The Story of Psychology (80 page)

Intuitively, one might expect that those who got $20—a substantial sum in 1959—would be more likely to change their opinion of the task than those who got a dollar. But Festinger and Carlsmith predicted the opposite. The subjects who got $20 would have a solid reward to justify their lying, but those who got a dollar would have so little justification for lying that they would still feel dissonance, and would relieve it by convincing themselves that the task had been interesting and they had not really lied. Which is exactly what the results showed.
*
²³

Festinger and Carlsmith were exhilarated; social psychologists find it particularly exciting to discover something that is not obvious or that contradicts usual impressions. As Schachter has often told his students, it’s a waste of time to study
bubbe
psychology; that’s the kind that when you tell your grandmother
—bubbe
, in Yiddish—what you found, she says, “So what else is new? They pay you for this?”
²⁴

Cognitive dissonance theory stirred up a good deal of hostile criticism, which Festinger scathingly dismissed as “garbage,” and attributed to the fact that the theory presented a “not very idealistic” image of humankind.
²⁵
Whatever the motives of the critics, a flood of experiments showed cognitive dissonance to be a robust (consistent) finding. And, moreover, a fertile theory. Reminiscing, the eminent social psychologist Elliot Aronson said, “All we had to do was sit around and we could generate ten good hypotheses in an evening… the kinds of hypotheses that no one would even have dreamed of a few years earlier.”
²⁶
The theory also explained a number of kinds of social behavior
that could not be accounted for within behaviorist theory. Here are a few examples, all verified by experiments:
²⁷

Finally, one case of a “natural experiment” that illustrates the human tendency to reduce cognitive dissonance by rationalization:

Because of its explanatory power, cognitive dissonance theory easily survived all attacks. Twenty-five years after Festinger first advanced it and sixteen years after he left social psychology to study archaeology, a survey of social psychologists found that 79 percent considered him the person who had contributed most to their field.
²⁸
Today, a generation later, Festinger’s name and fame have dimmed, but cognitive dissonance remains a bedrock principle of social psychological theory. But one criticism of cognitive dissonance research has been difficult to rebut. The researchers almost always gulled the volunteers into doing things they would not ordinarily do (such as lying for money), subjected them without their consent to strenuous or embarrassing experiences, or revealed to them aspects of themselves that damaged their self-esteem. The investigators “debriefed” subjects after the experiment, explaining the real purpose, the reason deception had been necessary, and the benefit to science of their participation. This was intended to restore to them their sense of well-being, but critics have insisted that it is unethical to subject other people to such experiences without their knowledge and consent.
²⁹

These ethical problems were not peculiar to dissonance studies; they existed in more severe form in other kinds of sociopsychological research. A famous case in point is an experiment conducted in 1971 by Professor Philip G. Zimbardo, a social psychologist at Stanford University, and three colleagues.
³⁰
To study the social psychology of imprisonment, they enlisted undergraduate men as volunteers in a simulation of prison life, in which each would play the part of a guard or a prisoner. All volunteers were interviewed and given personality tests; twenty-one middle-class whites were selected after being rated emotionally stable, mature, and law-abiding. By the flip of a coin, ten were designated as prisoners, eleven as guards, for the duration of a two-week experiment.

The “prisoners” were “arrested” by police one quiet Sunday morning, handcuffed, booked at the police station, taken to the “prison” (a set of
cells built in the basement of the Stanford psychology building), and there stripped, searched, deloused, and issued uniforms. The guards were supplied with billy clubs, handcuffs, whistles, and keys to the cells; they were told that their job was to maintain “law and order” in the prison and that they could devise their own methods of prisoner control. The warden (a colleague of Zimbardo’s) and guards drew up a list of sixteen rules the prisoners had to obey: they were to be silent at meals, rest periods, and after lights out; they were to eat at mealtimes but no other time; they were to address one another by their ID number and any guard as Mr. Correctional Officer, and so on. Violation of any rule could result in punishment.

The relations between guards and prisoners quickly assumed a classic pattern: the guards began to think of the prisoners as inferior and dangerous, the prisoners to view the guards as bullies and sadists. As one guard reported:

In a few days the prisoners organized a rebellion. They tore off their ID numbers and barricaded themselves inside their cells by shoving beds against the doors. The guards sprayed them with a fire extinguisher to drive them back from the doors, burst into their cells, stripped them, took away their beds, and in general thoroughly intimidated them.

The guards, from that point on, kept making up additional rules, waking the prisoners frequently at night for head counts, forcing them to perform tedious and useless tasks, and punishing them for “infractions.” The prisoners, humiliated, became obsessed by the unfairness of their treatment. Some grew disturbed, one so much so that by the fifth day the experimenters began to consider releasing him before the end of the experiment.

