Elephants on Acid (27 page)

The Rambler won the honk contest, hands down. Eighty-four percent of drivers stuck behind it honked within twelve seconds. This compared to a honk rate of only 50 percent from cars behind the Chrysler. In fact, two impatient drivers never even bothered to honk at the Rambler—they nudged it with their bumpers instead. On the occasions this occurred, the researchers decided waiting around for a honk wasn’t wise. They immediately implemented the speedy getaway option.

Since Doob and Gross’s study, numerous researchers have performed variations of the honking study. For instance, a 1971 study by Kay Deaux revealed that both genders honk at women drivers more often, apparently because “common stereotypes regarding ‘damn women drivers’ suggest that honking at a female driver is more acceptable than honking at a male driver.” A 1975 University of Utah study discovered that displaying a hostile symbol such as a rifle in a gun rack or a vengeance bumper sticker increases the likelihood people will honk at you.

In one particularly memorable study, conducted in 1976, researcher Robert Baron arranged for a male accomplice to stop at a red light. When a car pulled up behind him, and with the light still red, a female accomplice walked across the street in between the two cars. She did so either dressed conservatively in blue jeans and a blouse, limping on crutches, wearing a clown mask, or attired in a sexy, revealing outfit. After she crossed the street, the light turned green, and the accomplice in the car waited fifteen seconds before moving. Baron found that when the female accomplice had just walked by on crutches, wearing a clown mask, or dressed provocatively, people in the second car honked significantly less often than when she had passed by in conservative clothes or when she didn’t cross the street at all. These results, he suggested, indicate that empathy, humor, and mild sexual arousal may inhibit aggression.

While contributing to this field of research may be tempting—especially given the simplicity of the procedural design—this is one experiment that should definitely be left to the professionals. The last thing our roads need are scores of amateur researchers blocking intersections in the name of
⁶⁹
science. Except, perhaps, for the skimpy bikini test. That one might be worth encouraging.

“Prisoner 8612, against the wall!” The prisoner ignores the guard. His mind is reeling. It feels like everything is pressing in on him, as though he is going mad.

“Against the wall!” the guard shouts again. “Come on, somebody get him back in line.”

Suddenly 8612 wheels to face the guard. “Listen, if I have to be in here, I’m not going to put up with this shit. I mean, really!” The prisoner turns and grips one of his fellow prisoners by the arm. “I couldn’t even get out,” he hisses. There’s a desperate edge to his voice. “They wouldn’t let me out. You can’t get out of here.”

The other prisoners laugh nervously, but you can see it in their eyes—the sudden flash of panic. He couldn’t get out? That means that this is real, that this is an actual prison. And they’re stuck inside.

It had started out like a game. They had volunteered to spend two weeks in a fake jail in the basement of the Stanford psychology department, dressed up as prisoners and guards. It would be fun. Or, at least, something different to do during the summer. The idea seemed harmless. How bad could it be?

The mock prison was the idea of Philip Zimbardo—the same Zimbardo we just met who dressed New York University coeds in flower-patterned bags. By now it was 1971, and he was teaching at Stanford, but he was still interested in situations that make good people turn bad, and his thoughts had turned to prisons. What makes prisons such violent places? he wondered. Was the character of the prisoners and guards to blame? Or was it the power structure of the prison itself that brought out the worst in people? Was it a case of bad apples, or a bad barrel?

To find out, he decided to create a fake prison. He would recruit twenty-four healthy young men—who were good, honest citizens with no criminal records, and who, based on their personality test scores, fell into the normal range on every trait—and randomly assign half of them to be guards in his mock prison and the other half to be prisoners. He would then step back for two weeks and see what happened.

If bad people are the cause of bad prisons, then his prison filled with good people should experience two uneventful weeks. But if the structure of prison life is responsible for making the inhabitants of prisons go bad, then things would go very differently.

