my hand along the sheet's pattern, a series of green grids, what oncelooked like country checkerboard butnowlooks like lab paper.My husband eyes me, warily I might add. He is not a psychologist,but ifhe were,he would be ofthe Carl Rogers school.He has a softvoice,a still softertouch."i don't know," he says."what exactly do you think we'll teachher by doing this?""To sleep through the night alone,"I say."Or,"he says, "to realize that when she needs help, we won'trespond, that when there's danger real or imagined, we're not there.That's not the worldview I wish to impart."Nevertheless, I win the debate.We decide to Skinnerize our girl, ifonly because we need rest. It's brutal in the beginning, having to hearher scream,"Mama mama,papal,"having to put her down as shestretches out her scrumptious arms in the dark, but we do it, andhere's what happens: It works like magic, or science.Within five daysthe child acts like a trained narcoleptic; as soon as she feels the crib'ssheet on her cheek, she drops into a dead ten-hour stretch of sleepand all our nights are quiet.Here's the thing. And all our nights are quiet. But sometimes now,we cannot sleep, my husband and I.Have we remembered to turn themonitor on? Is the dial up high enough? Did the pacifier break offinher mouth, so she will smother as she is soothed?We stay up, andthrough the monitor we can sometimes hear the sound ofher breath-ing, like a staticky wind, but not once does her voice break through-not a yelp, a giggle, a sweet sleep-talk, She has been eerily gagged.She sleeps so still, in her white baby box.SOME OF THE actual boxes that Skinner used have been archived atHarvard.I go to view them.They are in the basement ofWilliamJames Hall, still under construction. I have to wear a hard hat, a heavyyellow shell on my head, I go down, down the stairs.There is a moist
my hand along the sheet's pattern, a series of green grids, what onc e looked like country checkerboard but now looks like lab paper. My husband eyes me , warily I might add. He is not a psychologist, but if he were, he would be of the Carl Rogers school. He has a soft voice, a still softer touch. " I don't know," he says. "Wha t exactly do you think we'll teach her by doing this?" " T o sleep through the night alone," I say. "Or, " he says, "to realize that whe n she needs help, we won't respond, that whe n there's danger real or imagined, we're not there. That's not the worldview I wish to impart." Nevertheless, I win the debate. We decide to Skinneriz e our girl, if only because we need rest. It's brutal in the beginning, having to hear he r scream, "Mam a mama , papa!," having to put her down as she stretches out her scrumptious arms in the dark, but we do it, and here's what happens: It works like magic , or science. Withi n five days the child acts like a trained narcoleptic; as soon as she feels the crib's sheet on he r cheek, she drops into a dead ten-hou r stretch of sleep, and all our nights are quiet. Here's the thing. An d all our nights are quiet. Bu t sometime s now, we cannot sleep, my husband and I. Have we remembered to turn the monitor on? Is the dial up high enough? Di d the pacifier break off in her mouth, so she will smothe r as she is soothed? We stay up, and through the monito r we can sometimes hear the sound of he r breathing, like a staticky wind, but not onc e does her voice break through— not a yelp, a giggle, a sweet sleep-talk. Sh e has been eerily gagged. She sleeps so still, in her whit e baby box . SOM E OF TH E actual boxes that Skinne r used have bee n archived a t Harvard. I go to view them. The y are in the basement of William Jame s Hall, still under construction. I have to wear a hard hat, a heavy yellow shell on my head. I go down, down the stairs. Ther e is a moist
stink in the air, and black flies buzz like neurons, each one plumpwith purpose, The walls themselves are porous, and when you pressthem, a fine white powder comes offin your hands. I pass a workerin hip-high boots, smoking a cigarette, the bright tip sizzling like acold sore at the corner of his lip. I imagine this cellar is full ofrats;they careen around the boxes, their glass-pink eyes, their scaly tailsflicking:what freedom!Up ahead, I see a huge dark stainor is it a shadow?on a brickwall."There they are,"my guide, a buildings and grounds person, saysand points.I go forward. Ahead ofme in the cellar's dimness, I can make outlarge glass display cases, and within them some sort ofskeleton.Closerup,I see it is the preserved remains ofa bird, its hollow,flight-friendlybones arranged to give it the appearance ofmid-soar, its skull full oftiny pinprick holes. One ofskinner's pigeons,perhaps, the eye socketsdeep, within them a tiny living gleam, and then it goes.I move my gaze from bones to boxes.It is at this point that I feelsurprised by what I see. The bones are in line with this man's omi-nous mystery, but the boxes, the famous boxes-these are the famousblack boxes? They are,for starters,not black.They are an innocuousgray.Did I read the boxes were black, or did Ijust concoct that, in theintersectionwherefact and myth meet tomake all