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The temperature is 98 degrees, the humidity almost the same. Dr. Herbert Grimm, professor of sociology, arises limp and enervated. He shaves, an operation he loathes, then carefully parts and combs his hair. The shirt he puts on makes him hotter; the collar he buttons increases his discomfort, and when he knots a tie around his neck, his body temperature goes up even higher. He would not think of going into town except in trousers he now steps into. As the final act of self-torture he puts on a jacket. Thus inappropriately attired against the heat, he goes to breakfast.

He greets his wife in accustomed manner, seats himself at his usual place at the table, and reaches for his coffee cup without looking, knowing just where it will be. He eats his grapefruit with a narrow-pointed spoon and stirs his coffee with a rounder one.

Going through his mail, which is neatly stacked in its usual place, he opens a letter from a neighboring householder informing him in blunt, discourteous language that unless Dr. Grimm makes immediate financial settlement for grievous damage inflicted on the person of said neighbor, a court action will be instituted forthwith. The correspondence reminds Dr. Grimm of his "gross negligence" in failing to keep his sidewalk free of snow and ice the previous December. The writer concludes with the declaration that Dr. Grimm is a curse to the community and an unprincipled scoundrel.

The letter opened with the salutation "Dear Professor Grimm." It closes with "Yours truly" above the irate writer's signature. The correspondent does not hold Dr. Grimm dear  to him and does not feel he is truly Dr. Grimm's, but the irony here apparently did not occur to him, nor does it now enter Dr. Grimm's consciousness.

Driving to school, he stays within the speed limit, stops at red lights, and gives pedestrians the right of way. He enters his classroom, makes some preliminary remarks, then involves the students in discussion, carefully refraining from expressing opinions of his own, lest he be accused of indoctrination.

On his way home Dr. Grimm stops at the barbershop. He does not believe he needs a haircut, but weeks have elapsed since the last one, and he knows that people he respects and whose respect he wants to preserve regularly go to a barber.

At a dinner tonight he is to speak on "The Power of Culture." He dislikes such affairs, for several reasons. Mass feedings annoy him; small talk will bore him; and he feels imposed upon, realizing he was invited because he is a local figure in the community and because local figures do not have to be paid for speaking. Dr. Grimm will attend out of a sense of duty--a professor is expected to make "a contribution to the community." 

He grunts into his tuxedo that evening and goes to make his contribution. He makes small talk to left and right, in the course of which he gently ridicules academicians in general and sociologists in particular, because he knows this will bring a conspiratorial, appreciative chuckle. Actually he has the utmost respect for academicians, and sociologists are to the most venturesome and praiseworthy of the breed.

After dessert the chairman taps for silence and introduces the professor. Dr. Grimm is credited with talents and accomplishments he little dreamed he possessed. He rises to speak, fully aware that after a heavy dinner his listeners want to be entertained, not enlightened. He knows they will sit through his remarks, not because they want to, but because it is the custom of the organization to have a speaker and to sit respectfully through his address.

Dr. Grimm assures his audience he is delighted to have the honor and privilege of speaking before it. He delivers his talk and sits down to applause that would have been accorded to him, at least in some measure, no matter what he said. The chairman assures him the group has rarely listened to a more inspiring address. He thanks Dr. Grimm profusely.

Wearily Dr. Grimm drives home. His wife informs him that she received a call from Mrs. Smathers, reporting that the professor's talk was simply magnificent. "She says you are an iconoclast," Mrs. Grimm says.

"Oh," Grimm says modestly, "iconoclast. Idol Smasher, eh? me?" Obviously the idea appeals to him.

She seems a bit worried. "I hope you did not..."

"Well," Dr. Grimm says, smiling as he removes his jacket, "I do not know that I am really an iconoclast, but, ahem! I flatter myself I am not altogether hidebound by tradition either, heh, heh!"

Actually, our imaginary professor is as bound by custom and tradition as are most people with whom he comes in contact. He is not entirely bound by rules of behavior, but like all those with whom he interacts, he pays those rules considerable respect. He has bowed to his culture, to the accepted and expected ways of doing things, during his day. What impels him to wear a jacket in the hottest weather? Why is he so careful to use the proper silverware at the table? Why does he appear at a public dinner when he would rather remain at home? Why does he submit to so many activities in a predictable manner? What is this power his culture exerts over him? 

Dr. Grimm behaves as he has learned to behave in the process of associating with other human beings. He has acquired many of the values and attitudes common to his culture. He has learned to enact responses that are generally in accord with what is expected. When he accepted these modes of behavior as desirable, appropriate, or at least expedient, he showed that he had internalized the culture of his society.

Charles Horton Cooley (1864-1929), a major figure in American sociology, defined conformity as the endeavor to maintain a standard set by a group. Each individual who feels himself identified with a particular group has in her/him what may be regarded as  a strain toward conformity, that is, toward voluntary imitation of prevalent modes of action. Note the word "voluntary." This distinguishes the behavior from involuntary imitation, which is practically mechanical. As Cooley explained, our speaking the English language is not conformity, for we have practically no choice in the matter if we want to get along in our society. But we might choose to conform to particular pronunciations used by those with whom we wish to associate. For instance, a New Englander whose pronunciation is like that of others in the region may, upon taking up residence in the West, choose to adopt western pronunciations.

The internalization of culture is the means by which an individual is socialized and becomes a social being. Socialization perpetuates the culture. Through it the individual acquires waht some call conscience. The essayist Montaigne wrote: "The laws of conscience, which we pretend to be derived from nature, proceed from custom." This was a sage observation. Established customs of the culture constitute a sort of internal governor enabling the individual to satisfy her/his adjustive needs, to predict the behavior of others, and to keep his behavior "in step" with theirs. In effect the person develops what may be termed a social conscience. Such a conscience enables Professor Grimm to satisfy his adjustive needs reasonably well--he sleeps as long as he needs, earns an honest livelihood, and keeps as cool or as warm as need-versus-custom permits. His social conscience warns him how people are likely to behave if he follows certain inclinations--to dress sensibly instead of conventionally, to decline a dinner instead of accepting it. He has learned to "get in step." 

In this case as in all others, culture has functioned to regulate behavior. This regulation is a phenomenon of great meaning in the study of sociology. Whereas philosophers, novelists, and painters often stress the uniqueness of individuals, the sociologist focuses much of her/his attention on the regularity of humankind's behavior and on deviance from established patterns. He attempts to discover principles explaining the relation of the individual to the social order as a whole. Why do the members of a given society behave in certain predictable, regular ways? Why do most people conform to most of the customs of their group most of the time? What is this process by which we become culture bound, rarely free of the influence of our culture? Why are we apt to become culture blind, so accustomed to our ways that we consider them the only "right" ways? What, in short, is this social force that brings us to behave in an approved manner? The sociologist refers to this force as social control.