties.
Not wanting to keep his “discovery” all to himself, Goodwin copyright-protected his method—because of course you want royalties when you’ve just re-invented math. In 1894, Goodwin published a paper titled “Quadrature of the Circle” in the American Mathematical Monthly. This was published “by request of the author,” meaning it was not peer-reviewed.
Indiana Pi Bill: When State Lawmakers Take the Bait
If you’re thinking Dr. Goodwin kept his new math to himself or quietly left it at the local trivia night, think again! He convinced an Indiana lawmaker, Taylor I. Record, to introduce the now-notorious Indiana Pi Bill (officially House Bill No. 246) to the state legislature in 1897. The bill’s official title was “A Bill for an act introducing a new mathematical truth and offered as a contribution to education.”
Here’s where it gets delightfully nuts. The Indiana Pi Bill was written in a kind of legal-math hybrid that might as well have been intergalactic code. It never comes out and just says, “pi equals 3.2,” but it dances around it so much that you’re tempted to shout, “Just say it already!” To sweeten the deal, Goodwin offered Indiana the rights to his “discoveries” absolutely free—other states would have to pay to use them. Talk about hometown pride!
The Indiana Pi Bill began its journey in the House Committee on Canals, partly as a joke (someone suggested it’d find a “deserved grave” there—ouch). But the Indiana Pi Bill didn’t get buried. It bounced to the Committee on Education, where various lawmakers and even Indiana’s State Superintendent gave it a thumb’s up. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to be the person who didn’t “get” the math.
The Indiana Pi Bill Rockets Through the House
Let’s fast-forward past a few raised eyebrows and probably a lot of whispered, “Are we really doing this?” The Committee on Education actually recommended the Indiana Pi Bill. Then, lawmakers suspended the rule requiring bills be read three days in a row (because why drag out the math trauma?), and boom—the Indiana Pi Bill passed unanimously, 67-0.
Let that soak in. Sixty-seven grown adults agreed that you could just…vote on the value of pi. It was as if Indiana had declared, by law, that winter would stop after February (nice try, by the way). Word spread fast, and soon the Indiana Pi Bill was a national meme—before memes were even a thing.
When the Indiana Pi Bill Meets a Real Mathematician
If this were a movie, now’s the moment when the cavalry bursts in. Enter Professor Clarence Abiathar Waldo from Purdue University. Waldo was at the Statehouse for totally unrelated reasons, probably just trying to keep his students’ tuition low and his own sanity intact. When someone suggested he meet Dr. Goodwin, Waldo famously declined, saying he already knew as many “crazy people as he cared to know.” Absolute legend.
Waldo sprang into action, cornered a group of senators, and essentially gave a crash course in Geometry 101. By the time the Indiana Pi Bill reached the Senate, it was being openly roasted for being more nonsensical than a tornado in a math textbook. Senator Orrin Hubbell called it “utter folly”—like trying to make water flow uphill by law. The Senate laughed at it for half an hour (yes, that was recorded), then shelved it forever. The Indiana Pi Bill wasn’t technically dead, just…indefinitely napping.
The Aftermath: Indiana Pi Bill Remixed for the Ages
So, what happened after all the Indiana Pi Bill drama? Dr. Goodwin faded into mathematical obscurity, never scoring the scientific glory he craved. Professor Waldo became a Purdue legend, later chronicling this whole misadventure for future generations of math nerds and bewildered lawmakers. He eventually documented this peculiar event in the Proceedings of the Indiana Academy of Science in 1916. Indiana became a national punchline—so much so that the Indiana Pi Bill is still taught today as Exhibit A in “Why You Don’t Let Politicians Do Math Without Supervision.”
Every March 14, folks celebrate Pi Day with math jokes, pies, and maybe a calculator or two. But if there’s a crowd anywhere feeling really cheeky, they might party on March 2—Indiana’s unofficial “3.2 Day”—in honor of the Indiana Pi Bill’s unusual contribution to math history. The Indiana Pi Bill is living proof that math doesn’t bend to our will, no matter how many votes we take or how much we wish geometry homework would disappear.
Curious to go even deeper into the wonder, madness, and endless digits of pi? Check out The Longest Pi Article on the Internet: Literally Everything About π for a journey into everything you never knew you wanted to know about everyone’s favorite irrational number. And if you’ve ever wondered which books can turn pi from a number into an adventure, don’t miss my roundup: 7 Utterly Well-written Math Books About Pi—a curated list sure to inspire both math geeks and the pi-curious alike.
What the Indiana Pi Bill Teaches Us (Besides Never Skipping Math Class)
The Indiana Pi Bill is funny, yes, but it’s more than a trivia fact. It’s what happens when excitement, pride, and good intentions collide head-on with reality—and reality wins every time. You can’t legislate away the laws of mathematics. You can’t make pi become 3.2, even if you publish it “by request” in every math journal in Indiana.
So next time someone wants to rewrite the rules of science because it feels right or seems simple, tell them the story of the Indiana Pi Bill. Remind them that math doesn’t care about speeches, egos, or state pride—it just is. And sometimes, it takes a failed bill about pi to make everyone remember that truth.
Now, where’s my pie? I feel like celebrating the Indiana Pi Bill the only way I know how—by eating something round and marveling at the hilariously human ways we try (and fail) to bend the universe to our will.