manner of oddobjects? No, these boxes are not black, and they are rather ricketylooking,with an external spindle graphing device and tiny levers fortraining. The push pedals are so small, almost cute,but the feedingdishes are a cold institutional chrome. This is what I do: I put myhead in. I lift the lid and put my head deep inside a Skinner box,where the smell is of scat, fear, food, feathers, things soft and hard,good and bad; how swiftly an object switches from benign to omi-nous.Howdifficultitisto boxevenabox.Perhaps, I think, the most accurate way of understanding Skinnerthe man is to hold him as two, not one. There is Skinner the ideo-logue, the ghoulish man who dreamt ofestablishing communities ofpeople trained like pets, and then there is Skinner the scientist, who
stink in the air, and black flies buzz like neurons, each on e plump with purpose. Th e walls themselves are porous, and whe n you press them, a fine whit e powde r come s off in your hands. I pass a worke r in hip-high boots, smokin g a cigarette, the bright tip sizzling like a cold sore at the corne r of his lip. I imagine this cellar is full of rats; they careen around the boxes, their glass-pink eyes, their scaly tails flicking: wha t freedom! Up ahead, I see a huge dark stain—or is it a shadow?—on a bric k wall. "Ther e they are," my guide, a buildings and grounds person, says and points. I go forward. Ahead of me in the cellar's dimness, I can make out large glass display cases, and within them some sort of skeleton. Close r up, I see it is the preserved remains of a bird, its hollow, flight-friendly bone s arranged to give it the appearance of mid-soar, its skull full of tiny pinprick holes. On e of Skinner's pigeons, perhaps, the eye sockets deep, within them a tiny living gleam, and then it goes. I mov e my gaze from bone s to boxes. It is at this point that I feel surprised by wha t I see. Th e bone s are in line with this man's omi - nous mystery, but the boxes, the famous boxes—these are the famous black boxes? The y are, for starters, not black. The y are an innocuous gray. Di d I read the boxes were black, or did I just concoc t that, in the intersection wher e fact and myth mee t to make all manne r of odd objects? No , these boxes are not black, and they are rather rickety looking, with an external spindle graphing device and tiny levers for training. Th e push pedals are so small, almost cute, but the feeding dishes are a cold institutional chrome . This is wha t I do: I put my head in. I lift the lid and put my head deep inside a Skinne r box , wher e the smell is of scat, fear, food, feathers, things soft and hard, goo d and bad; ho w swiftly an objec t switches from benign to ominous. Ho w difficult it is to bo x even a box . Perhaps, I think, the most accurate way of understanding Skinne r the ma n is to hold him as two, no t one . Ther e is Skinne r the ideo - logue, the ghoulish man wh o dreamt o f establishing communitie s o f peopl e trained like pets, and then there is Skinne r the scientist, wh o
made discrete discoveries that have forever changed how we viewbehavior.There is Skinner's data, irrefutable and brilliant, the powerofintermittent reinforcement, the sheer range ofbehaviors that canbe molded, enhanced,or extinguished, and then there is Skinner'sphilosophy, where, I imagine, he earned his dark reputation. Thesetwo things perhaps have been mixed up in the public's mind, in mymind certainly,as science and the ideas it spawned melded into amythical mess.But then again, can you really separate the significanceof data from its proposed social uses? Can we considerjust splittingthe atom, and not the bomb and the bones that followed? Is not sci-ence indelibly rooted in the soil of social construction, so that thevalue ofwhat we discover is inextricably tied to the value ofthe useswe discover for the discovery? Round and round we go. It's a lexical,syntactical puzzle, not to mention a moral one, not to mention anintellectual one ofgrave import-the idea that science and its dataare best evaluated in a box, apart from the human hands that willinevitablygiveit itsshape.Questions of application as a means of measuring data's worthaside, what are all the mechanisms, so to speak, that contributed toSkinner's infamy? How and why did the bizarre myth of the deaddaughter (who is supposedly quite alive), the black boxes, and therobotic scientist take precedence over what I amcoming to seeshould maybe be a more nuanced view of a man who hoveredbetween lyric prose and number crunching, a man who skinny-dipped just after he ran his rats and birds, a man who hummedWagner, that composer ofpure sentiment, while he studied the singlereflex ofa green frog? How did all this complexity get lost? SurelySkinner himselfis partly to blame."He was greedy,"says a sourcewho wishes to remain anonymous."He made one discovery and hetried to apply it to the whole world, and so he fell over a ledge."And yet, there's much much more than greed that turns us off.Skinner, in developing new devices, raised questions that were anaffront to the Western imagination,which prides itself on libertywhile at the same time harboring huge doubts as to how solid our
