On multiple occasions, students asked me to recount how I became a psychology professor. It usually happened once a year, due to projects that other professors assigned to first year students. Some of the visits were perfunctory: "What degree do you need to be you?" Others put out the bait: "What inspired you to be a psychologist?" The students who asked that one were glancing at the door, fumbling with cell-phones, or otherwise tuning out long before the answer was complete. Perhaps what follows will save me and them trouble in the future. I never imagined the possible benefits that this website might bestow. Here you go:
I was initially inspired to become a psychologist by a girl I knew in Holbrook, Arizona in the 60's, between 5th and 8th grade. Her name was Liz. I say no more, because now she is, I’m told, a retired City Attorney in a southern Arizona city. I'm sure she doesn't want any part of this. Between late 6th grade and end of 8th, when I moved from Arizona, forever, I had a hard crush on Liz. Problem was that she loved my best friend--really a best friend until his death in 1992. They were always in a major fight, and she would call me late at night for advice and support. Being the upstanding and faithful and honorable person I was, I always took those occasions to convince her that I should be her boyfriend, and that these fights were only the beginning of an awful relationship with him. Good Guy. I can be your best friend too.
The problem was that she always laughed at this stuff. As I was opening up my heart, she told me how my humor helped her think better. Thanked me for helping her get things straightened out. And our conversations always ended with "You should be a psychologist. I can talk to you about anything. You are just like a brother." It took me many years to get that "brother" comment. I had no chance and I never knew it, which must happen often as testosterone makes adolescent boys insane. Nonetheless, there was the seed. I should be a psychologist. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but what the hell?
When my 9th grade year rolled around, Arizona was behind and I was home in New Mexico. This time it was Albuquerque. My favorite class that first semester was Civics, which I understand is not taught much these days. Then again, who cares how government is supposed to work when we have Fox News? I think the teacher was Mrs Kline. I could be wrong... I had several teachers named Kline, Klein, or Cline early on. The only thing I'm sure about is that their first names weren't Mrs.. At one point during the class, we had a "Career Unit" and we were all going to complete a questionnaire called an "Interest Inventory."
Before we began the exercise, the teacher went around the room and asked what we thought we would be when we were out of school and had jobs. My turn was coming.... psychologist, psychologist... what the hell did it mean? How could I explain it.? Everyone else had Teacher, Doctor, Nurse, Carpenter, Cop.... mostly male jobs in those days, of course. It was 1964.
I have believed in divine intervention since that day. My turn was 3 away. The guy 3 ahead announced "Fireman!" and most of his friends laughed because that was his intention. Alby S. was about 4'8'' tall. He didn't evoke images of fire-hose hauling and chopping through doors and carrying folks down a ladder. John M,, 2 seats ahead, who was a great guy to hang with and smoke cigarettes, announced proudly "I wanna be a Cowboy!" Most of the class, including the teacher, fell out. I crossed my fingers. Next guy was Jim L., who I sorta knew from back in Gallup as little kids. Jim's stepdad owned a bar, so we always had a great source of stolen booze. Jim was popular. His time came. She asked what he wanted to do for his job. He actually stood up, presented himself with a slight, comical bow, and said proudly "I want to be a Pimp." End of exercise. I didn’t have to mention psychologist or even try to explain what one of them might do. Safe for now. I was always grateful to Jim L.. First guy I knew who caught the Clap. Man, he made me laugh.
Finally, the class settled down and Mrs. Cline Klein distributed the questionnaire. We all set out to do well, as 9th graders always do. About 10 questions into this multiple-choice nonsense, I realized it was nonsense. (And I still think so!!) I began to answer every item with the most absurd possibility or the answer I thought was most humorous--and you know the quality of 9th grade humor. I had the most (school) fun in 9th grade that day, and I delighted in handing in my first official psychological inventory--the first as far as I knew.
