A recent applicant for employment with the Central Intelligence Agency's Directorate of Operations has been documenting her experience with the hiring process on MySpace.com, where she writes under the name
Cammie.
Part 11 of her series, "The CIA and Me" outlines her experience with the polygraph:
Quote:Thirty of us sat in the room and stared at a t.v. monitor that talked about preconceptions about the polygraph and informed us that everything that we had heard was probably wrong. We learned about how the polygrapher is a professional with the equivelent of a masters degree in the art of administering the polygraph and how any tricks we may have heard that we could use, would be futile. We watched as friendly looking polygraphers asked questions to confident looking applicants. The process looked painless. I was doubtful.
Our polygraphers came into the room one at a time and called the names of their assigned victim. Some of them looked friendly, or nearly friendly, like the actors on the tape. As they walked in I would hope that they said my name. I felt like a little kid who wanted to raise her hand and say "pick me, pick me." When my polygrapher came in the room she looked as if she had just eaten something sour. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She looked around the room and I prayed that she would not say my name. When she did I tried not to look disappointed, but I imagine that someone trained to read body language wouldn't miss much. We had not gotten off to the best start.
The room was tiny. Sensors were put on my fingers, a band across my chest, and an uncomfortable tight blood preassure sleeve on my arm. Once again I went over my entire life story. I repressed the urge to ask her just to look in the thick file she had sitting in front of her to get it. I had disclosed nearly everything and most of the things I had missed (which were now playing rapid fire through my mind) were because I hadn't thought of them. We went over any events that I might have felt ashamed about. Everything seemed to have a monetary value. She looked sceptical when I said that I had never stolen anything in my entire life. I must have. Not even candy as I child. I explained that being raised baptist I had a concept of guilt at a fairly young age. This, she argued, was an even better reason to steal. There had to be something. This was, when I was the most tempted to lie. I thought about making something up, saying that I had stolen something when I was five, just to make her happy.
She wanted to know exactly what I had heard about polygraphs. All my information must have been old, or, the sources corrupt. I didn't know what any of these people had done or who they were. They really could be murderers. We went over everything I had read about polygraphs. The authors were clearly degenerate or had taken tests twenty years before. My test would not be like there test. My test would be easy as long as I was honest. Not everything had to be painful.
The real test hadn't even started yet. She asked me a series of questions in which I would lie so that she could see what my reaction would be. I, being perhaps the worst liar in the world when directly asked a question, did my best. She explained that I was one of the worst liars she had seen and that, apparently, my reactions were off the chart. Then I got in trouble. Apparently I was controlling my breathing, something leftover from years of martial arts. It was completely unconscious but she seemed furious. She said that I was not cooperating and threatened to end the test. And then my pinkie finger moved. This it seemed, was almost the final straw. Again she threatened to end the test and asked if I even wanted to work for the agency at all. Things didn't seem to be going well. I held still enough and tried to breath fast so she would be happy. I was positive at this point that I was no longer capable of breathing "naturally." Once someone points out to you that the way you breath isn't natural, that becomes the only thing you can think about. As I nearly hyperventilated she became reassured that this was my natural state.
The real questions began and my confidence grew. They were easy. No, I had not killed anyone. I had never damaged government property. I had never raped anyone or stolen anything. I had no relationships with foreign nationals I was hiding. I was not aiding terrorists in any way, nor had I ever. These were easy. I wouldn't even have to lie about anything.
She was quiet for a moment. She stared at me, then pulled up a chair and came around to sit in front of me. I thought we might be done. After all. The questions were easy.
"You're not doing well." I had read about this somewhere. I had thought I was prepared. Logically I knew that she was playing a game. At the same time, for the first time in the interviewing process, I felt that I was at a serious disadvantage.
"I'm not?" I stared at her blankly. I really couldn't think of anything that could be even vaguely untrue in those statements.
"We wouldn't be having this conversation if you were doing well Cammie." She stared at me without expression. "You're coming across very strongly on "foreign national" and "theft"." I stared unmoving at her.
"I really don't know what you're talking about." Of course they would say "foreign national." They had obsessed over my past relationship with a South African national when I had studied abroad and it had gotten to the point when I no longer talked to him on the phone just so I didn't risk saying anything. This was exactly what I had hoped to avoid when I had added distance to our friendship. The polygraph hadn't said I was coming across strong on "foreign national." Her file did.
She was certain I had commited a crime. I would be turned over to the FBI if I didn't tell her. If I did she would be able to construct a new test around my sins and they could make sure I was telling the truth on the other questions. What could it possibly be? How many boys had I dated in college? Was there anything else I could think of?
As she began to pry things that had seemed inconsequential thirty minutes before, things got gory.
Thirty minutes later she was handing me a box of tissues and I had decided that I hated her more than any living person on earth. I would have told her anything that she asked. I dabbed at my eyes. She left for around half an hour and came back with "another" test. While she was gone I stared up at the video camera and thought about walking out. The truth was, at that point I was too exhausted. It had been nearly two hours. I began the second test. This test was actually identical to the first test, but I didn't point that out. I answered the questions and she quickly said that I had passed.
Numbly I walked into the room with the free lunches and munched on an apple. No one spoke. Every candidate had the same glazed look in their eyes. Some would be required to come back the next day. Half of us would not. We had already "passed."
As I contemplated the additional physical exam, test battery and second psych exam I seriously doubted myself for the first time. Were these people I wanted to work with? Was this what I wanted to do with my life?
I found that the answer was still yes, but that it was no longer adamant. The polygraph gave me doubt. Serious doubts.
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A CIA Applicant's Polygraph Experience (Read 11612 times)