made discrete discoveries that have forever changed ho w we view behavior. Ther e is Skinner's data, irrefutable and brilliant, the powe r of intermittent reinforcement, the sheer range of behaviors that can be molded, enhanced, or extinguished, and then there is Skinner's philosophy, where , I imagine , he earned his dark reputation. Thes e two things perhaps have bee n mixe d up in the public's mind, in my min d certainly, as scienc e and the ideas it spawned melded into a mythical mess. Bu t then again, can you really separate the significance of data from its proposed social uses? Ca n we conside r just splitting the atom, and not the bom b and the bone s that followed? Is not scienc e indelibly rooted in the soil of social construction, so that the value of wha t we discover is inextricably tied to the value of the uses we discover for the discovery? Roun d and round we go. It's a lexical, syntactical puzzle, not to mentio n a moral one , not to mentio n an intellectual on e of grave import—th e idea that scienc e and its data are best evaluated in a box , apart from the human hands that will inevitably give it its shape. Questions of application as a means of measuring data's worth aside, wha t are all the mechanisms, so to speak, that contributed to Skinner's infamy? Ho w and wh y did the bizarre myth of the dead daughter (wh o is supposedly quite alive), the black boxes, and the robotic scientist take precedenc e over wha t I am comin g to see should maybe be a mor e nuanced view of a ma n wh o hovered between lyric prose and numbe r crunching, a ma n wh o skinnydipped just after he ran his rats and birds, a ma n wh o humme d Wagner, that compose r of pure sentiment, whil e he studied the single reflex of a green frog? Ho w did all this complexit y get lost? Surely Skinne r himself is partly to blame. "H e was greedy," says a source w h o wishes to remain anonymous. "H e made on e discovery and he tried to apply it to the whol e world, and so he fell over a ledge." An d yet, there's muc h muc h mor e than greed that turns us off. Skinner, in developing new devices, raised questions that were an affront to the Western imagination, whic h prides itself on liberty while at the same time harboring huge doubts as to ho w solid our
supposed freedoms really are. Our fears of reductionism, our suspi-cions that we really may be no more than a series of automatedresponses, did not, as so many of us like to think, come to promi-nence in the industrial age. They are way, way older than that. Eversince Oedipus raged at his carefully calibrated fate, or Gilgameshstruggled to set himselffree from his god's predestined plans, humanshave wondered and deeply worried about the degree to which weorchestrate our own agentic actions. Skinner's work was,amongother things, the square container into which those worries, foreverresurrected, were poured in the shadow of the twentieth century'snewgleamingmachines.BEFORE I LEAVE the Skinner archives for good,Imake one morestop, and that's to view the famous baby box in which Skinner raisedhis dead or living Debbie,The box itself, I learn, has been disman-tled, but I see a picture of it, from Ladies'HomeJournal, which ran anarticle about the invention in 1945. Ifyou wish to raise your reputa-tion as a scientist, Ladies' Home Journal is probably not the best choiceofoutlets. The fact that Skinner chose to publish his supposed scien-tific inventions in a second-tier women's magazine speaks ofhis verypoor"PR"skills."BABYINABOX"the heading to the article reads, and beneath that there is, indeed, apicture of a baby in a box, a cherubic-looking Deborah grinning,hands plastered on Plexiglas sides.But read further.The baby box, itturns out, was really no more than an upgraded playpen in whichyoung Deborah spent a few hours a day.With a thermostatically con-trolled environment, it guaranteed against diaper rash and kept nasalpassages clear. Because the temperature was so fine-tuned, there wasno need for blankets, and so the danger ofsuffocation, every mother'snightmare, was eliminated. Skinner outfitted his baby box withpadding made ofspecial material that absorbed odors and wetness soa woman's washing time was reduced by half, and she was free to use
supposed freedoms really are. Ou r fears of reductionism, our suspicions that we really may be no mor e than a series of automated responses, did not, as so many of us like to think, com e to prominenc e in the industrial age. The y are way, way older than that. Eve r since Oedipus raged at his carefully calibrated fate, or Gilgamesh struggled to set himself free from his god's predestined plans, humans have wondered and deeply worrie d about the degree to whic h we orchestrate our own agentic actions. Skinner's wor k was, amon g othe r things, the square containe r into whic h those worries, forever resurrected, wer e poured in the shadow of the twentieth century's n ew gleaming machines. BEFOR E I LEAV E the Skinne r archives for good, I make on e mor e stop, and that's to view the famous baby bo x in whic h Skinne r