A couple of weeks later, the results came back. Every student's result showed 3 possible careers. Sometimes one career dominated the others; sometimes three occupations were about the same. On my results, Teacher was low, but it was there. Sociologist was next, still low, and who the hell in 9th grade knows what Sociology is? Dominating, almost 4:1 over everything? You got it: Psychologist. This is the return for entertaining myself and attempting to subvert a process. I can see this pattern throughout my life.
The next assignment for the class, of course, was to contact, call, write, or annoy (there was no email) a person who did what we were supposed to do. I first talked to my parents, who knew about counseling psychologists—family therapists and the like. No idea beyond that. They didn’t know any, and of course they distrusted the profession. Next step, why not call the University of New Mexico psychology department? There must be a few of them there.
I called the University psych department and talked to a nice lady who listened to my story. She put me on hold, and then told me that she was transferring my call to the head of the department, Frank Logan. For those of you who don't know-- and I didn't until I was in grad school-- Frank Logan was a very influential neo behaviorist-- probably best described as being in the Hullian rather than Skinnerian tradition. If that makes no sense to you, no worries. Anyway, here is this 13 year old kid asking what psychologists do and then listening for more than an hour while Logan described Pavlov's research (remember the drooling dogs), the behavioristic era in American psychology, and several of his own experiments with rats. I really had no clue what the hell he was talking about, but I took great notes and wrote an "A" paper. Unfortunately, my fire for being a psychologist was damped. Rats? Learning Theory?
About a year later, now in Wisconsin and distanced from my Liz lust, my mother set me straight. I didn't want to be a psychologist. I wanted to have a career where I helped people. I wanted to be a Psychiatrist! Aha! Lay down on the couch, tell me about your Mother! Tell me your most lurid dream!! I can do this. And so began three years of high school targeted at pre-medical undergrad and eventual med school. No pressure there.
I managed to get out OK... eventually graduated 6th in a class of 686. My folks were disappointed, however. Problem was that I had become political. I joined the NAACP Youth Council in Milwaukee in 1965 or so, trained in non-violent resistance, marched for open housing, sucked down more tear gas than I want to remember, and got whacked in the head by a fat, Milwaukee pig-cop. By the time college came, that whack in the head had re-directed me. I had a nominal books & fees scholarship to University of Wisconsin and headed to Madison. Knew something might be askew when I skipped the pre-med advising session and wound up handing out SDS anti-war pamphlets instead. I was on strike by mid-November and eagerly dropped out of college the following May.
When I went back to college a year later, it was at University of California, Davis, and I was basically on my own. My disappointed folks were not tuned to the notion of helping with tuition and the like. I took all courses that I couldn’t take in that pre-med haze. General Psych, Sociology of Black Americans, and The American Political Process were my first three classes, and I earned an A, a B+, and a C, respectively. Psychology major, here we come. Given that psychiatry was out, I set my sites on becoming a Clinical Psychologist. You can counsel and help and do "therapy" but no MD and no writing prescriptions. Seemed fine.
Almost 2 years later, I got a chance to practice being a Clinical Psychologist. It was actually a class assignment: Find a friend, do 5 sessions, and write it up like a case study. Easy. My friend Kathy seemed eager to help me with the assignment. Only minutes into our first "hour," she told me how her brother, uncle, and grandfather raped her repeatedly when she was 6; how she was so ugly as a child that boys would chase her down just to beat her up; and how her first menstrual period lasted 6 months. The next sessions only got worse. Worse. I was sure that, if this was my job, I would go home and hang myself. The professor actually read my paper aloud to the class-- laughing at the parts that were the most awful. In the end, he announced that the assignment wasn't a good idea, after all, and that he would never do it again. He said that I had to get my friend Kathy into real therapy. I suggested in class and out loud, that he could deal with that, given that it was his goddam assignment, and he laughed some more.
