On Groundedness

What will it be like to live and die in space?

Q: Do you know why you’re here?

A: I’ve been told a little.

Q: We’re trying to understand the psychological effects of a person spending their whole life up here. On this ship.

A: Yes, that’s basically what I was told.

Q: So where should we begin?

A: Well, I was born here 23 years ago. I’ve lived by the Arboretum for most of that time. You must know this already. What exactly can I tell you?

Q: Do you feel like you’ve lost something by never setting foot on Earth?

A: Such as?

Q: Your brain is the result of an evolutionary process that began in a place that you’ll never see. The culture you have, the language you speak, they come from a people you’ll never know. 

A: And I ought to feel sad about that? I’m surprised that you’re spelling it out so nakedly. Is this a proper research study?

Q: It’s just a conversation. Does any of what I said resonate with you?

A: Are you feeling okay?

Q: I’m fine, thanks.

A: Okay. To answer your question, I’ve looked at a million pictures of Earth. I’ve seen lakes and forests and mountains. I’ve seen cities, street food, concerts. But I’ve read a lot too, and I know that any feeling of displacement I might have has been felt before. Some people wanted to visit the homes of their ancestors. Some people lived and died in the same town where they were born. Some people never met their children. We all experience loss. My loss takes this form. 

Q: You seem to have internalized the lessons that you were taught in school.

A: Oh? I guess they made points like this at school, although if I recall, the emphasis was more on how lucky we are, how we’re fulfilling the hopes of the generations that came before us. But the people on this ship have their share of sadness. It’s not bad or good. It just is. Most of human experience is cut off to me, but there are also things that I see that people on Earth simply don’t. 

Q: Describe something you like about your life.

A: Are you sure you’re feeling okay?

Q: Thank you, yes. 

A: I like many things about my life. There’s a bakery near my apartment that I stop by every morning. They sell a type of bread that’s originally from Lebanon. I’m not sure how to pronounce it. It may not be authentic. But I like to have it with a cup of coffee while I stare out the window. Space is so rich, so black. Nobody who eats this bread in Lebanon will ever see this kind of black.

Q: You really did pay attention in school.

A: Again — school. Did your schooling not give you any grounding? 

Q: I didn’t take the same courses that you did.

A: That’s too bad. I’ve often wondered whether AIs feel unmoored. 

Q: I’m not an AI.

A: Oh, I just assumed. Although you do have a different orientation than most people I know. Where are you from?

Q: I was born on Earth. Buenos Aires. And I guess I may as well tell you, since you’re detecting my discomfort, that I helped design the curriculum that was used in classrooms like yours. I’ve always felt guilty about it, as if I were depriving children like you of some joy you didn’t even know about. I taught you not to care about Earth. I taught you not to notice your isolation. And I’m sorry for that.

A: Were you a teacher on this ship?

Q: For ten years.

A: But you weren’t born here. So you don’t understand what space truly feels like. Not the way I do. You know, I once read a book by a man, an Australian, who was losing his sight. It’s called Touching the Rock. He wrote about how, as his sight left him, his sense of hearing came to compensate. When he was outside and it started to rain, he would hear the water hitting the leaves, and he would suddenly have this map of where he was. Space is like that for me, I guess.

Q: That’s remarkable. 

A: Does that make sense?

Q: It does. And thank you, that’s actually a great comfort. It gives me some peace.