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The ironic power of caricature
Brent Staples is an editorial writer for the New York Times and a University of Chicago-trained psychologist. He is also African-American, and back in the 70s, when he was doing his graduate studies, he discovered that he could threaten white people simply by walking down the streets of his Hyde Park neighborhood. When white couples saw him coming, especially at night, they would lock arms, stop all conversation, and stare straight ahead. Sometimes they would cross to the other side of the street. The white Chicagoans were obviously being influenced by the stereotype of the dangerous young black man. But the more sinister effects of the stereotype were on Staples himself.
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Spinning class, the scarcity heuristic, and me
I go to a spinning class a couple mornings a week, and it’s hard. Sometimes my quads burn and I don’t feel like spinning anymore. So over time I’ve developed some psychological tools that help me keep my head down and get the most out of my morning workouts. One of these tools is based on the so-called “scarcity and value heuristic.” Heuristics are the mind’s automatic, hard-wired habits. They are ancient and powerful and, for the most part, unrecognized. The scarcity heuristic is the brain saying, if something is rare, it must be good. The value heuristic says, if I really desire something, it must be scarce.
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Dog tired: What our hounds can teach us about self-control
We humans have much more self-discipline than other animals. We can and do set goals—losing 25 pounds, going to college—and then go without certain pleasures to achieve those goals. We’re far from perfect at this, but there’s no question that better self-control sets us apart from more lowly beasts. Scientists have long argued that delaying gratification requires a sense of “self.” Having a sense of personal identity allows us to compare what we are today, at this very moment, with what we want to be—an idealized self. Aspiring to this idealized self is what fosters uniquely human self-control powers. Well maybe—or maybe not.
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How to read minds like a wizard
Fans of the Harry Potter books will be familiar with the art of Legilimency. Legilimency is an advanced form of wizardry, the supernatural ability to coax thoughts and feelings and memories from another’s mind. It’s a magical skill encompassing mind reading and lie detection—and it’s black magic in the wrong hands. Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, is a master Legilimens, as are the evil Snape and Voldemort. Harry never quite masters the difficult craft. Many of us Muggles wouldn’t mind a touch of telepathy from time to time—though for much more ordinary purposes. Wouldn’t it be helpful to know—to really know—what your colleagues are thinking about that paper you just presented?
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Knockoff psychology: I know I’m faking it
Within just a few blocks of my office, street vendors will sell me a Versace t-shirt or a silk tie from Prada, cheap. Or I could get a deal on a Rolex, or a chic pair of Ray Ban shades. These aren’t authentic brand name products, of course. They’re inexpensive replicas. But they make me look and feel good, and I doubt any of my friends can tell the difference. That’s why we buy knockoffs, isn’t it? To polish our self-image—and broadcast that polished version of our personality to the world—at half the price? But does it work? After all, we first have to convince ourselves of our idealized image if we are going to sway anyone else.
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I’m sorry, I’ve changed, I promise
Many people who have never even stepped foot into a 12-step recovery room have nevertheless heard of the 9th step. That’s the part where recovering alcoholics and addicts make amends to people they have harmed over the years, and it’s the most public part of an otherwise very private process. There is even a Seinfeld episode that pokes good-hearted fun at the 9th step. This step also resonates widely because, to one degree or another, we all have to do 9th step work at some point—even if we don’t call it that. In psychological terms, the 9th step is about trust recovery—apologizing, promising change, insisting we’ve changed—really.
