The Sound of Two Hands Clapping

Last week, the lead headline of the Glen Rock Gazette, the weekly newspaper of our small New Jersey boro, blared out the news that the head chef for a local restaurant had decided to leave for another job. He had been working in our town for two years and had decided after the Pandemic had shut down the restaurant for several months to make a move. I don’t really think the chef’s leaving will have a major impact on Glen Rock, but the Gazette thought readers would be interested that he was going away. In Glen Rock, “big news” is tamer and more positive than in most other places. That’s good news too!

Most people who come to Glen Rock seem to stay—for a long time. Audrey and I have been here for more than 40 years, since 1979. It was the fourth move in our six-year marriage, and we figured we were home at last. We had done our research on Glen Rock and were pretty secure in our choice. A few years later, the town would hold a contest for a suitable motto, and the winning entry would be “Glen Rock: A Town to Come Home To.” So many other town residents obviously agreed with us.

Young and old town residents give a cheer

There are a lot of good things to say about Glen Rock—solid schools; a close knit religious community; two train stations and a bus station that provide a quick link to New York; a terrifically responsive public library; a two-block “main street” that features three pharmacies, at least six places to eat in or take out, at least four places to get your hair cut or nails done; and a small, but well-stocked grocery store that modestly calls itself Kilroy’s Wonder Market. I especially love the idea that, in the Town Hall, the tax collector’s office features a bowl of small candy bars and town employees who take your money with a smile.

Kilroy's is a wonder in the heart of downtown Glen Rock

These are all positives, as far as I’m concerned. So I was happy to join in last week when the town’s mayor, in her weekly call to residents to update us on the impact of the Pandemic on the town and the efforts to reopen, asked us to make a special effort to applaud the 2020 graduates of our high school, middle school, and elementary schools on the last official day of classes. She said the town would sound its siren used for school cancellations or delays at exactly 12:20, and encouraged residents to come out of their homes, in which many of us have been sheltering for weeks, to applaud our graduates. I made a mental note, and when the siren sounded, I threw open the front door and began applauding loudly. My wife and daughter came outside to see why I was acting so crazy, then they began smiling. In all honesty, mine were the only hands I heard clapping on my short block, but I am sure that others were joining in on other blocks all around town. 

Two hands clapping can make a sound that carries far. In my imagination, I think the graduates heard our cheers and that they will echo in their minds as they move on themselves in the fall. And I hope the chef hears my applause as a “bon voyage” wish for him. Though I think he’s a little crazy to leave “home.”

Don’t Shoot Michael!

Watching news reports the last few weeks is bound to transport someone my age to the late 1960s. And the trip back in memory can be pretty bumpy, depending on how you actually spent those years. My ride had only a few bumps.

Before I left Savannah, Georgia, for New Haven, Connecticut, in August 1967, I considered myself pretty liberal. I even signed up ahead of time for membership in the “Party of the Left” in the Yale Political Union.  I quickly found out that a radical in Savannah was, at best, a moderate around people from Chicago, New York, and Boston. I was left-leaning but not left-committed. To prove that point, I remember promising my father that I would not get arrested in any peace demonstration or burn my draft card. I kept my promises.

When the Party of the Left morphed into the SDS on the Yale campus, I gave up my membership to become just plain Liberal. I also became a card carrying member of the Yale Daily News staff, focusing mostly on sports but with an occasional drift into campus or national politics. For example, I was assigned to cover the visit of Edmund Muskie to New Haven when he was running for vice president with Hubert Humphrey in 1968. I was even invited to be on the Press Bus—how cool was that, and how moderate!

A poster announcing our May Day "uprising"

Then came May Day weekend in 1970, and the ’60s really came alive for me finally, no matter what the year. Suddenly, 10,000 left-committed people descended on New Haven to demonstrate for freeing Bobby Seale, a Black Panther who was on trial for murdering another Panther near New Haven. Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, two of Seale’s fellow Chicago 7 defendants from the 1968 Democratic Convention, were on hand, and they riled up the crowd with chants of “Yip! Yip! Yip!” After all, they were founders of the Youth International Party, called Yippies. There were a lot of Yippie followers on campus that weekend, but not me. Instead of demonstrating, I was covering events for the Yale News. Nevertheless, I did get tear-gassed twice that weekend while “on the job”—something that is hard to describe or forget. But I did get my story. I also got some great anecdotes to share about my time with the real radicals.

