Decades ago, when I was young and foolish, I made a solo bicycle trip from San Francisco to my then-hometown of Durham, North Carolina. As I was not yet of drinking age, it baffles me that my parents allowed me to do it.
It was a different time.
I started the trip by taking a flight to San Francisco, along with my bike, which I had checked as baggage. (To take advantage of the prevailing winds, cycling west to east is the way to go.)
Before heading out from the San Francisco airport on my bike, I needed to use a restroom. But there was no obvious place to lock up my bike, and it was awkward to take it into the restroom.
I noticed a police officer standing nearby, and without a trace of hesitation, I asked him if he’d watch my bike while I used the restroom.
He was happy to help me out, and he placed the bike against a wall where he was standing.
When I came out of the restroom, I saw him standing against the wall and staring straight ahead.
My bike was missing.
I went up to him expectantly, but he looked at me as if he’d never seen me before.
My heart seemed to leap out of my chest. What had an utter fool I’d been to trust him. I had placed almost all my important items in the front pannier of the bike, including the money I’d saved up for my trip. My prized Nikkormat camera, too. Who could I ask for help? The police? He was the police. It would be my word, a foolish teenager, against a police officer.
I hadn’t placed a foot on a bike pedal, and my trip was over before it started.
I felt a paralyzing sense of dread. What was going to happen to me?
But then the officer grinned broadly and doubled over in laughter. A fellow officer came around a nearby corner, wheeling my bike.
Shaken though I was, I was even more relieved. I knew I’d dodged one heck of a bullet. I found myself thanking the officer for helping me.
I really was thankful. It was an important lesson learned. And, after that, I DIDN’T TRUST NOBODY—until they’d earned my trust.
Years later, I understood that my foolish behavior could be explained by what social psychologist Robert Cialdini labels the “Authority Principle.” This principle states that we often blindly follow people who appear to be in positions of power or expertise.
We are socialized to do so. Much of our life is spent following the rules of those in power, from obeying our parents when we are young to respecting experts’ guidance. Generally, we are rewarded when we do so. But as Cialdini points out, exactly because of these usual benefits, we are vulnerable to automatic thinking. Paradoxically, the greater a person’s apparent authority, the more vulnerable we are. Furthermore, the symbols of authority are often what we use to infer a person’s authority—such as titles and uniforms. Indeed, serious crimes are committed by people willing to don police uniforms they have no right to wear, for example.
Experience teaches us to be alert to whether people in positions of power and expertise have authenticity and also whether they can be trusted.
Fortunately for me, in that San Francisco airport so long ago, the police officer was real and, ultimately, could be trusted. His playing a trick on me was a lesson I needed to learn.
Experientia docet, as I can hear my Dad saying, who learned a few years of Latin in an English grammar school. In fact, he would go on to claim that “everything,” not just experience, teaches—which is perhaps why he and my mom let me take the trip.
