I Am Not a Robot

I am not a robot. I feel compelled to tell you this because we live in a world where so much is artificial, playing at being real, and the truth, as well as the humanity, is buried beneath filters and brand deals, tucked between m-dashes, a just-off-center voice on the help line.

But I am real. I am human. My words are all mine.

Of course AI enters every conversation these days, typically with an eye roll that has historically accompanied discussions on rock-n-roll, MTV, violent video games, and social media. Since the Industrial Revolution, we knew technology was coming for us all and, well, the future is now.

I have a #bookstagram account now, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Oh cool, I can get online and talk about my favorite thing, this analog thing—books. (Actually, between my Kindle and my audiobooks, my reading is not entirely analog, but its heart is in the right place.) But as I’ve spent more and more time on Bookstagram, I find myself lost in a feedback loop, sucked into yet another machine, this one reserved for book lovers. Of course, I’ve found plenty of beautiful cut and uncut gems on the platform that I didn’t even have to go digging for. The algorithm worked, serving me the kind of content creators and bibliophages I want to see. Damn you digitized data-collectors for knowing me so well.

I’m a warrior for books, a fierce defender of literature and true stories and science and history, with a belief that through those pages, our humanity forms. I’ve tried to make this case to my boys, who loved reading when they were kids and now, as teens, don’t see the purpose. I’ve literally heard, “What’s the point of literature?” in my home, right before I collapsed to the floor and begged them to just kill me now. I’ve tried to explain it, and if you’re still with me, I don’t need to explain it to you—literature reflects our humanity, it reflects the time in which it was written, it puts prose in front of our eyes (or before our ears) and whole worlds unfurl in our minds. What’s the point of literature? Pffft. it ‘s like asking what’s the point of music or good food or a nature walk or an orange-purple sunset. It’s because it makes you feel something. With books, I’d take it a step further: you learn something too.

A couple of weeks ago, after a big family dinner, we were sitting around talking about AI. Of course we were. All roads lead to an AI debate. I was saying that when you use AI to summarize a book for you, instead of diving into the material, you aren’t working your brain muscle. I said it’s like expecting to get swole when a robot is lifting the weight. Then I said it was like a robot meeting you at the ten yard line and carrying you 90 yards to make a touchdown. I was throwing out all my best metaphor work. And then my son laughed, like I was talking crazy, and I asked what was so funny. And he explained that kids these days are just working different muscles now, opening up new pathways in their brain. Well that’s cool, I guess, but can’t we keep the old pathways open too?

Yesterday, that same boy of mine came in to my room to tell me he’d gotten a really good grade on his English test. He knew I’d be proud. They write their essays in class, with the internet turned off, so they can’t access AI. Righteous analog. When I asked what his essay was about, he asked if I wanted to read it. Was it my birthday or something? Yes, I wanted to read it! The book was George Orwell’s 1984, and his essay focused on the imagery of a bird “at the edge of a lone wood and pour(ing) its music into nothingness.” My son’s interpretation was that in this dark future where creativity and individuality is stifled, a bird can only sing into the void (I’m paraphrasing, yes).

I was so proud, I thought my cheeks would burst from smiling, and I was also so happy—happy that he was able to grasp the nuance and relevancy in literature, yes, but mostly just happy that my moody teenager had plopped down on the bed next to me to share. It was so real. It was so human.

As he headed out of my room, I couldn’t help myself.

“Maybe you should be an English major one day,” I said.

He laughed, I think wondering how I could seriously suggest such a thing, and said, “English is obsolete.”

I beg to differ, my boy.