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WON’T BE SILENT - I’ve begun thinking about robots lately. Not because I want one, but because of all this talk about AI and robots taking people’s jobs, seeing the driverless Waymo taxis, and my favorite—those robo-delivery boxes. It’s hard not to be the slightest bit concerned and to consider, “WTF does the future hold?” I’m actually starting to imagine whether robots will sufficiently replace friendships once they are fully lifelike and even kissable.
We’ve come a long way since the inflatable doll, the original replacement for a human presence—for lack of a better description—lying there—silent, obedient, submissive. It worked for a certain type of individual who—well, you know what I mean. A friend of mine even used his doll for a different kind of companionship: he’d dress it in a jacket and baseball cap and plop it in the front seat of his car when he wanted to use the HOV lanes on the highway in order to avoid getting a traffic ticket.
I’m going to be honest, this year has been a huge reality check regarding friendship—seeing who is still in my life and reflecting on those who have slipped away. The few friends I assumed were permanent fixtures—the ones who knew the rhythm of my language, my temperament, my history; those with whom we could finish each other’s sentences and start laughing before getting the punchline out. Alas, the weightlessness they must have felt to become ghosts of my Christmas past.
The October 7 war didn’t just shift the headlines; it rearranged the furniture of my life. People I thought I’d grow old laughing with—people who should, rather, who I’d hoped would have understood what it feels like to be hated and wanted dead because of the war I hadn’t started, but was being blamed on me by a mob-like mentality of deranged, upstart, wannabe peaceniks and anti-Zionists.
This monumental turning point had me reflect on my father’s funeral in 1974 when I was a senior in high school. It was on a Wednesday afternoon—inconvenient, middle of the week, in New Jersey—and yet there were two hundred cars in the procession. His life was made visible. I remember being in a state of awe at how beloved he was. This is what it means to matter, and what happens when you show up for people over decades—they show up for you when it counts and pay their respects.
Now, I find myself wondering what my funeral procession would look like. Now that my New York heyday is far behind me, when life was larger, louder, and more crowded with people, places, and things. Here, now in the quiet of my waning years and the solitude which has evolved, who would come to my funeral? It’s annoying to think about, but then again, who isn’t annoying? Who even knows the way to a graveyard anymore—unless there’s a celebrity buried there?
We see people with the “big” lives—the endless group texts, the crowded birthday dinners—and wonder if they’ve cracked the code. But look closer and you see that proximity isn’t necessarily loyalty. Noise isn’t connection. Some people are surrounded and still entirely alone. It’s when you lose your inner circle that you can see clearly who’s who and what’s what. I know this from my experience having lived and worked for years with Carrie Fisher. All that fanfare—yet she was totally alone.
Which brings me back to robots. When they get “good” enough—and they will—can we, and will we, replace humans to fill that void? Not because they’re better, but because they don’t leave or cancel you. For someone who has begun to feel the hollow ache of human absence, this kind of reliability starts to look less like a science fiction horror film and more like a relief—of sorts.
I have always found solace in Orson Welles’ expression, “We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion, for the moment, that we’re not alone.”
Maybe we just spend a lifetime wondering who is actually walking the road of happy destiny beside us and finding the solemnity of gratitude in staying silent.
Maybe two things can be true at the same time.
Who knew?
(ABE GURKO is a writer and author of Won’t Be Silent—Don’t Stop ’til It Matters, and a producer of the documentary. LOUDER: The Soundtrack of Change. He is an opinionator and host of the podcast Won’t Be Silent, engaging in conversations from the edge of democracy. Abe is a contributor to CityWatchLA.com.)
