The most difficult course I took as a college undergrad at Miami University was entitled “Robots and Humans.” It was a “senior capstone”; the purpose of “capstone” courses was to bring together several divergent subject matters in the realm of the major course of study of a student.
As a psychology major, the general idea of a capstone was to filter some idea through a psychological lens. “Robots and Humans” focused on the idea of technology, in the form of robots, and how psychology could understand the role of robots in human society and the potentiality of robots becoming human, or at the very least, human-like.
The difficulty of this course was in the wide scope of subject matter that was included: mathematics, philosophy, electronics, neural networks, sociology, economics, etc. But the basic premise of the course was to examine the questions of “what does it mean to be human?” and “can we blur the line between humans and robots so that they are indistinguishable?”
At the time, it was some pretty heady stuff and it required me to do the required readings at least twice in every case in order to fully grasp the subject matter. Obviously, the question “what does it mean to be human?” is limitless, but as a class we were legitimately trying to derive an answer to that question through conversation, readings, and experimentation.
I don’t believe we ever really “answered” the question, but I have recently found myself analyzing recent losses in my life through this same lens.
Over the course of the last weekend, I suffered two losses that were significant to my life. One was human [a cherished friend]. The other was a robot [my computer of nearly 4 years]. In some ways, the loss of both in the course of two days was quite poetic, as I had “known” both for almost the same amount of time.
These simultaneous losses allowed me to revisit the two major questions presented in “Robots and Humans” over the past week and to finally derive an answer to them.
The demise of my friend Broadway, as he was known to his friends in Cambridge, was a difficult, protracted, and confusing ordeal. The demise of my computer, a Dell Inspiron 2200, was a much shorter, but just as difficult and confusing ordeal.
Broadway was a 71-year-old gentleman whom I knew through the program that brought me to Cambridge. He was beloved by all who knew him because of his self-less attitude, charm, and love of music. I met Broadway my first day in Cambridge and made it a point of visiting him routinely even after I moved to the other side of town.
We usually spoke about sports, particularly the local teams, but he also told me about his days as a younger man and the varied experiences he had lived. As I’ve written about before, I don’t have any grandparents, so to have this wizened perspective was quite fulfilling.
Over the last 4.5 years, I had several enlightening experiences with Broadway, including a favorite where he and I caught the bus to the Asics factory store to find the best deals on high-quality athletic shoes [one of his specialties was finding the highest quality goods at the most affordable prices].
Inspiron 2200 arrived at my door nearly 8 months after I arrived in Cambridge, a replacement for my college laptop that had become too slow to run the latest programs and was too cumbersome to realistically take anywhere.
As a sleeker and faster model, it immediately improved my quality of on-line cabailities, software use, and mobility. It easily held all of the documents that had existed on my previous hard drive (I named one folder on it “old computer”), allowed me to effectively use the latest software necessary for work and play, and made me feel like I had purchased a new car in the level of care I gave it.
These two entities filled my life with innumerable joy and greatly improved my quality of life. One was a cherished friend who helped me understand my place in the world and motivated me to pursue my calling of becoming a physician. The other was a cherished assistant with whom I entrusted my most private secrets and most public of desires.
Both succumbed to a mysterious illness.
Broadway had been a model of health for the 70+ crowd. A wiry former-athlete, he used to tell me how he was a master on the hardwood back in the day, used to do hundreds of crunches a day, and did his very best to avoid processed sugars. His body was confirmation of those boasts.
When he began feeling a little ill seven months ago, I don’t think anyone who knew him felt that it was anything more than a cold. But he began sleeping more than usual. And his doctors’ visits concluded with more questions than answers.
Eventually, he had to leave his home to get more focused care in a rehabilitation hospital. The last time I saw him, he was a shell of the man I first met nearly 5 years ago. He was no longer the spry individual who would carry multiple gallons of milk several blocks to get some extra exercise or simply go out for a stroll to all corners of Cambridge. At this point, I was deeply concerned for his long-term welfare.
When he passed away last weekend, there still had been no determination as to what had begun the tortuous path to his demise.
Death Became Us
Inspiron 2200 had been more than serviceable over the past 4 years. We had spent countless hours together and performed innumerable tasks for both work and leisure. Of course there had been minor hiccups here and there, but it could always handle the updated software, the multitude of simultaneous tasks I asked it to perform, and the occasional ride in an un-padded backpack before I got it its own neoprene sleeve.
Then, about three weeks ago, after updating my music service provider, it began to show alarming signs of a downturn. The Internet began to run slow. Then it wouldn’t boot up in its normal fashion. A few days later I got the dreaded “Safe Mode” warning. I could see the writing on the wall when I tried to run virus software or perform a “system restore.”
Inspiron 2200 was circling the drain; something had infected it terminally. I immediately transferred all of my pertinent documents and files onto a thumb drive and prepared for the worst.
When I awoke last Friday morning and tried to boot it up nothing happened. I powered it down and rebooted; again, nothing happened. Inspiron 2200 had flat-lined at 7AM that morning. I went to work knowing that Inspiron 2200 had performed its last task.
It might seem misguided to compare the final moments of Broadway and Inspiron 2200, but as I mentioned earlier, their simultaneous demises have allowed me to once again consider the questions first posed in my “Robots and Humans” class seven years ago.
The difference between man and machine lies in the same difference that separates humans from almost every other animal on the planet: emotions. No matter the increased technology, the faster the processors, the more complicated programs, the more human-like exteriors, robots will not be able to express emotions.
Some individuals who are on the cutting edge of robotic technology would probably disagree with that statement, but what they often neglect to consider is that humans themselves do not have a firm grasp on emotions. How could we instill emotions in a fabricated machine when we don’t even understand them?
In “Robots and Humans”, our professor made the argument that emotions could be boiled down to a simple software program, allowing for certain “emotional” responses dependent on the underlying circumstances. But the determination we made as a class was that emotions are so widely varied across individual experience and situations that no program could be written to encompass such possibilities.
I believe those on the cutting edge of robotics would disagree with our assessment. However, the underlying issue at hand is that humans themselves do not truly understand what causes some to differ in their emotional responses to similar situations. Experiences are too widely varied, histories too complex, and beliefs too individualized to accurately make an algorithm that would depict emotional responses.
I didn’t think I would cry when the rabbi read the sermon for Broadway; I teared up when he made mention of his nickname and I remembered first meeting him as he carried a box of things into my new home.
When Inspiron 2200 couldn’t be booted up on a Friday morning, I didn’t think twice about it, except that I’d have to check my e-mail at work.
I thought it would be uncomfortable to toss a shovel of dirt on top of the casket at Broadway’s burial site. Instead, I simply thrust the shovel into the mound of dirt and reflexively deposited it on top of the casket.
When I comfortably placed Inspiron 2200 in its leather carrying case and shipped it off on Saturday to be used for spare parts, I thought it was a fitting end.
The essential difference between man and machine is embodied in the comparison between Broadway and Inspiron 2200. There were no emotions involved in the demise of Inspiron 2200. I had certainly spent countless more hours with it than Broadway over the last 4 years, but it had not provided me with anything that my next computer will not.
Broadway provided me with a relationship that words can not fully express.
The day a robot provides a human with the same relationship as another human we should all be worried. It will not be due to our ability to create a technology that identical and indistinguishable from humanity. Rather, it will be due to the fact that humans have devolved emotionally to the point of being indistinguishable from a computer program.