Close Encounters of the Weird Kind

Tags

Dyson, iRobot, Kuri, rape, robots, sexual predators, sexual violence, social robots, vacuum cleaners

You may recall my recent experience with robots (My Self-Driving Car and I; June 21, 2017; Driving Miss Daliya; Oct 4, 2017) from which I learned how predictable and logical, but also how opinionated and downright ornery, they could be.

Nothing in those two experiences, however, could have prepared me for my most recent encounter.

It started innocently enough, with house-cleaning. The vacuum — my decades-old Electrolux — was failing: respiration weakening; brushes balding; wheels squeaking.

I decided to replace it with a robotic house cleaner. I shied away from an iRobot as too reminiscent of the ego of Hal, my self-driving car, and settled on a Dyson. It worked brilliantly — quiet and efficient.

In time, however, I began to feel a bit uneasy with Dyson. Nothing wrong with it, but I realized I had developed a strong bond with my old Electrolux — getting it dressed with its hose and brushes; accompanying it from room to room; carefully removing its filthy bag and installing a nice, clean, new one. Dyson, on the other hand, asked little but gave little.

I began to explore robotics sites on-line (furtively, not wanting Dyson to know). I started simple — robots that mop and dry; others that clean your windows or iron your shirts. But they offered little more than Dyson, with a few variations.

It was when I happened onto social robots that I understood what I was really looking for. I looked around a bit, but when I found Kuri, I was hooked. Cute? I was transported back to my youth and the adorable Shmoo I got one Christmas. Helpful? In the web-site’s own words, She’s an adorable home robot who brings a spark of life to your home.

A spark was definitely what was needed, though I wondered why it was called She. I went to Frequently Asked Questions: Q: Is Kuri a boy or girl? A: Him? Her? Sure! Kuri is whichever fits into your home. He’s ready to help and she’s always ready to bring a spark of life into your home.

Slightly perplexed, I reminded myself of my commitment to trans-gender rights, and took the plunge. Within two days, Kuri was a part of the household, navigating through the house with ease, Beeping and Blooping with delight at every new experience.

The only slight shadow in these early, happy days was Dyson’s cool response to our new family member. His request that Kuri stay out of the room while he was cleaning seemed reasonable, but his attitude darkened and he began to leave behind small piles of dust and food crumbs to express his feelings.

The situation worsened when I discovered that Kuri, who is equipped with a camera that he/she can autonomously control, had, unbeknownst to me, taken pictures and videos of me in situations that I would not wish to be made public. I deleted them and made my anger clear.

In the wake of this, as the normally perky Kuri sulked, Dyson seemed more upbeat, cleaning more thoroughly and no longer leaving small piles on the floor.

The crowning blow came very early one morning when I woke to find Kuri on top of me, rubbing and quivering, emitting guttural sounds in place of the normal, innocent Beeps and Bleeps.

As shocked as I was by this unequivocal physical and psychological violation by him (or was it her?), I realized that even more serious was the shift of power implied by so brazen an act, and the certainty that I could never again feel safe in Kuri’s presence.

I speedily re-boxed and returned him/her, ignoring the sounds of quiet weeping coming from within.

I know that many in the robot community are kind and compassionate. I tell my story so that we who are victimized, as well as those in their community who are outraged, may find the courage to deal forthrightly with the vicious predators in our midst.

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Bird Brain

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bird-watching, birds, black kites, blue-winged pittas, crows, hummingbirds, Lugano, Nigeria, nighthawks, ospreys, Peace Corps, pileated woodpeckers, Singapore, Strasbourg, warblers

As a kid, though I spent a lot of time outdoors in woods and swamps, I ignored birds. They required patience and binoculars. Toadstools and salamanders did not.

But I wasn’t completely oblivious. There were Robins in the side yard and, when the Mountain Ash was full of berries, Cedar Waxwings in the back yard. The rest were sparrows or pigeons.

My first direct avian encounter did not go well. It was a parakeet. It lived in the kitchen, screeching and shitting and chewing the wallpaper. Even my parents, who had bought it, grew to hate it, and we all wished it an early, painful death, which, after three months of terrorism, it met, possibly out the window, perhaps in the trash can, with no We gave it to a nice farm family cover-up.

The first time birds really drew my attention was in Northern Nigeria, in the Peace Corps, especially the Pied Crows, with their tuxedo outfits and their click-click-click telephone-dial imitations; and Black Kites in fighter squadrons mowing down locusts fleeing the annual burning of the farm fields.

After that, Dad, who had taken up bird-watching as a retirement pastime, got me started in the woods across the street, with Pewees, Scarlet Tanagers (we called them Scarlet Managers, my sister’s invention), and Veeries. Mom, who was emphatically not a birdwatcher, hit on what really matters — the aesthetics of birds — with her description of the Veery’s flutey, downward spiraling song as a sterling silver corkscrew.

