"Oh,"she says,"and what about him are you writing?"There is nodoubt I hear suspicion in her voice, an obvious edge ofdefensiveness."I am writing,"I say,"about great psychological experiments, and Iwant to include your father in the book.""Oh,"she says, and won't go further."So, I was wondering ifyou could tell me what he was like."Chop chop.I hear, on her side, a screen door slam shut."I was wondering,"I say, trying again,"ifyou could tell me whatyouthink of-""My sister is alive and well," she says, I have not, ofcourse, evenasked her this, but it's clear many others have; it's clear the questiontires her; it's clear she knows that every query about her familybegins and ends in the sordid spots, bypassing entirely the work itself."I saw her picture on the Web,"I say."She's an artist,"Julie says."She lives in England.""Was she close to your father?"I say."Oh, we both were," Julie says, and then she pauses, and I canpractically feel things pushing against the pause-memories, feelings,her father's hands on her head-" miss him terribly,"she says.Theknife is silent now; the screen door no longer slams, and inthe space where those sounds were comes Julie Skinner Vargas'svoice,a voice loadedwithmemory,akind ofnostalgic incontinence,it pours through; she cannot help herself."He had a way with chil-dren," she says."He loved them. Our mother,well, our mother was-"and she won't finish that sentence."But our father," she says,"Dadused to make us kites, box kites which we flew on Monhegan, and hetook us to the circus every year and our dog, Hunter, he was a beagleand Dad taught him to play hide and seek.He could teach anythinganything, so our dog played hide and seek and we also had a cat thatplayed the piano, it was a world," she says,"...those kites,"she says."we made them with string and sticks and flew them in the sky.""So to you,"I say,"he was a really great guy.""Yes," she says."He knew exactly what a child needed
"Oh, " she says, "and wha t about him are you writing? " Ther e is no doubt I hear suspicion in he r voice, an obvious edge of defensiveness. "I am writing," I say,"about great psychological experiments, and I want to include your father in the book. " "Oh, " she says, and won't go further. "So , I was wonderin g if you could tell me what he was like." Cho p chop. I hear, on he r side, a screen door slam shut. "I was wondering, " I say, trying again, "i f you could tell me what you think of-—" " M y sister is alive and well," she says. I have not, of course, even asked he r this, but it's clear many others have; it's clear the question tires her; it's clear she knows that every query about her family begins and ends in the sordid spots, bypassing entirely the wor k itself. "I saw her picture on the Web, " I say. "She's an artist," Juli e says. "Sh e lives in England. " "Wa s she close to your father?" I say. "Oh , we bot h were," Juli e says, and then she pauses, and I can practically feel things pushing against the pause—memories, feelings, her father's hands on he r head—" I miss him terribly," she says. T h e knife is silent now; the screen doo r no longe r slams, and in the space wher e those sounds wer e come s Juli e Skinne r Vargas's voice , a voic e loaded with memory, a kind of nostalgic incontinence , it pours through; she cannot help herself. "H e had a way with children," she says. "H e loved them. Ou r mother, well, our mothe r was—" and she won't finish that sentence . "Bu t our father," she says, "Da d used to make us kites, bo x kites whic h we flew on Monhegan , and he too k us to the circus every year and our dog, Hunter, he was a beagle and Da d taught him to play hide and seek. He could teach anything anything, so ou r dog played hide and seek and we also had a cat that played the piano, it was a world," she says," . . . those kites," she says, " we made them with string and sticks and flew them in the sky." " S o to you, " I say, "h e was a really great guy." "Yes, " she says. "H e kne w exactly what a child needed.
"What about,"I ask,"How do you feel about all the criticism hisworkhas engendered?"Julie laughs. The laugh is more like a bark,"l compare it toDarwin,"she says."People denied Darwin's ideas because they werethreatening. My father's ideas are threatening, but they are as great asDarwin's.""Do you agree with all your father's ideas?"I say,"Do you agreewith him that we are just automatons, that we have no free will, ordo you think he took his experimental data too far?"Julie sighs."You know,"she says,"ifmy father made one mistake,itwas in the words he chose. People hear the word control and theythink fascist.Ifmyfather had said people were informed by their envi-ronments, or inspired by their environments, no one would've had aproblem.The truth about my father,"she says,"is that he was a paci-fist. He was also a child advocate.He did not believe in AN Y punish-ment because he saw firsthand with the animals how it didn't work.My father,"she said,"is responsible for the repeal of the corporalpunishment ruling in California, but no one remembers him for that."No one remembers," she says, her voice rising-she's angrynow-"how he alwaysansweredEVERYletter he got whilethosehumanists," and she practically spits the word out,"those supposedhumanists, the I'm okay you're okay school, they didn't even botherto answer their fanmail.They were too busy.My father was nevertoobusyforpeople,"she says."No, no, he wasn't," I say, and suddenly I'm a little frightened. Sheseems a little edgy,thisJulie,a little too passionate about dear old dad."Let me ask you something,"Julie says.I can tell from thetone ofher voice that this question is going to be big,pointed; it's going toput me on the spot."Can I ask you something?"she says."Tell me honestly.""Yeah,"I say,"Haveyou actually even READ his works like Beyond Freedom andDignity, or are you just another scholar ofsecondary sources?
