Artificial Intelligence

These stories will sound like insufferable arrogance and bragging. But there’s a point to it (I hope, disclaimer disclaimer disclaimer). But in all honesty, I hope this story helps someone, because recognizing this pattern has changed my life in all of the right ways. Here goes.

I was a destination baby, born here in California as soon as my parents arrived from Indonesia. I liked making friends. I liked playing sports. I liked playing video games. I liked building computers. School was easy. Putting up with schoolwork was a means with which to make more friends.

My father didn’t like my play-all-night, carefree ways; I had every opportunity he did not, and as his reincarnation and spitten image in America, especially in front of his friends (he still has lots and lots of loyal friends), I was pushed the most of my four older siblings. But perhaps I was too much like him: I rebelled against any form of authority—teachers, bullies, employers, parents, I didn’t discriminate.

I proclaimed to my Latin language teacher, Mrs. Nelson, that I had no heroes, no one to aspire to. A bold-faced lie. I had one hero. Magic Johnson. Funny, handsome, smart, humble, excellent in every endeavor. Another bold-faced lie. Magic Johnson was my hero only because my father liked him. I had one hero.

Riches. Fame. Achievement. Never had and never will hold allure for me. I’ve only ever really wanted two things: I wanted 1) true love, and 2) for my father to be proud of me.

My father never told me that he was proud of me. I know he didn’t hate me, but he never said he loved me. He never hugged me. He never disciplined me. If anything, every now and then, he would express moderate disapproval about the lifestyle and values I had adopted growing up American—oh, and and an occassional B or C on my report card. I couldn’t understand his lack of response either way. And so I looked for love somewhere else.

My first girlfriend was an alcoholic at 15. While we we were dating, her 21-year-old ex-boyfriend, on his way to convince her to take him back, died in a horrible car crash. Her alcoholism worsened. To keep another suitor at bay (let’s call him Tony) and out of our hair, she would email Tony this convincing let-down, “I love you.” As you might have guessed, what we had didn’t resemble true love very much.

I gave up on the goal of true love for the meantime. Well, I thought, I could still make my father proud. Lazy and damn good at using my brain to put in the least effort to get by, I wondered, what would happen if I actually tried like these other passionless nerds? So when I was sixteen, I stopped getting into fist fights and hacking into nascent computer networks (“cheese” remains my favorite cracked password). And I started to try. And when I tried…

Go To Part 2—>