“Against this background,” writes Cass Sunstein, “it is unsurprising that culturally and economically similar nations display dramatically different reactions to identical risks. Whereas nuclear power enjoys widespread acceptance in France, it arouses considerable fear in the United States. Whereas genetic engineering of food causes immense concern in Europe, it has been a nonissue in the United States, at least until recently. It is also unsurprising that a public assessment of any given risk may change suddenly and dramatically even in the absence of a major change in the relevant scientific information.”
So far we’ve identified two sources—aside from rational calculation—that can shape our judgments about risk. There’s the unconscious mind—Gut— and the tools it uses, particularly the Example Rule and the Good-Bad Rule. And there are the people around us, whose opinions we naturally tend to conform to. But if that is all there was to the story, then almost everybody within the same community would have the same opinions about which risks are alarming and which are not.
But we don’t. Even within any given community opinions are often sharply divided. Clearly something else is at work, and that something is culture.
This is tricky terrain. For one thing, “culture” is one of those words that mean different things to different people. Moving from psychology to culture also means stepping from one academic field to another. Risk is a major subject within sociology, and culture is the lens through which sociologists peer. But the psychologists who study risk and their colleagues in the sociology departments scarcely talk to each other. In the countless volumes on risk written by sociologists, the powerful insights provided by psychologists over the last several decades typically receive little more than a passing mention, if they are noticed at all. For sociologists, culture counts. What happens in my brain when someone mentions lying on the beach in Mexico—do I think of tequila or skin cancer?—isn’t terribly interesting or important.
In effect, a line has been drawn between psychology and culture, but that line reflects the organization of universities far more than it does what’s going on inside our skulls. Consider how the Good-Bad Rule functions in our judgment of risk. The thought of lying on a beach in Mexico stirs a very good feeling somewhere in the wrinkly folds of my brain. As we have seen, that feeling will shape my judgment about the risk involved in lying on a beach until I turn the color of a coconut husk. Even if a doctor were to tell me this behavior will materially increase my risk of getting skin cancer, the pleasant feeling that accompanies any discussion of the subject will cause me to intuitively downplay the risk: Head may listen to the doctor, but Gut is putting on sunglasses.
Simple enough. But a piece of the puzzle is missing. Why does the thought of lying on a Mexican beach fill me with positive feelings? Biology doesn’t do it. We may be wired to enjoy the feeling of sunlight—it’s a good source of heat and vitamin D—but we clearly have no natural inclination to bake on a beach, since humans only started doing this in relatively modern times. So where did I learn that this is a Good Thing? Experience, certainly. I did it and it was delightful. But I thought it would be delightful before I did it. That was why I did it. So again, I have to ask the question: Where did I get this idea from?
For one, I got it from people who had done it and who told me it’s delightful. And I got it from others who hadn’t done it but who had heard that it was delightful. And I got it—explicitly or implicitly—from books, magazines, television, radio, and movies. Put all this together and it’s clear I got the message that it’s delightful to suntan on a Mexican beach from the culture around me. I’m Canadian. Every Canadian has either gone south in the winter or dreamed of it. Tropical beaches are as much a part of Canadian culture as wool hats and hockey pucks, and that is what convinced me that lying on a beach in Mexico is delightful. Even if I had never touched toes to Mexican sand, the thought of lying on a beach in Mexico would trigger nice feelings my brain—and those nice feelings would influence my judgment of the risks involved.
This is a very typical story. There are, to be sure, some emotional reactions that are mainly biological in origin, such as revulsion for corpses and feces, but our feelings are more often influenced by experience and culture. I have a Jewish friend who follows Jewish dietary laws that forbid pork. He always has. In fact, he has internalized those rules so deeply that he literally feels nauseated by the sight of ham or bacon. But for me, glazed ham means Christmas and the smell of frying bacon conjures images of sunny Saturday mornings. Obviously, eating pork is not terribly dangerous, but still there is a risk of food poisoning (trichinosis in particular). If my friend and I were asked to judge that risk, the very different feelings we have would lead our unconscious minds—using the Good-Bad Rule—to very different conclusions.
The same dynamic plays a major role in our perceptions about the relative dangers of drugs. Some drugs are forbidden. Simply to possess them is a crime. That is a profound stigma, and we feel it in our bones. These are awful, wicked substances. Sometimes we talk about them as if they were sentient creatures lurking in alleyways. With such strong feelings in play, it is understandable that we would see these drugs as extremely dangerous: Snort that cocaine, shoot that heroin, and you’ll probably wind up addicted or dead.
There’s no question drugs can do terrible harm, but there is plenty of reason to think they’re not nearly as dangerous as most people feel. Consider cocaine. In 1995, the World Health Organization completed what it touted as “the largest global study on cocaine use ever undertaken.” Among its findings: “Occasional cocaine use,” not intensive or compulsive consumption, is “the most typical pattern of cocaine use” and “occasional cocaine use does not typically lead to severe or even minor physical or social problems.”
Of course it is very controversial to suggest that illicit drugs aren’t as dangerous as commonly believed, but exaggerated perceptions of risk are precisely what we would expect to see given the deep hostility most people feel toward drugs. Governments not only know this, they make use of it. Drug-use prevention campaigns typically involve advertising and classroom education whose explicit goal is to increase perceived risk (the WHO’s cocaine report described most drug education as “superficial, lurid, excessively negative”), while drug agencies monitor popular perceptions and herald any increase in perceived risk as a positive development. Whether the perceived risks are in line with the actual risks is not a concern. Higher perceived risk is always better.
Then there are the licit drugs. Tobacco is slowly becoming a restricted and stigmatized substance, but alcohol remains a beloved drug in Western countries and many others. It is part of the cultural fabric, the lubricant of social events, the symbol of celebration. A 2003 survey of British television found that alcohol routinely appeared in “positive, convivial, funny images.” We adore alcohol, and for that reason, it’s no surprise that public health officials often complain that people see little danger in a drug whose consumption can lead to addiction, cardiovascular disease, gastrointestinal disorders, liver cirrhosis, several types of cancer, fetal alcohol syndrome, and fatal overdose—a drug that has undoubtedly killed far more people than all the illicit drugs combined. The net effect of the radically different feelings we have for alcohol and other drugs was neatly summed up in a 2007 report of the Canadian Centre on Substance Abuse: Most people “have an exaggerated view of the harms associated with illegal drug use, but consistently underestimate the serious negative impact of alcohol on society.” That’s Gut, taking its cues from the culture.