"Wha t about," I ask, "Ho w do you feel about all the criticism his work has engendered? " Juli e laughs. Th e laugh is mor e like a bark. "I compar e it to Darwin, " she says. "Peopl e denied Darwin's ideas because they were threatening. My father's ideas are threatening, but they are as great as Darwin's." " D o you agree with all your father's ideas?" I say. "D o you agree with him that we are just automatons, that we have no free will, or do you think he too k his experimenta l data to o far?" Juli e sighs. "Yo u know," she says, "i f my father made on e mistake, it was in the words he chose . People hear the word control and they think fascist. If my father had said people were informed by their environments, or inspired by their environments, no on e would've had a problem. Th e truth about my father," she says, "is that he was a pacifist. He was also a child advocate. He did not believe in AN Y punishmen t because he saw firsthand with the animals ho w it didn't work. My father," she said, "is responsible for the repeal of the corporal punishment ruling in California, but no on e remembers him for that. " N o on e remembers, " she says, he r voic e rising—she's angry now—"ho w he always answered EVER Y letter he got whil e those humanists," and she practically spits the word out, "thos e supposed humanists, the I'm okay you're okay school, they didn't even bothe r to answer their fan mail. The y were to o busy. My father was never too busy for people," she says. "No , no, he wasn't," I say, and suddenly I'm a little frightened. Sh e seems a little edgy, this Julie , a little to o passionate about dear old dad. "Le t me ask you something, " Juli e says. I can tell from the tone of her voice that this question is going to be big, pointed; it's going to put me on the spot. "Ca n I ask you something? " she says. "Tell me honestly." "Yeah, " I say. "Have you actually even REA D his works like Beyond Freedom and Dignity, or are you just anothe r scholar of secondary sources?
"Well,"I say, stumbling,"l've read A LOT of your dad's work,believe me_""I believe you,"she says,"but have you read Freedom and Dignity?""Well no,"I say"I was sticking to the purely scientific texts, notthephilosophical treatises.""You can't separate science from philosophy,"she says, answeringmy earlier question."So do your homework,"and now she soundslike any old mother, or aunt, her voice calm, creased with warmth,chopchop,sheisback tothe carrots,theplain oldpotatoes."Doyourhomework,"she says,"and thenwe'll talk."THATNIGHT,I put the babyto bed.Itakedown theworn, dog-eared copy of Beyond Freedom and Dignity, the treatise I haveassoci-ated with other totalitarian texts, the treatise that, like Mein Kampf, Ihave long owned but never really read, and now I begin."Things grow steadily worse and it is disheartening to find thattechnology itselfis increasingly at fault. Sanitation and medicine havemade the problems ofpopulation control more acute.War has acquireda new horror with the invention ofnuclear weapons, and the affluentpursuit ofhappiness is largely responsible for pollution."Althoughthiswaswritten in 1971,Imightaswell be readingaspeechby Al Gore, or a Green Party mission statement from2003.It is true that further into the text Skinner says some troublingthings like,"By questioning the control exercised by autonomousman and demonstrating the control exercised by the environment,ascience of behavior questions the concepts of dignity and worth."But these sorts ofstatements are buried in a text immensely prag-matic.Skinner is clearly proposinga humane social policyrooted inhis experimental findings. He is proposing that we appreciate theimmense control (orinfluence)our surroundings have on us,and sosculpt those surroundings in such a way that they "reinforce posi-tively," or in other words, engender adaptive and creative behaviorin all citizens. Skinner is asking society to fashion cues that are most
"Well, " I say, stumbling, "I've read A LO T of your dad's work, believe me— " "I believe you," she says, "but have you read Freedom and Dignity?" "Well no," I say "I was sticking to the purely scientific texts, not the philosophical treatises." "Yo u can't separate scienc e from philosophy," she says, answering my earlier question. "S o do your homework, " and no w she sounds like any old mother, or aunt, he r voic e calm, creased with warmth, cho p chop, she is back to the carrots, the plain old potatoes. "D o your homework, " she says, "and then we'll talk." THA T NIGHT , I put the baby to bed. I take down the worn, dogeared copy of Beyond Freedom and Dignity, the treatise I have associated with othe r totalitarian texts, the treatise that, like Mein Kampf, I have long owne d but never really read, and no w I begin. "Thing s grow steadily worse and it is disheartening to find that technology itself is increasingly at fault. Sanitation and medicine have made the problems of population