The steam curls, a soft specter against the ceramic of my mug. This barista is an impressive human; I respect the care he takes in preparing my beverage. He remembers my order—a fleeting hesitation, that slight catch in the breath, before I ask for oat milk—small things, but altogether they are decidedly human.
My AI assistant is competent—it schedules meetings and drafts emails that sometimes sound eerily like me—but it will never notice the slight wrinkle in the barista's brow when he tamps the espresso. This is something to consider: What becomes of small acts of human kindness and the quiet dignity of doing good work? And how will technology shape the future of that "ordinary human doing ordinary work," I ask myself, when the world figures out how to automate something as basic as tending to a customer with a simple drink?
My mind, like a projector, shows a fast-paced reel of faces. I remember Mom, the hands she developed from a decade's worth of troweling plaster. She had this way of coaxing texture onto the walls, layer by layer, and she did this with the visceral satisfaction that she somehow helped create a transformation. If one of those AI-powered robots were to try to copy that feeling of satisfaction—to mimic the almost imperceptible changes that human artists bring to their work—then what?
How would that be? Doubt arises. It suggests there might be more to worry about than merely the disruption of the traditional workforce. Yes, it's about efficiency and freeing up labor for parts of the work machines can't duplicate. But those concerns, the kind of concerns any decent person might have, feel, at this moment, a bit cold and shallow— like a cold draft coming from under the door.
Grandma, yesterday, spoke her questions in a voice that sounded like soft waves. "So this 'thing,' as you called it… it takes over the secretary job that I used to do?" The chuckle at the end of the question is more melancholic than amused. Her days, now, are filled with crosswords—a peaceful retirement, I try to tell myself. And yet, a painful pang surfaces.
That feeling of satisfaction that used to come with perfectly typed letters, with that quiet competence of running an efficient office—all of it replaced by the digital assistants I have championed? We made this change in the name of progress—so that she can have all that time back to herself—and it feels like the translation of that intention was somehow… off.
A sigh is emitted from the cashier when my groceries are scanned. The Uber driver’s joke about the traffic, which always seems to be terrible. The anonymous faces, those fleeting interactions that are, really, all too easily replaceable in the constant pursuit of higher efficiency. These are the kinds of moments I have begun to consider in my growing interest in artificial intelligence.
When I gush to people about its power, when I share my little tips and tricks, and when I talk about its power for good in the world, do I sound like I am also cheerleading the redundancy of human labor? Does that excitement sound shallow, especially coming from me, one of those who believes in the power of the technology to solve big problems? But what problems are we trying to solve? And, more importantly, whom, exactly, are we freeing from these tasks—tasks that, perhaps, are not necessarily things from which they desire freedom?
My mind feels like it’s working at cross-purposes. On the one hand, I see so much potential, so many possibilities. I believe with all my heart that these tools can free us from those repetitive, soul-sucking tasks and free us to connect more fully with our creativity. On the other hand, there's that barista’s hands, so quick to prepare my beverage, and suddenly, the algorithmic future feels less like a bright utopia and more like some blunt, unwieldy, instrument. A scalpel is designed for accuracy, but it’s cold, mechanical, unfeeling. It lacks an understanding of the ecosystems it can, and quite frequently does, disrupt.
Grandma's voice reverberates in my thoughts: "That was my job." Not just a series of tasks she did or a job title, though those were important to her. It was her way of giving back, participating in the broader community, feeling useful. The calm order of the documents that were perfectly filed and the ease of knowing how to manage an active schedule was something that helped to ground her. Her work gave her a sense of self—a way to make meaning.
It's not the loss of jobs I'm worried about; that would be too simple. What I'm worried about, really, is the erosion of purpose, that yawning chasm of fear that separates those who can seamlessly embrace the digital revolution from those who are left behind, struggling. It all feels much bigger than I had first imagined.
Suddenly, my well-intentioned advice feels trite—something akin to handing an overly complex algebra equation to someone who, more than anything, needs a helping hand, a warm smile, a little bit of recognition that they are human beings, not merely cogs in some monstrous machine.
Perhaps the real test, the next path forward, isn't to simply develop smarter machines; it's to also cultivate deeper empathy. To have a sense for what it means to be a human in a world where the technologies we develop can, with more and more sophistication, copy almost everything we do. Our goal should be to learn to see people, not just job titles or tasks or workers. I want to see those who hold the trowels, type the letters, pour the coffees. They have intrinsic value, and that quiet dignity they hold in their work has merit that cannot, must not, be ignored.
The latte is warm in my hands. A soft wave of something washes over me. It's not about hindering progress. It's about recognizing that some of the solutions that seem so "perfectly right" to some of us will be, for others, wrenching, and completely disorienting. And our response will require something more human and less "perfect" than new technology—a connection to the anxieties and uncertainties of our fellow citizens, to the fear they feel under their forced smiles.
The technology is coming, yes. But it’s how we meet each other in its shadow that will define us. The algorithms may change the world, but empathy will help us navigate it, together.
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