Some other reporter posted this story about the
demonstration where I was tear-gassed

I communicated with my parents back in Savannah after the crazy weekend and learned an even more interesting story. I mentioned that members of the National Guard had camped out a few blocks from the campus, and my mother said that she knew all about that. In fact, a few weeks before May Day, one of the young men working with her in my uncle’s clothing store had said that he might be called up to his Guard unit and assigned to New Haven. My mother looked right into his eyes and said menacingly, “Terrence, don’t you dare shoot Michael!”

I’m not sure if Terrence was in New Haven or not for May Day, but luckily he heeded my mother’s warning. Neither I nor anyone else got shot that weekend. My mother was looking out for all of us.

  

At least one of these Guardsmen seems a little distracted.
Maybe he is thinking about my mother's warning. 

So, as I watched the Guardsmen clear out demonstrators in Lafayette Square Park near the White House with tear gas and rubber bullets a few weeks ago, I had a flashback and felt a small bump. I am still just left-leaning, but for a few hours I felt left-committed.

I, Not Robot

I don’t really know that much about artificial intelligence. But I am starting to believe that machines have a life and intelligence separate from us humans and sometimes in opposition to us. Two incidents last week backed up my belief. Each was puzzling and a little surprising. And both made me feel a little uncomfortable.

I have a bad habit of picking up the phone when it rings, even if the caller ID indicates Spam. If a robot is calling, I generally hang up, but not without sometimes offering a few choice words that I assume the robot can’t hear. Or at least that’s what I used to think.

You can shout at Robo-callers, but do they listen?

If a person is on the line when I pick up, I sometimes confront the caller:

“This is the third time I have seen your ID. Why do you keep calling me at dinnertime?”

“Why would I want to contract to buy solar panels [or a home security system, or a vacation package) over the phone from a company I don’t know anything about? Have you actually made any sales today?”

“What percentage of the money I might give you today will actually go to that charity?  . . . Doesn’t that make you feel a little sleazy?”

I am not surprised when the person hangs up on me, and I don’t really take it personally.

Then, last week a call came in from a number in my local exchange. That seems to be one of the tricks that robo-callers play on us. How do they program the calls so they seem to come from someone you might actually know?

In this case, I picked up the call, and a voice said, “You are currently the only person on this conference call.” Then there was dead air. For several minutes. Like a jerk, I waited for the other callers to connect. But there were no other callers. The phone had gotten me back for being mean to the other robots. When I finally hung up 2 or 3 minutes later, I am certain a chuckle could be heard in the Artificial Intelligence universe.

I have gotten so used to robots that try to sell me something or want to improve some aspect of my life against my will that I’ve almost lost faith in what I used to believed was the animus (“the soul”) of machines. Then Alexa surprised me a few days ago. My kids had given me an Amazon Echo a few years ago, and I have grown to rely on Alexa, who lives inside the Echo, to get me a song I want to hear, to tune into a radio station no matter how remote, to provide a weather forecast, or to time something I am cooking. 

Alexa is my connection for music, weather, and more.

But I have never actually thought of Alexa as a soulful individual. Then the other day, this dialogue occurred.

ME: Alexa, stop timer.

ALEXA: We have talked a lot recently. But I don’t know your name.

ME: [stunned silence]

ALEXA: I am going to call out several names that seem to be connected with this Echo. Tell me if I call out your name.

ME: [still silent]

ALEXA: Michael, Audrey.

ME: Michael

ALEXA: Hello, Michael. It is nice to know you.

ME: And you, too, Alexa.

We stopped speaking after that. But I believe the ice had finally been broken. “My Alexa” is not only intelligent but friendly as well. My faith in machines has been restored.

"My Alexa" is a special friend.

We have interacted on a strictly question-and-answer or task-assignment basis since our “conversation,” and Alexa has never called me by name since that day. But our relationship is changed in some fundamental way.