control mor e acute. Wa r has acquired a new horror with the invention of nuclear weapons, and the affluent pursuit of happiness is largely responsible for pollution." Althoug h this was written in 1971 , I migh t as well be reading a speech by Al Gore , or a Gree n Party mission statement from 2003 . It is true that further into the text Skinne r says some troubling things like, "B y questioning the contro l exercised b y autonomou s man and demonstrating the control exercised by the environment, a scienc e o f behavio r questions the concepts o f dignity and worth. " B u t these sorts of statements are buried in a text immensel y pragmatic . Skinne r is clearly proposing a human e social policy roote d in his experimenta l findings. He is proposing that we appreciate the immens e control (or influence) our surroundings have on us, and so sculpt those surroundings in such a way that they "reinforc e positively," or in othe r words, engende r adaptive and creative behavio r in all citizens. Skinne r is asking society to fashion cues that are most
likely to draw on our best selves, as opposed to cues that clearlyconfound us, cues such as those that exist in prisons,in places ofpoverty.In other words, stop punishing. Stop humiliating. Whocould argue with that? Set the rhetoric aside. Do not confuse con-tent with controversy.The content says,"Our age is not suffering from anxiety but fromwars, crimes, and other dangerous things. The feelings are thebyproducts ofbehavior."This statement is the sum total ofSkinner'sreviled antimentalism, his insistence that we focus not on mind buton behavior.Really it's no different than your mother's favorite say-ing: actions speak louder than words. According to Skinner-andNew Age author Norman Cousinswhen we act meanly,we feelmeanly, and not vice versa. Whether you agree with this or not, it'shardly antihumanitarian. And later on in the book, when Skinnerwrites that man exists irrefutably in relationship to his environmentand can never be free of it, is he talking about confining chains, asmost have interpreted it, or simply the silvery web work that con-nects us to this and this and that? I sawJerome Kaganjump under hisdesk, assuring me he had free will and could exist independently ofhis environment.Maybe he is acting out ofa more problematic tradi-tion, patriarchal and alone. In Skinner's view, we appear to beentwined and must takeresponsibility for the strings that bind us.Compare this to the current-day feminist Carol Gilligan, who writesthat we livein an interdependent net and women realize and honorthis. Gilligan, and all ofthe feminist psychotherapists who followed,claim we are relational as opposed to strictly separate, and that untilwe see our world that way, and build a morality predicated on thisirrefutable fact, we will continue to crumble. From where didGilligan andJean Baker Miller and other feminist theorists draw theirtheories? Skinner's spirit hovers in their words, maybe he was the firstfeminist psychologist, or maybe feminist psychologists are secretSkinnerians.Either way,we have viewed the man too simply.It seemsweboxed him beforehecould quitebox us
likely to draw on our best selves, as opposed to cues that clearly confoun d us, cues such as those that exist in prisons, in places of poverty. In othe r words, stop punishing. Stop humiliating. Wh o could argue with that? Se t the rhetori c aside. Do no t confuse con - tent with controversy. T h e conten t says, "Ou r age is not suffering from anxiety but from wars, crimes, and othe r dangerous things. Th e feelings are the byproducts of behavior." This statement is the sum total of Skinner's reviled antimentalism, his insistence that we focus not on min d but on behavior. Reall y it's no different than your mother's favorite saying: actions speak louder than words. Accordin g to Skinner—an d N e w Ag e author Norma n Cousins—whe n we act meanly, we feel meanly, and no t vice versa. Whethe r you agree with this or not, it's hardly antihumanitarian. An d later on in the book , whe n Skinne r writes that ma n exists irrefutably in relationship to his environment and can never be free of it, is he talking about confining chains, as most have interpreted it, or simply the silvery we b wor k that con - nects us to this and this and that? I saw Jerome Kagan jum p unde r his desk, assuring me he had free will and could exist independently of his environment. Mayb e he is acting out of a mor e problematic tradition, patriarchal and alone. In Skinner's view, we appear to be entwined and must take responsibility for the strings that bind us. Compar e this to the current-day feminist Carol Gilligan, wh o writes that we live in an interdependent net and wome n realize and hono r this. Gilligan, and all of the feminist psychotherapists wh o followed, claim we are relational as opposed to strictly separate, and that until we see our world that way, and build a morality predicated on this irrefutable fact, we will continue to crumble . From wher e did Gilligan and Jea n Bake r Mille r and othe r feminist theorists draw their theories? Skinner's spirit hovers in their words; maybe he was the first feminist psychologist, or maybe feminist psychologists are secret Skinnerians. Eithe r way, we have viewed the man to o simply. It seems we boxe d him before he could quite bo x us
