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California State University, Dominguez Hills
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Created: February 17, 2004
Latest Update: February 17, 2004
jeannecurran@habermas.org
takata@uwp.edu

Chapter 1: Why Theory?

Site Copyright: Jeanne Curran and Susan R. Takata and Individual Authors, February 2004.
"Fair use" encouraged.

Nealon and Giroux do a good job of telling you why we need theory. Because without theory we tend to rely on what we think we know, believing that the world we see and live in is just the way we see it. Wrong. What we see of the world we see and live in is our own unique perspective as it interacts with whatever our social context is.

There's a story I love that I'd like to share with you. Maybe that story will make the need for theory something you'll never forget.

My story is called "The Superstitious Pigeon." It's an oral tale, handed down over thirty years ago to me by one of my graduate psychology teachers, orally, with no author given. Over the years, I'm sure I've changed it, in the good old oral tradition of narrative. But I think it serves well as academic lore. The characters with human names are real, but I can't attest to the "reality" of thestory itself or the names of the others, just that they really were pigeons. Well, maybe they were cats. Skinner liked to work with cats, too.

. . .

Once there was a pscyhologist named B.F. Skinner. He believed that humans were shaped by learned behaviors, and that he could train both humans and animals to do as he wished by rewarding and/or punishing them, so that they would learn new behaviors. We called his theory Behavior Modification, and we put lots of faith in it. George C. Homans, a famous sociologist at the University of Chicago even wrote a book, The elementary Forms of Human Behavior, applying the theory to the sociology of human interaction and behavior. We developed whole systems of education with Behavior Modification, and still use it today. Ever heard of a behavioral objective? That's an objective or goal we set at the beginning of the training for something you can't do yet. Then we train you to do it. We measure our success by your performance at doing this new trick. And then we give ourselves a plum pie, stick in our thumb, pull out a plum, and say, "What a great success am I!" You know the drill.

Skinner spent years perfecting his system, and could easily explain how one gets thinking humans or recalcitrant pigeons to engage in the behavior that one wants to reward. You just wait until the creature moves in any way that approximates getting closer to the behavior you want, and then reward the subject. It happened once that Skinner was training a pigeon to press a lever for food. As the pigeon approached the lever, Skinner rewarded him with bits of food, seed, I guess. But just a few, so the hungry pigeon would want more. Hungry, the pigeon moved closer to the lever, as predicted by the theory and received a few more bits of reward. But then, just as he reached the lever, the pigeon had an itch. He raised his left foot, getting ready to scratch, but didn't let that deter him from pecking, for he was still hungry, very hungry. Bingo! The lever was what Skinner wanted him to peck at, so this time the reward was greater, and our hungry pigeon got much more seed, which he proceeded to peck happily. When all the seed was gone, he looked about for more, still hungry. How had he got that seed again. Oh, yes, lift foot to scratch and peck. And, of course, when he lifted his foot and pecked, he did get more seed.

It wasn't long before the happy pigeon hopped over to the lever, lifted his left foot, and pecked whenever he was hungry. The pigeon was happy. Skinner was happy. No one cared that we now had a superstitious pigeon who might one day preach to thousands that the lifting of one's left foot was the essential key to the pigeon food source. I guess if he'd been a professor, we'd have lots of superstitious pigeons, well trained in the importance of lifting one's left food to produce food.

Skinner believed so much in his system of training that he actually visited Washington during the second war to demonstrate a model guided missile. The generals were impressed. The missile went precisely wherever Skinner directed. But when they eagerly sought to examine the wiring, they discovered three sets of pigeons, pecking away at the levers Skinner used to manipulate the direction of the missile. Is it true? Who knows? Who cares? Would it have worked? We'll never know. The generals were already trained to prefer technology to training. Hmm, is that a contradiction?

When I was pursuing a postdoctorate in sociology in the early seventies, a well-known professor of theory told our class, which consisted of humans, not pigeons and cats, that Skinner's system of behavior modification was so successful that one simply couldn't challenge it. Having been well trained in graduate classes, I knew I was supposed to nod seriously and enter "no challenge" in my notes. But being one of those pigeons that always had a foot stuck in my mouth that I thought was essential to the result, I raised my hand tentatively, and asked "But doesn't Skinner assume that man is passive, generic man, that is?"

There was silence in the room. Not a graduate or creature moved. What does that mean, that Skinner assumed that "man is passive?" Did he? Does he? Does it matter? All eyes turned to the famous professor, and I watched, eager to learn, as his pen hovered over the notes from which he was lecturing. Old notes. Well weathered. Obviously offered to many theory classes before ours. The silence grew leaden. I squirmed. Then, slowly he moved his pen over to the margin and wrote "assumes man is passive." And then he continued his lecture on behavior modification. The tension slowly dissipated as we realized that there would be no answer. And we settled into quiet acceptance, for that day, anyway. After all, we did want our degrees.

I started teaching at Dominguez Hills later that year. And discovered that the tale of the superstitious pigeon and man's passivity had somehow rooted itself in my lectures. The assumption of passivity is a scary trait, one that assures us that training will work, and that those of us with whom extraneous factors may have altered the training sequence will readily accept that the superstition of standing on one foot while pecking is the way to real competitive success. We won't bother to ask why others are not standing on one foot while pecking, for the reward is what we're focused on, and we will probably assume the others aren't getting as much as we are, though that's a superstitious conclusion for which I have no evidence. Nevermind, we're passive, not active critical thinkers, and we're well trained, as will be our young pigeons.

Theory and critical thinking and questioning are our protection against becoming superstitious pigeons. I don't know about you, but I would just as soon access my food on two feet if no one minds.

Yippee! I got some food. What did I do to get it?
Hopped on my right foot and pecked at the lever.
If I hop on my right foot do I get food? No.
If I peck at the lever do I get food? Yes.
Do I need to hop on my right foot to get food? No.

Stick in my thumb,
pull out a plum,
what a good critical thinking pigeon am I!

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