During one of health secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s recent appearances on Capitol Hill, Rep. Adelita Grijalva (D-Ariz.) brought up an unusual allegation: that in 2001, he collected a dead raccoon’s penis. The incident was first described in the new book “RFK Jr.: The Fall and Rise” by Isabel Vincent, which quotes from a journal of Kennedy’s: “I was standing in front of my parked car on I-684 cutting the penis out of a road killed raccoon, thinking about how weird some of my family members have turned out to be.” According to Vincent, Kennedy cut off the penis “to study [it] later.”
While Kennedy did not respond to Grijalva about the raccoon incident, focusing instead on the National Institutes of Health budget and DEI, it has been widely treated as sensational news. But the jokes about it obscure an important question: whether his described actions meet fundamental standards of bioethical judgment.
From a scientific perspective, an interest in raccoon reproductive anatomy is surely not without merit. As a graduate student in wildlife ecology, I examined the reproductive parts of dead male raccoons as part of a broader population ecology study in central North Carolina. The focus of this look at their genitals was the baculum, or os penis, a small bone whose size and distinctive curvature in the raccoon change with age. These changes enable researchers to distinguish juveniles, approximately 1-year-olds, and adults, making the baculum a useful tool for the understanding of raccoon age structure, a vital component of their management. My specimens, obtained from animals already collected through legal hunting and trapping, were thus part of a purpose-driven research effort. Some of these bacula now reside in the Icelandic Phallological Museum in an educational display.
This distinction between structured scientific collection and Kennedy’s ad hoc acquisition is central to a bioethical analysis of his collecting behavior. The ethical acceptability of working with animal remains does not depend solely on whether the animal is already dead. It rests on purpose and respect. In a scientific context, specimen collection can be justified by clear research goals, carried out within professional norms, and directed toward knowledge that benefits ecological or societal interests.
If Kennedy collected a raccoon specimen without a defined scientific or educational purpose, the ethical justification becomes less clear. Indeed, the public has no idea about why he would stop a car filled with his family members and cut out a raccoon’s penis from a carcass.
Kennedy’s other reported episodes deepen these concerns. An account by his daughter that he removed a whale’s head from a carcass and transported it atop his vehicle raises issues not only of judgment but also of legal and conservation ethics, specifically under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Its statutes broadly prohibit the “take” of marine mammals, a term that includes collecting or possessing parts without authorization, as well as the transportation of such remains. Thus, removing and transporting a whale’s head without a permit could fall under prohibitions on unauthorized possession and transport. Although an inquiry by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration was closed, stating that the allegation of his removal and transport of the whale head was unfounded, the absence of a detailed public explanation still leaves the ethical questions unresolved.
Also rather troubling is his reported handling of a dead bear cub. His stated initial intention to use the animal for food might be ethically defensible within a subsistence framework. However, his subsequent decision to stage a public prank using the carcass signifies a shift in purpose. The animal’s body was no longer treated as a source of sustenance or knowledge, but rather as a prop for amusement. An ethical framework might view this as a failure of respect: the use of animal remains without sufficient moral justification.
Taken individually, these incidents contain elements of ambiguity. Collectively, they suggest a pattern in which purpose and respect are lacking.
These inconsistencies matter not only because of the acts themselves, but because of the office Kennedy holds. As the nation’s top health official, his position depends on public trust, scientific credibility, and a commitment to the responsible stewardship of life.
The issue, then, is not whether these actions are scientific in a narrow sense, nor whether they are merely unconventional. It is whether they reflect the deliberation, justification, and respect that a consideration of bioethics requires, especially from those entrusted with leadership in health and science.
There is a quiet irony herein worth noting. As secretary of Health and Human Services, Kennedy oversees the National Institutes of Health, which houses the NIH Department of Bioethics.
That connection invites a broader reflection. Standards in science and public health are not abstract ideals; they are shaped and reinforced by the conduct of those in leadership. We may reasonably ask what expectations should apply to such roles, and whether those expectations are being met.
Sam Zeveloff, Ph.D., presidential distinguished professor emeritus of zoology at Weber State University, is the author of “Raccoons: a Natural History” (Smithsonian Institution Press 2002).
