September 2005
Volume 18, Number 9
On Both Sides of the Consent Form
I entered a psychology laboratory for the first time during the spring semester of my freshman year at Emory University. Like most of the other students taking introductory psychology, I viewed research participation as another hoop to jump through in the process of procuring a decent grade in the course.
Despite my reluctance to give up part of a Saturday morning, I was filled with rampant curiosity about what was going to transpire during the hour-long session. What sort of tasks would I be required to perform? Would I be in the control or the experimental group? What is the purpose of this experiment? While I had envisioned a scenario involving carefully planned deception and confederate participants (a symptom that commonly manifests itself right after the Milgram experiments are covered in class), the experiment was rather mundane.
Sitting alone in a small room, I filled out a questionnaire about relationships, both romantic and non-romantic. During the debriefing, I asked (hopefully) whether a small mirror on the wall was really a hidden observation window. Amused, the experimenter assured me that it was not. And that was my first experience in a psychological laboratory — nothing too exciting. I went on to participate in about seven more experiments during college. I experienced several different psychological paradigms, ranging from a visual attention task (in which my eye movements were recorded) to an autobiographical memory study.
Now, as a third-year graduate student at Washington University in St. Louis, I have switched roles completely. Instead of offering my brain and behavior for study, it is I who request this of others, most of them unpaid undergraduates. Some people take issue with the practice of requiring undergraduates to participate in psychology experiments for course credit, calling it nothing short of coercion. However, research participation — to invoke a frequently used justification — is an educational experience. During my hours as a participant, I learned a lot about what should and, perhaps more often, should not be done in an experiment. I gained a good understanding of how motivated the average person is to take part in a series of demanding tasks for an unknown purpose. Also, I realized how important it is to always thank participants for their time and describe the rationale behind the experiment in terms that can be easily understood.
Most of all, I gained the invaluable ability to view an experiment from the perspective of a participant. One might argue that the educational benefits of research participation only extend to those who go on to become experimental psychologists, but I disagree. Even for people who pursue an unrelated vocation, participating in an experiment provides an intimate glimpse of the scientific process. Although the knowledge gained, as in much of education, is largely implicit, it helps students to better understand psychology and science as a whole. To be sure, there is a limit to the educational benefits of participation: the marginal utility derived from participating declines sharply after about five or six experiments. Most universities (e.g., Washington University) have a cap on the number of experimental hours that people can amass. With appropriate safeguards and an emphasis on education, undergraduate research participation benefits everyone.
A few hours are a small price to pay for an enlightening experience and the advancement of psychological science. Perhaps I am overly optimistic, but I appreciate my experiences on both sides of the consent form.
ANDREW BUTLER is a graduate student at Washington Universeity in St. Louis. He is current Graduate Advocate of the APS Student Caucus.
