humanities

life, poetry, teaching, Uncategorized, writing

What Robots and AI Can’t Replace

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Everywhere we look, there are mentions of artificial intelligence (AI), robotics, and their implications for the future. News stories and social media feeds predict a heyday of ease and comfort as we assign more and more mundane tasks to technology (the art that accompanies this post was created by AI). In contrast, we’re also given the dark prophecies of Asimov and Bradbury come to life: When our computerized creations become so sentient that they can resent us, how will we control them?

More realistically, however, people are rightfully concerned about their jobs: Cashiers are already becoming obsolete, data entry by remote workers is becoming a relic, and countless other positions previously filled by people are slated to go extinct in the next few years. How, then, do we reckon with this revolution?

As the father of two older boys, one in college and one about to go there, I’m relieved that both of them have chosen irreplaceably human endeavors for their futures: One is in theatre, and the other plans to pursue architecture. These are professions that AI will never be able to fully usurp. After all, theatre is among the humanities, a select group of art forms and practices marked by their innate reliance upon authentic emotion and genuine experience. Our hamartia, the human condition, is ironically our greatest strength when it comes to livelihoods that are AI-proof. Architecture will be helped by AI, certainly, but to design and create livable spaces that consider the needs of complex people, we need human minds and hearts. Ask AI to design a mid-20th Century ranch house like the one on The Brady Bunch, and you’ll probably get a reasonable facsimile. But ask AI for a blueprint of a home that considers the individual needs of 21st Century family members, and confusion results — the blinking cursor begins to smoke.

As a teacher, I’ve already encountered the challenge of getting students to write rather than use ChatGPT or some similar product. For now, AI-generated writing is fairly easy to spot: Its reliance upon certain words and phrases, its preference for sterile-sounding language, and its occasional errors about obvious matters all make it detectable, even without running an essay or paper through an online checker or two. Combine those facts with a vast divergence from a student’s in-class writings, and AI use becomes obvious. But we know that technology consistently advances, and as time elapses, the fakes will become harder to spot, especially as classrooms become more tech-dependent. This is why some teachers and professors have gone back to old-school blue books, those lined-paper pamphlets of an earlier era, for class writing. And while I see the nostalgic appeal and hard-nosed devotion to justice driving such a practice, I also see its inherent temporary nature. Returning to number two pencils and canary yellow legal pads may get us by for a while, but students, parents, and clients of the new age won’t tolerate this Luddite approach for long. We need to find the middle ground between total AI reliance and achieved, owned learning quickly. Compromises like “You may use an AI editor for the writing you have authored independently in class” serve as a good start. This technique prepares students for the world to come without damaging their acquisition of knowledge. Further, they learn by seeing the corrections made by QuillBot, Grammarly, and other language-fixers. And if these products make a mistake as they sometimes do, so much the better. That’s where the real learning begins — technology has never been and will never be infallible, and the sooner students grasp this truth by experience, the better off they will be.

As a poet, I’m not worried about AI. I’ve seen the replica-poems it produces, and while some sound good on the surface, a closer look reveals that same artificial shimmer visible in the art that I’ve used above. Something’s missing; there’s a bad aftertaste like that of saccharine diet sodas from the seventies. An astute reader can tell that the cane sugar of the human touch is missing from this thing’s formula, whatever it may be. The “experiential resonance” — the sense that an event or product is organic — just isn’t there. Call it instinct if you will, but a reasonable human being can tell the difference between the things we do and make and the contrived, data-driven simulacra of thought-approximating algorithms. An initial, superficial “Oh, that’s lovely!” soon becomes an “Oh, this isn’t what I thought it was.” And that kind of deflating disappointment will toll the end of our infatuation with AI. Like any other once-novel discovery, this, too, will lose its luster.

So, what’s the big picture? The AI “scare” is similar to that of Y2K: Yes, we should consider it, but no, it isn’t Armageddon. As we prepare and adapt, we will add it to our toolboxes, become indifferent to it, and move on. Just as we healed the hole in the ozone layer, just as we eliminated acid rain, and just as we defeated diseases of long ago, we will coexist with this latest change until it no longer seems intriguing or threatening. We could easily theorize a future dystopia like those seen in science fiction, but it’s more likely that balance will prevail as it always has. For parents, teachers, and creators, AI is nothing to obsess over. Put simply, it’s just another thing. And if history has taught us anything, it’s that things are perishable.

life, poetry, teaching, writers, writing

Where the Liberal Arts Take You

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This year, my oldest son is beginning high school. As a freshman, he has begun considering possible college majors that he’d like to aim toward. His big love is theater, especially musical theater (insert pragmatic-dad eye roll here). He is a member of the school band, and he is trying out agriculture, as our family has a long history of farming in addition to teaching and other professions.

As much as I’d like to give him the whole lecture about “getting a degree in something useful,” I’m realize in no position to advise him to be practical about his eventual course of study. I’ve done a pretty unconventional thing, earning a terminal degree in creative writing later in life, and I can’t say it has turned out badly. No matter how many guidance counselors and career advisers may say otherwise, getting a degree (or two!) in the liberal arts can in fact make life more fulfilling.

Readers of this blog know that I recently spent a week in the Wisconsin Northwoods, leading poetry workshops and kayaking the lakes of a beautiful part of the country:

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And earlier this summer, I spent a week in Appalachia simply pondering how best to order my latest manuscript of poems:

 

Then there was the summer of my 40th birthday, where the whole family and I traveled to Lisbon, Portugal because I received a partial scholarship to attend the Disquiet International Literary Program:

And before I became an “international” poet, there was the summer I spent a week at the Juniper Writers Institute (also on a scholarship), where I explored the home of Emily Dickinson:

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And the farm of Robert Frost in Derry, New Hampshire:

 

Oh, and then there was the time (in the middle of my MFA program) that I was kindly given a full ride to the Glen West Workshop in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This would have been in 2013:

Add to that the workshops, seminars, and conferences that I’ve been able to attend closer to home (The National Graduate Creative Writing Conference in Carrollton, GA; AWP in Tampa; the Other Words conference at Flagler College in Jacksonville, and many, many, more), and you’ve got yourself quite a travel itinerary spread out over 10 or 12 years.

