Metrification

As the United States approached its bicentennial, Congress passed the Metric Conversion Act of 1975, declaring the metric system “the preferred system of weights and measures for United States trade and commerce.” The timing was symbolic—a nod to modernity as the nation prepared to celebrate 200 years of independence. It was a noble gesture, much like declaring broccoli the preferred vegetable at a Fourth of July picnic. Everyone nodded politely, then reached for the hot dogs and apple pie.

Jerry Ford, trying to nudge the country toward logic, signed the act just before Christmas. Jimmy Carter left it alone—he had sweaters and speed limits to worry about. Ronald Reagan recognized the futility of the effort and pulled the plug on the Metric Board, reaffirming what Americans truly valued: miles, gallons, and the God-given right to confuse the rest of the world.

To be fair, the United States has technically allowed metric use since 1866. That’s when the Kasson Act—named for an Iowan who thought ahead of his time—legalized the metric system and offered conversion charts. It was a reasonable attempt to bring order to the chaos of bushels and pecks. Scientific minds embraced the metric system with relief, while the rest of the country muttered something about acres and moved on.

The trouble is not that the metric system is hard. Quite the opposite. It is so mind-numbingly simple that it makes our system look like a prank. Ten millimeters make a centimeter, 100 centimeters make a meter, and 1,000 meters make a kilometer. There’s no need to remember that 12 inches make a foot, three feet make a yard, and 5,280 feet make a mile because—why wouldn’t they?

The British, ever the imperial eccentrics, went even further and invented “stones.” A stone is 14 pounds. No one knows why, but Brits feel better about life when they say, “I’ve lost a stone and a half.” Americans prefer pounds—though few could tell you how many ounces are in one without checking a cereal box or meat label. We already juggle dry pints and liquid pints, troy ounces and avoirdupois, measure horses in hands and races in furlongs—so why complicate things with decimals?

Roman numerals make an occasional appearance, mostly to confuse football fans and copyright lawyers. We measure fuel economy in miles per gallon, judge temperatures in Fahrenheit, and cling to inches, feet, and acres with a stubborn pride that suggests anything else might be vaguely un-American.

All of this makes metrication (yes, that’s a word) a bit like soccer. Americans respect it in theory, acknowledge its global dominance and find it vaguely exotic, but still prefer a game that regularly ends 34 to 31 with players built like bulldozers. Try getting a tailgate party going over a nil-nil draw.

Efforts at change persist. A few agencies still use metric internally, and your medicine dosage is in milligrams—assuming we squint hard enough to read the label. Metrification, however, remains a nonstarter. We’re too invested in our system. It’s like our politics—divisive, inefficient, and baffling to outsiders.

So while the rest of the world marches forward with metric clarity, we remain stubbornly unique. Why? Because deep down, we know that adopting the metric system would be admitting that someone else had a better idea.