I was pretty depressed. First I screwed up pre-med--actually didn't even give it a chance. And now this. I had built up to being a Clinician, but it was not for me. Next quarter, I took some courses just to stay in school, but I was unsure about what might be next. One class I was taking was “Experimental Social Psychology” from the great Al Harrison. Class was about 250 people, and Al was eccentric as hell. He always had a cigarette in the lower-right corner of his mouth; and as he lectured, the ash would get longer and longer until it finally dropped on his lecture notes--when he would suddenly notice his cigarette like it sneaked in there and surprised him. The material was about racism, group formation, prejudice, and conformity. He littered his lectures with sly jokes and jabs-- at least I thought so. Often, in the class of 250, there was only one asshole laughing out loud. Al would look up and acknowledge me, cause he knew he was funny as hell. He deserved the appreciation. One day, it just struck me like a bolt of lightning. Al was a PSYCHOLOGIST! He didn't have to deal with clients who would tell him horrible stories that he had to carry home and try to forget. The weight of another person's mental health did not burden him. He taught. Important stuff. He changed my life, for sure. And that was it. I knew I wanted to be a professor who taught undergrads important and even uncomfortable stuff.
I followed Al back to his office that day. He noticed that I was following and tried to speed up a bit. I'm sure he thought I was a mugger or some other stalker type. I was tenacious and made it back to his office right behind him. I remember him scooting into his office and finding that safe-space behind his desk. Kinda nervous, he asked me "Is there something I can do for you?" I told him "I want to do what you do." After I clarified what I was up to, he let out a sigh of relief, and made a plan. The plan was not kind or easy. First, as a junior, I had to take and pass his doctoral seminar in Experimental Social Psychology. Next quarter, I had to take Ed Turner's doctoral statistics seminar in Analysis of Variance. And of course, I had to get my senior project up and running.
When it came time to apply to grad school, I asked Al what he thought, and he suggested a couple of schools. He emphasized repeatedly that I should apply to Michigan. I conceded, although I secretly hoped I was done with the midwest and snow and all of that.
All of my applications (paper in those days) were about the same. Identifying info on top, and then a line that asked "For which area(s) are you applying?" Areas --PLURAL. Two spaces to fill in. My choice, cause of Al, although I never did consult with him, was to write “Experimental/Social” in the two blanks. Made sense to me. Took his class and his seminar, both called “Experimental Social Psychology.” Had a couple of thick texts by the same name.
My first rejection came back almost as soon as I dropped the application in the mail. Colorado was not funding its program for the upcoming year. Oh well, I could have enjoyed Boulder. Next 3 rejections came pretty quickly too. Santa Barbara, Iowa (Iowa?), and New Mexico all rejected me with a line like this: "You don't have the prerequisite courses for our program." WTF!! I had multiple stats and social psy and research courses all over the place. I Aced two doctoral seminars as an undergrad. How could I miss? Near end of April, when I was starting to think about masters programs at Humbolt or Sonoma or San Francisco, my letter from Michigan arrived. The previous nasty rejections were one-page memos. From the heft of the envelope, I could tell that my Michigan letter was at least 2 pages... maybe more. Not only were these bastards going to reject me, they were going into detail about my failures. I opened the letter.
"I'm happy to inform you that you will be accepted...on behalf of the Experimental Psychology Area Committee...." Strange letter, but I decided that it was a possibility. In my mind, here was this special "Experimental" program for people who came close but didn't actually qualify to get into grad school. The program must do remedial work for a year or so and then help you get into a real grad program. I'd have to consider it.
Couple of days later, I was in Al's office for something or other-- probably just to bum a cigarette. He asked if I had heard from Michigan, and I said "Sort of." He stared me down until I dug into my backpack and dug out the letter. He only started to look at it and said "Experimental!" I waited for him to continue… "How the hell did you get into Experimental?" I pointed to books on his desk with titles like "Experimental Social Psychology," and Al started to laugh. I asked if it was a practice program to get people ready for grad school, and then he laughed so hard he had to take his cigarette out of his mouth. Here is what he said: "You just got into the top-ranked Experimental Psychology program in the country, and you don't even know what Experimental Psychology is." He reminded me that I had classes from this prof or that, and I said yes I did but I hated those classes. He said "That's what Experimental Psych is all about." Uh oh.
