Twelve Years Later: a Reply To Carl Rogers

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Abstract
Historically, the two schools of behaviorism and humanism have been viewed as separate. This article, growing out of a statement by Carl Rogers in 1961, is an attempt to point out current trends toward similarity between behavioristic psychology and humanistic psychology. Humanists have characteristically viewed the behavioristic therapist as the director with all the overtones of suppression, control, and depersonalization. Recent work in behavioral psychology, however, has not fulfilled the warning of 12 years ago. Behaviorists have been and are increasingly concerned about teaching self-direction. A brief review of examples is included. There is an argument going on today in psychology which, like most arguments, dichotomizes into bipolar, antagonistic points what are assumed to be two different "schools" of thought, humanism and behaviorism. Crudely put, the humanists seem to view the behaviorists as manipulative, depersonalizing, and controlling slaves to scientism, concerned with forcing men into submission, conformity, and docility. The behaviorists view humanists as soft-headed, nonscientific, vague, sentimental, and hopelessly caught up in nonoperational, meaningless values. The charges have been made public and the battle lines set, particularly since the now famous Rogers-Skinner (1956) debate. The split is, or at least seems to be, hopelessly muddled in emotionality—not unlike a discussion of papal infallability between a Southern Baptist and an ardent Roman Catholic. There is something about the nature of such arguments (two clashing value sets) which characteristically has resulted in the discussants ending the conversation by shouting an exasperated "No" to each other. Arguments such as these, perhaps because of the lack of commonly accepted criteria and terminology, frequently reverberate through history unresolved. Kuhn (1962) has called this a "paradigm clash." Others have tried to seek a reconciliation, only to withdraw more convinced than ever that their original positions were handed down on tablets of stone. Yet, perhaps because I have been trained in both modes, I retain a firm belief that if disparate parties would relax a little, begin to listen to each other, and (Heaven forbid!) learn from each other, psychology would be better off. It is in this spirit that this article is written. When I first entered graduate school, I was introduced to the work of Carl Rogers. Those who have read him (and I suspect most have) have probably found him compelling and persuasive. There is an undeniable warmth about the man and his ideas. I was attracted to or, perhaps more accurately, was enamored of him and his position. Serving in the university clinic, I became known as a pure, almost insufferable, Rogerian disciple. Once my major academic advisor confronted me because I had not completed a research paper. As was my wont at the time, I responded with something like, "If I understand what you are feeling, you are angry with me." I quickly learned by a set of consequences he provided that being therapeutic in all aspects of one's world sometimes causes problems. Nevertheless, I was "hooked" on Rogers and humanism, and it was unthinkable that I would ever change. Laboratory research was another part of my university experience and, over a period of time, I gained a great respect for clean, uncontaminated data. My work was in the field of motivation, and the task was to take a hitherto untested theory of David McClelland's and translate it into a research study. It was not difficult for me to move from verbal reports—a frequent but questionable source of information for motivational research—to physiological, pupillometric measures. I soon discovered the power of careful measurement and where that power can lead. It meant things like validity, reliability, objectivity, and inordinate care because research is a wondrous but delicate thing.

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