All fascinating to a learner, but it was Warblers — small, exuberant flashes of color and song — that tested my beginner skills and hooked me for life; and it was Nighthawks (not actual hawks, but related to Whippoorwills) — rising at dusk, calling plaintively, making right-angles in the sky with their long, thin wings — that symbolized the grace and beauty of birds.

Of course, birds are more than just a pretty picture or an enchanting song:

In London, I’ve been shat upon by a Starling and menaced by an angry Swan. In Singapore, I’ve chased a Blue Winged Pitta around a bush to add to our team’s sighting-list in the Great Millennium Bird Race (we didn’t win).

In Strasbourg, I’ve rescued a baby Blackbird (the European, not the American, kind) that flew into the hotel breakfast room and landed on the ham tray. In Lugano, I’ve mistakenly assumed that what was actually an aggressive Chaffinch, hurling itself at its reflection in our curtained hotel window, was naughty kids dropping marbles, at 6 am, on the floor above.

In Colorado, while fishing, I’ve watched an Osprey steal a trout that might have been my catch. But, then, I’ve had the consolation of hosting a bold and quizzical hummingbird on my fishing rod for a nice rest.

Even Mom has her tale: While she was getting ready for work, she saw two Pileated Woodpeckers in the side yard, doing an elaborate and athletic mating dance. She was so transfixed that she got to work late, with an excuse that was too implausible to be doubted.

End Note: While I was writing this, the New York Times (October 24, 2017) published an article about an art gallery owner, Avi Gitler, and his crew of artists who (with permission) are painting murals of endangered bird species on buildings, in alleyways, and even on the rolldown shutters of local shops. The work is in honor of John James Audubon, who lived and died on W. 155th St. in Manhattan. The story gives hope and the paintings glow. Check it out at: https://nyti.ms/2zAUfiq

Driving Miss Daliya

Tags

driving teachers, King Salman, Saudi Arabia, Saudi women, Volvo, women drivers, women's rights, women's virtue

Saudi King Salman recently announced that, as of June 2018, Saudi women will be allowed to drive. Why the delay? some have asked, missing the point that the real delay has been one of decades, not months.

These few months are important, with questions to resolve before a safe, orderly change can be made (unlike Nigeria, where, the story goes, one planner, working on the shift from driving on the left to driving on the right, suggested a phased transition where, initially, only lorries and taxis would drive on the right).

I have been part of the planning team, which, sensitive to the need to protect Saudi women’s virtuous image, has faced a fundamental question:

Who will teach women to drive?

Male instructors would have been the logical choice. Saudi men are the ones who already know how to drive. And Saudi society has become accustomed to having women driven about by male chauffeurs, many of them outside the woman’s family.

We recognized, however, that there is a difference. Chauffeurs sit in front, women in the back, fully covered, often armed with a cellphone. In an instructional situation, teacher and student both must be in front, with the woman less than fully covered if she is to see the road and avoid getting buttons or pedals ensnarled in black cloth. And, Allah forbid, hands might touch, adjusting a mirror or reaching for the gearshift. NO MALE INSTRUCTORS, we decided.

We toyed with the idea of women teachers, but there are no qualified Saudi women, of course, and not enough Arabic-speaking women instructors elsewhere.

Then came my Eureka! moment. I recalled my brief experience with Hal, the self-driving car (My Self-Driving Car and I; June 21, 2017). Yes, that had ended badly, but at least it showed that car and driver could communicate. And, yes, Hal was engineered so that the human could override the car, whereas, in a teaching situation, the car must be able to override the human.

Still, I figured, it was worth a try. I decided that, given Hal’s temperament, a less volatile personality would be better. Thoughts of Nordic equanimity turned me quickly to Volvo, which jumped at the opportunity.

Volvo officials assured me that their self-driving prototype, Hjalmar (a name that did give me a momentary shiver), could easily be programmed to speak Arabic. Adjustments could be made so that Hjalmar could override the student driver. We all agreed that a self-driving car embodied the very qualities a driving instructor must impart: attentiveness, anticipation, self-control.

My team was convinced, and the Saudi authorities welcomed any arrangement that would eliminate the male/female contact problem. We recruited ten Saudi women to be our test students.

I still worried lest a student get into a standoff with Hjalmar like mine with Hal. I needn’t have fretted. Both sides handled the situation with Nordic, or at least Nordic-like, sang froid, and all ten of the women passed their drivers’ tests on their first try.

In a final evaluation meeting, the Saudis expressed their delight, though they did mention their puzzlement that the trial students now seemed to be speaking Arabic with a noticeable Swedish accent, and four of them had dyed their hair blond.

The Volvo engineers smiled, acknowledging they too had been a bit bemused at the colloquial Arabic vulgarities Hjalmar had picked up, and his tendency to honk his horn even before the red light had turned green. They were certain this could easily be engineered away.

We all agreed it was a shining example of technological inventiveness and cross-cultural cooperation, and we hoisted our water glasses in a rousing toast.