Lest the audience think that I am only measuring meaning by travel, there are plenty of other ways that my liberal arts degrees have enhanced my biography. Before I entered the realm of education, I used my Bachelor of Arts degree in print journalism to report for newspapers — now nearly an extinct species. In the process, I drove through (over!) the flames of brush fires, got shot at twice, had a beer bottle hurled at my head during a riot, and witnessed life in a way that few other people ever experience.

I spoke with flood survivors, celebrities big and small, government officials, and even the occasional inmate. All these experiences expanded my lens and allowed me to view the world from a variety of perspectives. It wasn’t the liberal arts degree that provided breadth and open-mindedness about our human situation; those understandings came along well after I’d received diplomas, in fact. But I never would have had those encounters without the degrees I earned, and I absolutely would not have interpreted those encounters in the same way sans higher education.

“But what about the money?” you may ask. “Is it true that people with liberal arts degrees earn less than those with vocational and technical degrees?” While I can’t speak to the assets held by those in hands-on professions, I can tell you that we’ve always had enough. My two boys, my wife, and I have had sufficiency and surplus in varying frequency, and even during times of struggle, our scenario has been eased by the knowledge that we are not the only ones to have faced difficulty. A thorough education in the humanities provided both fictional and nonfictional examples from which to learn. Some of our Christmases may have looked like the Bob Cratchit family or an O. Henry short story, but along with that sparsity came the closeness that such stories also featured. Enduring with beloved others is its own wealth.

“What about the cost? Not everyone can afford a spiffy degree from a small, private institution, you know…” True enough. I’m well aware of our national student debt crisis, and I also know that liberal arts colleges can be expensive. For me, the payoff has been worth the initial investment. The promises made by my parents and grandparents turned out to be true: Earn a college degree/ start a career/ live the American Dream, etc. Certainly this has not always been the result for others. I’ll leave it at that.

I do know that when someone is willing to work hard and smart, when he or she gives back to the profession, and when relationships are tended with near-agricultural precision, a liberal arts degree can help make life worthwhile. Sure, there’s a Wall Street Journal article that also bears out the truth of what I’m saying, but for today, I’m speaking from personal experience.

What am I going to tell my son about earning a “useless” degree? Go for it. No, I’m not a proponent of “follow your bliss” or “do what makes you happy” exclusively, but we need at least some modest enjoyment from making our livelihood. Work is still going to be work, no matter what, but fulfillment? That can be achieved, and a liberal arts degree can serve as the welcome mat for it.

 

 

 

life, poetry, publishing, Uncategorized, writers, writing

Poetry Reading is On the Rise! Now What?

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closeup photo of assorted title books
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Recently, the literary world became aglow with news confirmed by The Poetry Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts: Poetry reading has increased over the past several years, giving hopes to aspiring poets everywhere. The questions arising from this news are: 1.) Why are people reading more poetry? and 2.) How do we keep them reading it?

The politically motivated individual will point to the barbarities of our modern age to explain why people are seeking more poetry. Everything is so coarse, so divisive, so insensitive that people are looking into poetry with hopes of solace. They seek some escape from the hard cruelties of our culture’s climate, and think that by slipping into volumes by Mary Oliver or Billy Collins, they will rediscover Keatsian truth-beauty. Maybe they’re right.

But another political explanation goes something like this: People are seeking answers from thinkers, and poets are perceived as philosophers (which we are). Maybe poetry has a secret map laden with metaphors and imagery that can lead us out of whatever misery we may be facing. Historically, poets have been the voices that landmark history. And certainly, our current station in history is one that requires guideposts. Hostilities seep between the teeth of those doing the loudest talking, and some poems provide a quietly artful voice of reason. Other verses scream back irrationally at the megaphone-wielders. Whatever poetry’s response, people are seeking it, and that’s a good thing.

Are we compelled by this encouraging news to produce poems that are merely society-driven? I hope not. For as much value as the adamant political poem has, it often fails to observe the pastoral. Furthermore, the didactic diatribe concerns itself with messaging more than meaning. Clapping back is a limited response, and people will only stick around so long for a sign-waving rally, even if the signs are colorful and easily memorable. Once the adrenaline of activism wanes, everyday life must resume. And it is in the everyday that poetry must make itself seen as vital.

We (poets) must concern ourselves with what endures. Beyond the shouting, beyond the headlines, beyond the temporary controversies, we must strive for the persistent universals that have allowed writers to transcend their respective eras. We still read Shakespeare because we still love, still hate, still aspire, still ponder. We go back to Dickinson because we continue to wrestle with mortality. We return to poetry because we are still human beings, and our lives require assurance, pause, and depth.

I also suspect that people have wearied of hectic, frenetic instantaneity. Text messages, status updates, tweets, and likes are superficial, fleeting things, and even though they produce little bursts of dopamine, we can only tolerate that pleasure-cycle so long. We want something more than emojis and temporary images. It has taken a while, but people’s brains want to do some heavier lifting.

Are you ready to satisfy that craving, poet? Are you prepared to offer language that contributes in a permanent way — not just for the moment, but for eternity? It’s a tall order. With consideration, wonder, and vision, though, we can do it. We can cause people to regularly remember their humanity and continue celebrating it with the greatest of all literature — poems.