At the Indiana State Fair in September 1929, 13,120 babies were weighed, measured, inspected and scored. The examinations took place in livestock halls refitted with enormous glass panels so the crowds could watch. A few barns away, judges were sizing up hogs and cattle the same way. Nobody at the fair thought that was a coincidence, because the people behind the baby contests had borrowed the idea from the livestock barns on purpose.
For about three decades, Americans lined up at county and state fairs to have their children, and then their whole families, graded like breeding stock. It was sold as good, wholesome fun. Underneath it was eugenics, the idea that people could be bred like livestock.
A cousin with a word
Selective breeding is ancient, but the Victorians turned it into a craze. Taken with Charles Darwin's theory of evolution, they applied natural selection to their dogs. Dachshunds lost their long legs, terrier breeds jumped from two to ten, and dogs came to be valued for how they looked rather than what they did. The dog show was a Victorian invention too.
Darwin had a half-cousin named Francis Galton. Twenty-four years after On the Origin of Species, Galton published Human Faculty and Its Development, arguing that many of the most desirable human traits were hereditary. Darwin strongly disagreed. That didn't slow Galton down a bit. He coined the phrase nature versus nurture, and he came up with the word eugenics.
Galton was considered a genius. He helped develop fingerprinting for criminal forensics, and he once wrote to the journal Nature about how to cut a round cake so the slices wouldn't dry out, with diagrams and advice to hold the leftovers together with a rubber band. He was also a vile racist, the kind of man who could write, "There exists a sentiment, for the most part quite unreasonable, against the gradual extinction of an inferior race." None of that was controversial at the time. He was knighted in 1909, and University College London endowed a Galton chair of eugenics. The chair still exists. The college just swapped the word eugenics for genetics.
Plump and pink as piglets
The American Eugenics Society, founded in 1922, knew it needed to sell its ideas to the public. So it took them out of the lecture halls and onto the midway. In the United States, many of the biggest eugenics groups had started out as agricultural breeding associations, and comparing a prize heifer to a prize baby didn't seem like much of a leap.
The Better Baby contests came first, created by Florence Brown Sherbon, a member of the American Eugenics Society, and Mary T. Watts. Their first contest was held in 1911 at the Iowa State Fair. Judges scored each child on height and weight for age, height against weight, and mental and physical defects, and the baby closest to a perfect 1,000 points won. In Indiana in 1929, the crowns went to 25-month-old Ralph Walter Lieber and 20-month-old Jeanette Sinkner. Jeanette's mother explained that her daughter had been kept outdoors much of the time: "This summer, she's practically lived in her pen and sand pile. Occasionally, she eats a little boiled meat."
It was a recipe for the very best white baby, that is. Black children weren't allowed to compete at all. Dr. Ada E. Schweitzer, who ran Indiana's Division of Infant and Child Hygiene, called the contest "a school of education in eugenics." She toured the state giving lectures illustrated with lantern slides, photographs printed on glass and projected with a magic lantern. Many of the pictures showed farm animals: hogs in spotless pens, cows milked in clean and filthy barns, and horses each drinking from their own bucket, which was her case against public drinking fountains.
Across America, state fairs judged babies and whole families like breeding stock, sometimes in the same livestock halls used for the hogs and cattle. People didn't have to be pushed into it: families lined up out the door to have their children scored.
Judging the whole herd
Not every eugenicist liked the baby contests. Charles B. Davenport, director of the Eugenics Record Office and the most powerful eugenicist in the country, worried that babies could hide genetic flaws that would only show up later. He mailed Mary Watts a postcard: "You should give 50% to heredity before you begin to score a baby." A year later, another one arrived: "A prize winner at two may be an epileptic when he is ten."
Florence Brown Sherbon agreed with him. How could a baby be called better if its relatives were diseased, drunk or insane? It took six years, but the two women came up with the answer: judge the entire family. The first Fitter Families contest ran at the Kansas Free Fair in 1920, in a brand-new eugenics building. Organizers had worried that parents would balk at the Wassermann test, a blood test for syphilis. Twenty families entered anyway, and before long, entries poured in faster than fairs could handle them.
Every family member went through a private exam covering psychology, psychiatry, body measurements, blood and urine tests, eyes, ears, nose, throat and teeth. Promoters bragged that every contest turned up at least one case of undiagnosed diabetes or tuberculosis. Families that averaged a B-plus or better took home a bronze medallion reading "Yay, I have goodly heritage." To the eugenicists, goodly heritage meant white, ideally with Northern or Western European roots. Contestants were promised that "Only winning scores will be given to the public." For extra entertainment, "Dogs and guinea pigs will be shown to demonstrate truths concerning heredity."
What the ribbons covered
The blue ribbons were the friendly face of the movement. In 1912, a report funded by the Carnegie family and issued by the American Breeders Association listed nine classes of people it called socially unfit, from the poor and the epileptic to the blind and the deaf. Its proposed remedies ran from lifelong segregation and sterilization all the way to euthanasia.
Indiana passed the first forced sterilization law in 1907. By the 1920s, 33 more states had followed, and 60,000 Americans had been sterilized against their will. At a mental institution in Lincoln, Illinois, patients were served milk contaminated with tuberculosis, and the annual death rate ran 30 to 40 percent. In 1915, a Chicago doctor named Harry Haiselden went to court for refusing a simple surgery that would have saved a newborn's life.
The ideas crossed the ocean. In 1916, the eugenicist Madison Grant published The Passing of a Great Race, warning of the collapse of the white race. One admirer wrote him a fan letter calling the book his Bible, then wrote a book of his own: Mein Kampf. Hitler proudly credited the American eugenicists, and the Nazis modeled their program on California's.
After World War II, nobody wanted to be associated with what the Nazis had done, and the movement faded almost overnight. American eugenics went quiet, but it never went away. Somewhere in an attic, a bronze medal about goodly heritage is probably still sitting in a box.
