THE MEASURE OF AMERICA.

Along with the Ferris wheel, the hamburger, Cracker Jack, Aunt Jemima, the zipper, Juicy Fruit, and the vertical file, the word "anthropology" was introduced to a vast number of Americans at the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Marking the four-hundredth anniversary of Columbus's discovery of America--and opening just a little late, in May, 1893, owing to the amount of construction required to turn a marshy wasteland on Lake Michigan into a neoclassical "White City," as the fair was called--the six-month celebration put on display all that the nation had achieved and still hoped to become. Here proud Americans could view the table on which the Declaration of Independence had been signed, the manuscript of Abraham Lincoln's inaugural address, and two full-scale replicas of the Liberty Bell--one executed entirely in grain, the other in oranges. As for the future, the fair was ablaze with work-reducing inventions, from the electric kitchen to the electric chair. But the most important promise of an American utopia was the extraordinary assembly of peoples. American Indians and native Africans, Germans, Egyptians, and Labrador Eskimos were just a few of those invited to take part in nearly a hundred "living exhibits"--whole villages were imported and exactingly rebuilt--with the purpose of expanding American minds: "broadening, opening, lighting up dark corners," a contemporary magazine expounded, "bringing them in sympathy with their fellow men."

No one was more devoted to this goal than a young anthropologist named Franz Boas, who had emigrated from Germany ten years before, staunch in the belief that America was "politically an ideal country." Enthralled by the collections of the American Museum of Natural History, in New York, he had made his field of study the Indians of the Northwest Coast--the artistically accomplished Haida, Kwakiutl, and Bella Coola tribes--and, in the days leading up to the fair's triumphal opening, he was busy supplying the final timbers for a pair of houses in which a Kwakiutl group would live, on the bank of a pond outside a small pavilion marked "Anthropology." Inside was a spectacular array of masks and decorated tools, which Boas had spent two years assembling. His expectations for impressing visitors derived less from the works' richly painted surfaces, however, than from their intellectual and imaginative content--what he described as the "wealth of thought" that was clearly visible if only people learned to look. The Indians had been asked to perform the rituals that would enable viewers to perceive this wealth, and had been assured that at the fair they would receive the respect that was their due, even if it had been no part of their experience in the old, demonstrably un-utopian New World.

In fact, the wretched history of Indian life in nineteenth-century America had long been justified by the claims of anthropology, a field that originated during debates over slavery and the right of settlers to seize the natives' lands, and patriotically embraced such practices as part of the natural racial order. The chief means of establishing the racial order was to measure skulls--both the conveniently empty craniums acquired through a thriving graveyard market and the more resistant living models. Anthropologists presented their findings as objective science: elaborate measuring techniques yielded columns of figures that inevitably placed white intelligence at the top of the scale, red and yellow capacities farther down, and blacks at the wholly uncivilizable bottom. It was no coincidence that this science faithfully mirrored popular opinion: published studies were so open in their manipulation of evidence--a higher proportion of male skulls, for example, were employed when larger dimensions were desired--that they appear to have been not conscious attempts at deception but unwitting examples of delusion.

The effects of such studies, however, were painfully real. At mid-century, the anthropologist Samuel Morton asserted that whites and Negroes belonged to different species, while another anthropologist, Josiah Nott, popularized the view that slavery saved Negroes from reverting to their original barbaric state: these authoritative voices resounded in the Supreme Court's Dred Scott decision, of 1857, in which Chief Justice Roger Taney resolved that "the Negro might justly and lawfully be reduced to slavery for his benefit." After Emancipation, theories of separate racial evolutions fuelled the case for black disenfranchisement, right up to the passing of the first Jim Crow laws, around the time of the Chicago fair.

Franz Boas had come of age in a far more liberal scientific tradition. In the first half of the century, the great German natural scientist Alexander von Humboldt had dismissed all hierarchical notions of race. Although the frenzy for measuring skulls later tore through Germany, a professor of medicine named Rudolf Virchow--Boas's most revered teacher--prevented racial prejudice from gaining "scientific" support by strictly controlling the country's anthropological institutions. Boas himself was convinced by his early field work that the accepted view of "primitive" cultures was wrong. In his first substantive article in America, he demolished the standard claim that Indian and Eskimo speakers used different sounds for the same word at different times, and showed that the purported vagueness of "primitive" speech was actually a characteristic of the primitive ears of anthropologists, who transcribed differing approximations of what they heard at different times. The full implications of this change in thinking--how many assumptions about "primitive" faculties depended on flaws in "civilized" perception?--were left unstated. Boas kept his scope narrow and his tone mild: he demonstrated how easily such confusion occurred through mistakes in his own notes.

Boas was not by nature a timid soul. Small in stature but formidably intense, he had a shock of dark hair like an eagle's crest and a face slashed with mysterious scars. (People whispered of early duels.) But he was also a young man desperate for work in a country where scarcely more than half a dozen institutions regularly employed an anthropologist. There were plans now for a new museum in Chicago, to be built from the collections amassed for the fair. Boas had moved his family west from New York City; he had invested everything in study and preparation. His future, no less than that of the Indians, was staked on the lessons that he and the fair were going to teach America.

As it turned out, the Chicago fair was a colossal freak show--a racist phantasmagoria, with commercial interests under the guise of "anthropology" catering to every cheap and lurid prejudice. Boas's Indians could hardly compete for attention with the Egyptian belly dancers and battling Bedouins of the thronging Midway. Native African villagers from Dahomey--bare-breasted and reportedly cannibalistic--were continually invoked in the press as evidence of the American Negro's savage nature, a judgment given credence by the Smithsonian Institution's display about racial evolution, which was mounted in the United States pavilion. Few African-Americans had been asked to take part in their country's exhibits, but on the fairgrounds two eloquent Negro voices were raised. The venerable Frederick Douglass, aged seventy-six, disputed the so-called "Negro Problem" from the Haitian pavilion, proclaiming that Americans' real problem was whether they could "live up to their own Constitution." And the crusader Ida B. Wells distributed ten thousand copies of a pamphlet about the increasingly common American ritual of lynching--there had been two hundred and forty-one victims in 1892--which included graphic accounts of horrors committed even while the nation was celebrating the peace and harmony of the White City.