raised his dead or living Debbie . Th e bo x itself, I learn, has bee n dismantled, but I see a picture of it, from Ladies' Home Journal, whic h ran an article about the invention in 1945 . If you wish to raise your reputation as a scientist, Ladies' Home Journal is probably not the best choic e of outlets. Th e fact that Skinne r chos e to publish his supposed scientific inventions in a second-tie r women's magazine speaks of his very poo r "PR " skills. "BAB Y IN A BOX " the heading to the article reads, and beneath that there is, indeed, a picture of a baby in a box , a cherubic-lookin g Debora h grinning, hands plastered on Plexiglas sides. Bu t read further. Th e baby box , it turns out, was really no mor e than an upgraded playpen in whic h young Debora h spent a few hours a day. Wit h a thermostatically con - trolled environment, it guaranteed against diaper rash and kept nasal passages clear. Becaus e the temperature was so fine-tuned, there was no need for blankets, and so the danger of suffocation, every mother's nightmare, was eliminated. Skinne r outfitted his baby bo x with padding made of special material that absorbed odors and wetness so a woman's washing time was reduced by half, and she was free to use
her hands for other pursuits-this in an era before disposable diapers.It all seems humane, if not downright feminist. And then, read stillfurther. By giving the child a truly benevolent environment, an envi-ronmentwith no punishing dangers (ifthebaby fell down,it wouldn'thurt because the corners were padded to eliminate hard knocks), anenvironment,in other words,that conditioned by providing purereward, Skinner hoped to raise a confident swashbuckler who believedshe could master her surroundings and so would approach the worldthat way.It all seems, without a doubt, good intentioned, if not downrightnoble,and sets Skinner firmly in humane waters. But then (and thereis always a but then in this tale), I read Skinner's proposed name for hisinvention: Heir Conditioner.This is either frightening or just plainfoolish.THERE ARE THOUSANDS upon thousands of"Deborah Skinners"listed on-line, but none ofthem pan out. I'd like to find her, confirmher status as living. I telephone a Deborah Skinner, author ofa cook-book titled Crab Cakes and Fireflies, and a four-year-old Deborah, andseveral disconnected numbers.I call Deborahsin flower shops,Deborahs on treadmills, Deborahs selling real estate and hawkingcredit cards, but none can claim they know a B. F. Skinner.No, I don't find Deborah Skinner anywhere in America, nor do Ifind records of a death in Billings, Montana. But what I do find, inthe circuitous, associative way that the Internet works, is her sister,Julie Vargas, a professor of education at the University of WestVirginia.I dial."I'm writing about your father,"I say after I establish that she is anactual offspring.In the background,pots and pans clang.Ihear whatsounds like a knife-chop chop-and I imagine her, Skinner's othergirl, the one who missed the myth, boiling the plainest of potatoes,slicing bright chips of carrots on an old cutting board somewherewhere no one can see her
her hands for othe r pursuits—this in an era before disposable diapers. It all seems humane, if not downright feminist. An d then, read still further. By giving the child a truly benevolent environment, an environment with no punishing dangers (if the baby fell down, it wouldn't hurt because the corners were padded to eliminate hard knocks), an environment, in othe r words, that conditioned by providing pure reward, Skinne r hoped to raise a confident swashbuckler wh o believed she could master her surroundings and so would approach the world that way. It all seems, without a doubt, goo d intentioned, if not downright noble, and sets Skinne r firmly in human e waters. Bu t then (and there is always a but then in this tale), I read Skinner's proposed name for his invention: Heir Conditioner. This is either frightening or just plain foolish. THER E AR E THOUSAND S upon thousands o f "Debora h Skinners " listed on-line , but non e of them pan out. I'd like to find her, confirm her status as living. I telephone a Debora h Skinner, author of a cook - boo k titled Crab Cakes and Fireflies, and a four-year-old Deborah , and several disconnected numbers. I call Deborah s in flower shops, Deborahs on treadmills, Deborah s selling real estate and hawking credit cards, but non e can claim they kno w a B. F. Skinner. N o , I don't find Debora h Skinne r anywher e in America , no r do I find records of a death in Billings, Montana . Bu t wha t I do find, in the circuitous, associative way that the Interne t works, is he r sister, Julie Vargas, a professor of education at the University of West Virginia. I dial. "I' m writing about your father," I say after I establish that she is an actual offspring. In the background, pots and pans clang. I hear wha t sounds like a knife—cho p chop—an d I imagine her, Skinner's othe r girl, the on e wh o missed the myth, boiling the plainest of potatoes, slicing bright chips of carrots on an old cutting board somewher e where no on e can see her