The experiment began on Saturday, August 14, 1971. With sirens wailing, squad cars swept through Palo Alto picking up the prisoners. “Come quietly, son,” the officers said, as they led the bewildered young men to the squad cars in full view of concerned neighbors.
Am I being arrested?
the volunteers wondered. They had been told nothing about real police picking them up. Only when they were deposited at the Stanford psychology department did they know,
Yes, this was part of the experiment
. Zimbardo dreamed up the police pickup as a way to thrust the prisoners right into their new roles. The police had gone along as a conciliatory gesture toward Stanford’s administration, with whom tensions had recently run high following violent anti–Vietnam War demonstrations.

The prison was a bunch of offices with bars fitted onto the doors. A broom closet served as solitary confinement. The guards, wearing khaki uniforms and reflective sunglasses, met the prisoners. “From now on you are a number,” they told them. “You will address each of us as ‘Mr. Correctional Officer.’ Do you understand?”

The prisoners stripped and were sprayed with deodorant, as if being deloused. Then they were given smocks, stocking caps, and ankle chains to wear. The smocks (worn without underwear) humiliated them by forcing them to walk awkwardly to keep themselves covered. The caps simulated having their heads shaved, and the ankle chains were to remind them of their loss of freedom.

The first day was a lot like being at camp. The guards were unsure how to behave. They had received only minimal instructions—no physical violence, and don’t let the prisoners escape. The prisoners seemed more at ease, swapping jokes with one another as they lined up for roll call.

But before long the guards warmed up to their roles. At two a.m. they forced the prisoners out of bed for a count in “the yard” (which was really the hallway outside the offices). “Get out of bed! On the double!” they screamed. “Up against the wall!” Bleary-eyed, the prisoners complied.

The next morning the prisoners retaliated. They staged a rebellion, shoving their beds up against their cell doors and screaming taunts at the guards: “This isn’t a prison. This is a fucking simulation!”

Embarrassed by the sudden loss of control, the guards cracked down hard. They blasted the prisoners with fire extinguishers, called in the off-duty guards as reinforcements, and forced their way into the cells. From that moment on, summer camp was over. The guards stripped the prisoners naked, herded them into the yard, and made them do jumping jacks, sit-ups, and push-ups. They threw the ringleader of the rebellion, prisoner 8612, into solitary to let him dwell on his misbehavior.

To prevent future rebellions, the guards sharply curtailed the few liberties the prisoners had. They implemented random strip searches and revoked bathroom privileges, making the prisoners pee in a bucket. Soon the stench of urine crept through the cells. The guards also introduced psychological tactics meant to create divisions among the prisoners. They branded those who resisted their authority as troublemakers and blamed them for making conditions worse for the others; meanwhile, they created a ‘privilege cell’ for good prisoners.

It all proved too much for prisoner 8612. He began complaining of stomach pains and headaches. He approached the researchers, pleading to be let out. But they were unsympathetic. Zimbardo tried to cut him a deal—no more abuse from the guards in return for sharing information about the other prisoners. Dazed and confused, prisoner 8612 stumbled back to his cell, and it was then he told the other prisoners that he couldn’t get out, that this was a real prison.

Later that night, 8612 became unmanageable. He started screaming, “I feel so fucked-up. Jesus Christ, I’m burning up inside. Don’t you know? I want out!” Grudgingly, Zimbardo agreed to release him. After a mere thirty-six hours, the experiment had lost its first prisoner.

*

Fast-forward to Friday afternoon, the sixth day of the experiment. Christina Maslach stopped by the prison at the request of Zimbardo. She had recently completed her doctorate at Stanford and was romantically involved with Zimbardo. The two would later marry (and they remain married to this day). Maslach had agreed to interview some of the participants and record their thoughts and feelings at this stage of the experiment.

When she arrived, the prison was quiet. The guards were relaxing and the prisoners were in their cells. She met up with Zimbardo, who excitedly related the events of the previous week. “The psychology of it is fascinating,” he enthused.