The rapid development of sadism in the guards was exemplified by the comments of one of them who, before the experiment, said that he was a pacifist, was nonaggressive, and could not imagine himself mal-treating another person. By the fifth day he noted in his diary:

Zimbardo and his colleagues had not expected so rapid a transformation in either group of volunteers and later wrote in a report:

On the sixth day the researchers abruptly terminated the experiment for the good of all concerned. They felt, however, that it had been valuable; it had shown how easily “normal, healthy, educated young men could be so radically transformed under the institutional pressures of a ‘prison environment.’ ”

That finding may have been important, but in the eyes of many ethicists the experiment was grossly unethical. It had imposed on its volunteers physical and emotional stresses that they had not anticipated or agreed to undergo. In so doing, it had violated the principle, affirmed by the Supreme Court in 1914, that “every human being of adult years and sound mind has a right to determine what shall be done with his own body.”
³¹
Because of the ethical problems, the prison experiment has not been replicated; it is a closed case.
*

Even this was bland in comparison with another experiment, also of major value, and also now a closed case. Let us open the file and see what was learned, and by what extraordinary means.

In the aftermath of the Holocaust, many behavioral scientists sought to understand how so many normal, civilized Germans could have behaved toward other human beings with such incomprehensible savagery. A massive study published in 1950, carried out by an interdisciplinary
team with a psychoanalytic orientation, ascribed prejudice and ethnic hatred to the “authoritarian personality,” an outgrowth of particular kinds of parenting and childhood experience.
³²
But social psychologists found this too general an explanation; they thought the answer more likely to involve a special social situation that caused ordinary people to commit out-of-character atrocities.

It was to explore this possibility that an advertisement in a New Haven newspaper in the early 1960s called for volunteers for a study of memory and learning at Yale University.
³³
Any adult male not in high school or college would be eligible, and participants would be paid $4 (roughly the equivalent of $25 today) an hour plus carfare.

Forty men ranging from twenty to fifty years old were selected and given separate appointments. Each was met at an impressive laboratory by a small, trim young man in a gray lab coat. Arriving at the same time was another “volunteer,” a pleasant middle-aged man of Irish-American appearance. The man in the lab coat, the ostensible researcher, was actually a thirty-one-year-old high school biology teacher, and the middle-aged man was an accountant by profession. Both were accomplices of the social psychologist conducting the experiment, Stanley Milgram of Yale, and would act the parts he had scripted.

The researcher explained to the two men, the real and false volunteers, that he was studying the effect of punishment on learning. One of them would be the “teacher” and the other the “learner” in an experiment in which the teacher would give the learner an electric shock whenever he made an error. The two volunteers then drew slips of paper to see who would be which. The one selected by the “naïve” volunteer read “Teacher.” (To ensure this result, both slips read “Teacher,” but the accomplice discarded his without showing it.)

The researcher then led the two subjects into a small room, where the learner was seated at a table, his arms strapped down, and electrodes attached to his wrists. He said he hoped the shocks wouldn’t be too severe; he had a heart condition. The teacher was then taken into an adjoining room from which he could speak to and hear the learner but not see him. On a table was a large shiny metal box said to be a shock generator. On the front was a row of thirty switches, each marked with the voltage it delivered (ranging from 15 to 450) plus descriptive labels: “Slight Shock,” “Moderate Shock,” and so on, up to “Danger: Severe Shock” at 435, and finally two switches marked simply “XXX.”

The teacher’s role, the researcher explained, was to read a list of word pairs (such as
blue, sky
and
dog, cat
) to the learner, then test his memory
by reading the first word of one pair and four possible second words, one of which was correct. The learner would indicate his choice by pushing a button lighting one of four bulbs in front of the teacher. Whenever he gave a wrong answer, the teacher was to depress a switch giving him a shock, starting at the lowest level. Each time the learner made an error, the teacher was to give him the next stronger shock.

At first the experiment proceeded easily and uneventfully; the learner would give some right answers and some wrong ones, the teacher would administer a mild shock after each wrong answer, and continue. But as the learner made more mistakes and the shocks became greater in intensity—the apparatus was fake, of course, and no shocks were delivered—the situation grew unpleasant. At 75 volts the learner grunted audibly; at 120 he called out that the shocks were becoming painful; at 150 volts he shouted, “Get me out of here. I refuse to go on!” Whenever the teacher wavered, the researcher, standing beside him, said, “Please continue.” At 180 volts the learner called, “I can’t stand the pain!” and at 270 he howled. When the teacher hesitated or balked, the researcher said, “The experiment requires that you continue.” Later, when the learner was banging on the wall, or still later, when he was screaming, the researcher said sternly, “It is absolutely essential that you continue.” Beyond 330, when there was only silence from the next room—to be interpreted as equivalent to an incorrect answer—the experimenter said, “You have no other choice; you must go on.”