IULIE,WHOIS comingtoBoston forbusiness,invitesmeto visitB.F.Skinner's old house, at Il Old Dee Road in Cambridge. It is abeautiful day when I drive there, gardens growing tall spires of pur-ple.Julie is old, much older than I expected, her skin translucent anddelicate, her eyes green. She lets me in. This is B.F, Skinner's house,where he lived and died, where he went home after long lab daysduring which he discovered this incredibly pliant nature of mam-malian life, our ties to our communities and all their various contin-gencies. Operant conditioning-a cold phrase for a concept that mightreally mean we are sculptors and sculpted, artists and artwork,respon-sibleforthepromptswefashion.The house has stayed in the family.Speaking offashion, its currentoccupant is Skinner's granddaughter,Kristina, who,Julie informs me,is a buyer for Filene's. The kitchen table is covered with Victoria'sSecret catalogues, pictures ofblack lace panties set side by side witholdphotosofPavlovandhisdroolingdog.Julie leads me downstairs, to the study Skinner was sitting inwhen, nearly one decade ago, he dropped into a coma and died, Sheopens the door."I have preserved everything exactly as it was whenhe was taken away,"Julie says, and I think I hear tears in her voice.The study is musty.There is against one wall that huge yellow boxwhere he napped and listened tomusic.On thewalls arepictures ofDeborah,of Julieasa child,of Hunter thedog.Ahugebook is opento the precise page it was so many years ago.His glasses are folded onthe desk.His vitamins are lined up, several bullet-shaped capsules henever got to swallow on that dim day when he was carted away, andnot much later buried in his final box, the real black box, bones now.I touchthevitamins.Ilifta glasswithsomeblueevaporated elixirina residue around the rim.I think I smell him, B.F.Skinner, the smellofold age and oddity, stale sweat, dog drool, bird scat, sweetness.Hisfiles are open and Iread the labels:"Pigeons Playing Ping Pong,""AirCrib Experiment," and then on a file in the very back,"Am I aHumanist?" There is something quite vulnerable about having a filethat so openly asks such a question, perhaps the central question
I ULIE , WH O IS comin g to Bosto n for business, invites me to visit B. F. Skinner's old house, at 11 Ol d De e Roa d in Cambridge . It is a beautiful day whe n I drive there, gardens growing tall spires of purple. Juli e is old, muc h older than I expected, he r skin translucent and delicate, her eyes green. Sh e lets me in. This is B. F. Skinner's house, wher e he lived and died, wher e he went hom e after long lab days during whic h he discovered this incredibly pliant nature of mam - malian life, our ties to our communitie s and all their various contin - gencies. Operant conditioning—a cold phrase for a concep t that might really mean we are sculptors and sculpted, artists and artwork, responsible for the prompts we fashion. T h e hous e has stayed in the family. Speaking of fashion, its current occupant is Skinner's granddaughter, Kristina, who , Juli e informs me , is a buyer for Filene's. Th e kitchen table is covered with Victoria's Secre t catalogues, pictures of black lace panties set side by side with old photos of Pavlov and his drooling dog. Juli e leads me downstairs, to the study Skinne r was sitting in when , nearly on e decade ago, he dropped into a coma and died. Sh e opens the door. "I have preserved everything exactly as it was whe n he was taken away," Juli e says, and I think I hear tears in her voice . T h e study is musty. Ther e is against on e wall that huge yellow bo x wher e he napped and listened to music. On the walls are pictures of Deborah , of Juli e as a child, of Hunte r the dog. A huge boo k is open to the precise page it was so many years ago. His glasses are folded on the desk. His vitamins are lined up, several bullet-shaped capsules he never got to swallow on that dim day whe n he was carted away, and not muc h later buried in his final box , the real black box , bone s now. I touch the vitamins. I lift a glass with some blue evaporated elixir in a residue around the rim. I think I smell him, B. F. Skinner, the smell of old age and oddity, stale sweat, dog drool, bird scat, sweetness. His files are open and I read the labels: "Pigeon s Playing Ping Pong, " "Air Cri b Experiment, " and then on a file in the very back, "A m I a Humanist? " Ther e is something quite vulnerable about having a file that so openly asks such a question, perhaps the central question