As a recent grad, I somehow landed two TA positions that last summer at UC Davis, and when those classes wrapped, I headed for Ann Arbor. Al told me to watch for a meeting for all new grad students. He told me that when the business was done, I should find Bob Zajonc (google it) and tell him about my application screw up. Bob was chair of the Social Psychology program and director of the Institute for Social Research-- a heavy hitter. Al said that Bob could simply sign a couple of forms and move me to Social Psychology asap.
I waited until the happy hour after the business meeting and found Zajonc. I did not kiss the hem of his gown or his ring. I told him my mis-application story, and he laughed so hard that he blew beer out of his nose. When he finally composed himself, he told me that he would NOT move me to the Social program. He promised me that if I stayed in Experimental for a year and still wanted out, he would transfer me to his program. He said he would honor the deal even if I flunked out of the Experimental zone. He said I'd be OK.
As part of my Experimental Psych education, our small incoming class had to take a special, hellish course.... every day. Two hours M, W and F, but only one hour T and Th. There were 9 of us. One guy had worked for the CIA for the last 5 years. Another was recently out of Air Force Intelligence. There was a Japanese guy who had invented touch-tuning for Zenith television— Scary smart. I was the only one in that group of 9 who actually wanted to teach college. They thought I was strange and their subsequent industrial salaries show that they were right.
Our first 3 weeks were about Artificial Intelligence, about which I knew nothing. I was lost beyond words--had actually never even seen a computer until that semester. But I made it. Not smart but stubborn. About a month into it, Artificial Intelligence was done and we were off to other abstractions. Clyde Coombs came to the seminar to talk a little Utility Theory and math modeling, and damn damn damn. For the first time, I was the only one in the fucking room who got it, and I delighted in helping my friends get it. I knew then and there, that I would stay in Experimental, but I wound up spread all over the map. Math Psych from Clyde and Frank Yates, Motivation theory from Ed Walker and Jack Atkinson, and Psychobiology, the seed that became Neuroscience, from the best there ever were... Valenstein, Butters, and Utall. I was hugely educated and absolutely unemployable.
Summer '77 was approaching. I was nearly done, and my advisor was ready to scrape off his final graduate student and retire. There were 3 jobs in the country that wanted someone sort of like me. One was at Yale, another at New Mexico, and a third at some southern university. My wife told me that she would come with me anywhere except to Alaska, Mississippi, Alabama, Texas, Tennessee , etc. SO, there were only two jobs out there. I called New Mexico to see if the job was still posted. They said no. So I applied to Yale. We stayed in touch for a couple of years, Yale always wanting to see copies of my publications. I kept throwing away their letters because I had no publications at all.
Late July of 77, I had been crunching data at the Michigan computer center for about 24 hours. I took a bus home, had a beer, and crashed. I was awakened by the telephone and a nice lady who wanted to know if I could come to someplace called Hamline University for an interview. I told her I would call her back, finished the beer, and took a long nap. When I woke up, I remembered the telephone number. Not sure how, but I did. I made arrangements to visit Hamline University in Saint Paul, Minnesota. My wife said she would like to edit the "no go" list, but too late now.
What had happened was this: My grad advisor was one of the two founders of Brooks/Cole Publishing Company. He was at Hamline, helping the department chair develop a book. Some poor guy who had been offered a temporary Hamline teaching job for the next year walked in and quit because the salary was so low. As the Chair began to melt down, a the new semester only a month away, my advisor saw his window to retirement. He told the chair that he knew just the right person for the job and that he could get me there immediately. Before my flight, I asked my advisor how I should approach the interview-- you know-- some tips for success. He told me “Lie to them. Tell them yes, you can teach any of that stuff. You'll be fine."
So there you have it: a blueprint for becoming a professor. Count on your own failures, misunderstandings, errors—along with random events— to guide you. As you go, figure out what you don't want to do. If you carve those parts away, it gets a little easier. Worked like a charm for me and it will not fail you.