Walter Suza guest column: Can ChatGPT write my unwritten story?
Hear ye, hear ye! Machines will learn to be writers!
“Not in my lifetime,” might have responded Shakespeare. Yet here we are, humanity is awakening to an exciting and alarming reality of life with artificial intelligence. From now on, not just college essays will be scanned for “fingerprints” of computer generation; written public statements will also face tougher scrutiny. Like what happened at Vanderbilt University after a service was used to compose a public statement in response to the shooting at Michigan State University.
If the DEI staff at Vanderbilt University had not admitted use of ChatGPT, to me, the statement would have still felt comforting and caring. Computer programs such as ChatGPT that use artificial intelligence and language processing to simulate human conversations are becoming good writers. Some publishers are already finding it daunting to keep up with AI-generated content. Would writers like me survive the rise of machine writers? No doubt ChatGPT can write, but can these systems learn the human heart and tell its story?
Can ChatGPT write my unwritten story like that morning when my classmates sitting around became invisible, the classroom became silent, my mind became louder? “Write it all!” it shouted. I responded.
I grabbed the pen and held it tight between the thumb, middle and index fingers. I pressed the ballpoint against the paper and the white paper became blue. The blue letters became words. In my mind's eye the words revealed a violent mob descending on my childhood home chanting, “Kill them.” “Burn it down.” The house became a pile of charred wood and broken glass.
The pen sprinted across pages, screaming the despair from being uprooted from my place of birth, forced to be out of school, taking menial street jobs. It resurrected memories of the times I stood among other unemployed youth, wishing I were on the other side of the fence, in the high school, with those other kids.
Now at age 19, the oldest in my class, I can hardly write these words in English because my first language is Kiswahili, yet in English is how I must now write. The pen continued to compose for Ms. G’s English class. “Write it all!” All the bad things that had happened to you prior to living in Zimbabwe with your sister to be in this high school. Words became piled together. No punctuation. No paragraphs. Time's up! I handed over my composition to Ms. G, anxious to know how I did. But I had to wait. “This is awful,” exclaimed Ms. G, a week later, before handing me the composition marked with a red F.
I felt embarrassed and distraught. Did she not read the part about the girl on the bus, showing to her friend the note I had written to ask her out? Can you believe that her friend laughed out loud? How I wanted to crawl under the bus with shame. I hadn’t written anything out of the ordinary. It must have been my “broken” English. The words must have turned out mangled. How could Ms. G miss such nuggets in my composition?
Truth is, it was not just English; that was my problem. I did not know how to write. Ms. G was right, the composition was a jumbled mess. “He might not pass English,” Ms. G warned my sister during a teacher-parent meeting. It turned out that this time, Ms. G would be wrong. I passed my high school O-Level English exam. Barely.
Three years later after my high school A-Level, I wrote my first opinion essay as a college freshman to encourage more acceptance of cultural diversity at my alma mater. But knowing what I know today, the essay could have been written better.
Decades later, it still requires effort for me to learn how to write. Three years ago, I wrote an essay on slavery, racism and the Christian God. I submitted the essay to the elite national newspapers. “Sorry, we can’t use this,” was the response.
“What might be wrong?”
That was my question to Mr. M, a colleague working in journalism. Mr. M’s feedback was hard to swallow. My column was another jumbled mess. I was arrogant to think I could effectively discuss multiple topics in 800 words. Even after my 130th column was published, it still feels my writing could be better. Sure, ChatGPT can write, but I doubt it yet can experience the joy from the process of learning how to write.
“I want to say that as impactful as your letter was for me as an adult; the lesson that you are giving a bus full of Midwest kids … will be priceless,” read an email from a mom about her daughter discussing my column on racism with her peers on their trip to a softball game.
The feedback touched my heart. That’s the difference between me and the machine. At least before AI acquires a heart.
Walter Suza of Ames, Iowa, writes frequently on the intersections of spirituality, anti-racism and social justice. He can be contacted at wsuza2020@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on Ames Tribune: Opinion: Can ChatGPT write my unwritten story?