Since the release of 8612, the guards, intoxicated by the sense of power, had steadily escalated their harassment of the prisoners. While refraining from physical violence, they had freely used verbal abuse, humiliation, sleep deprivation, and withholding of basic necessities such as food and blankets. As though aware that what they were doing was wrong, the guards had attempted to conceal their behavior. They made the prisoners write letters home saying, “No need to visit. It’s seventh heaven.” They also saved their worst abuses for the night shift, when they thought the researchers weren’t observing.

The prisoners, meanwhile, had grown more passive, as though broken by the system. Four more of them had followed 8612’s lead and started acting crazy, forcing the researchers to release them. One had even broken out in a full-body stress-related rash.

Zimbardo encouraged Maslach to observe “the count,” which was just then beginning in the yard. She watched in horror as the meanest of the guards, a blond eighteen-year-old nicknamed John Wayne, strode back and forth, pounding his billy stick into his hand, screaming abuse at the prisoners. Later she witnessed a bathroom run. Hooded and chained, the prisoners were led in single file to the lavatory like animals.

“What you are doing to these boys is a terrible thing!” Maslach burst out. Enraged, she accused Zimbardo of creating a madhouse. How could he allow this to go on? He defended himself. Couldn’t she see what important psychological research was being done here? They went back and forth. As they argued, Zimbardo eventually looked out at the prison and stopped in his tracks. He realized Maslach was right. He
had
created a madhouse. He had allowed himself to get caught up in the same negative psychology of the situation that had, within six days, transformed average college kids into passive prisoners and sadistic guards. It had to end.

Not surprisingly, the prisoners were relieved when he halted the experiment the next morning. The guards, however, were disappointed. Most of them had grown quite fond of their newfound power.

The dramatic nature of the Stanford prison experiment—its demonstration of the speed with which social roles can overwhelm people—has made it one of the most famous psychology experiments of all time. Its main challenger for that title is Milgram’s obedience study. Both experiments have had a profound cultural impact. They have inspired books, plays, and movies—most notably
Das Experiment
, a 2001 German film loosely based on the prison experiment, and
Atrocity
, an award-winning 2005 movie that reenacts the obedience experiments. Rock bands have even named themselves after the experiments, such as the Los Angeles band Stanford Prison Experiment, and the French punk group Milgram, which has issued a CD titled
450 Volts
.

⁷⁰
However, the experiments are linked at a deeper, more personal level. In an odd coincidence, Milgram and Zimbardo were senior-year classmates at James Monroe High School in the Bronx. Zimbardo credits both of them growing up to become situational psychologists to their both being poor, ambitious kids deeply aware of the external forces shaping their lives. He also remembers that Milgram was considered the smartest kid at the school, whereas he was voted most popular boy in the senior class. If they had been judged by their peers to be
most shocking
and
most likely to end up in jail
, that also would have been correct.

You’re seated in a small, nondescript office. The experimenter’s assistant hands you a pair of headphones with an attached microphone and indicates you should put them on. You do so, and he gives you a thumbs-up sign. Then he exits the room, leaving you alone. Soon the voice of the lead researcher begins to come through your headphones:

Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for coming. We have invited the six of you here today to share your thoughts about personal problems associated with college life. We are very interested in learning how students adapt to life in the urban environment of New York City. To minimize embarrassment, we have taken a number of precautions. First, as you are already aware, today’s discussion will be conducted over an intercom system, instead of face-to-face. Second, I will not listen to your initial discussion. This is to ensure that none of you are inhibited by the presence of an outside listener. Because I will not be listening, we have implemented a mechanical system to structure the discussion. Each person will be allowed two minutes to speak. As one person is speaking, all the other microphones will be shut off. Once two minutes are up, the machine will automatically turn on the microphone of the next person. We will go around the group a few times in this way, and then open up the microphones for a free discussion. If everyone is clear about this procedure, then I will turn off my headphones and allow your discussion to begin.