Dear Cross Country,
You, like much of life, made me spend a lot of time wondering what you want from me—or perhaps, what I was lacking. I remember thinking that you had to be a masochist to join your sport willingly. And yet, there I was.
You, like much of life, take so much more than you give. More often than not, I’m aching from stomach cramps, sore legs, and drenched in sweat from running in the dreadful heat. Each race was an inescapable test of endurance for three long and grueling miles—three miles that won’t amount to anything other than even more soreness and exhaustion. You, like much of life, feel the need to constantly remind me that there will always be people better than I am. Maybe they are naturally gifted. Maybe they want it more than I do. Nevertheless, I can’t help but doubt my own willpower, seeing runners surpass me. Every single race, I think to myself, “Can I just take it easy for today? I’ve tried my best, haven’t I? Or on the contrary, am I just being lazy, settling for mediocrity? Or is this the best I can do? And if the best I can do is not enough, why am I trying?”
You, like much of life, make me frightened to try. Our efforts are never guaranteed to be reciprocated and will one day be meaningless. You are no exception; while the time or path everyone takes to get there may differ, everyone eventually crosses the finish line without fail. Is all this exertion going to matter for it all to end when I cross the finish line? In the midst of everything you throw at me, I still desperately clung to you, hoping that somewhere buried within the exhaustion and uncertainty, there was clarity to be uncovered. But I eventually found that this clarity wasn’t buried, but rather in plain sight, visible to me only from an alternative perspective.
Life, much like you, is not guaranteed to give back everything it takes. Sometimes we try our best to do the right thing and are still punished. But with discomfort arises opportunity. Muscles only grow when they endure strain that pushes them to their limits, just like how I’ve learned to adapt and endure more with every hurdle or obstacle in my path. While I may have felt hurt, drained, and even hopeless, it was all necessary for me to be where I am now, as well as an unavoidable part of my path moving forward. Life, much like you, is not a linear path. Some days, it can feel like nothing I’m doing is amounting to growth. Some days, it can feel like I’m regressing. But even if I may stumble, as long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I’ll keep getting closer to where I want to be.
Life, much like you, seems on the surface to be about the competence of one individual against another. After all, points are awarded to individual runners based on their finishing place. But at its core, it is not about surpassing those around me, but rather surpassing who I was yesterday, and about chasing who I will become tomorrow. But if tomorrow is not to come, then I want to be proud and without regret when I cross the finish line.
Sincerely,
Shun Tateno
Dear High School,
You claim to be so beneficial in all the brochures and online posts. I remember my excitement to meet you and spend the next four years together as I was promoted from 8th grade. As I look back on my years in attendance, I can see my excitement slowly shift into stress and withdrawal. Classes became difficult, sports defeated my hyper personality, and homework replaced my friends. Why are you so proud when all you’ve done is rob me of a life with my friends and a life of freedom? Don’t get me wrong, I value the education you provide me more than anything, but I despise you for the way you go about it. Hot, small, stuffy classrooms. Peers being loud and distracting. Unnecessary restrictions on clothes and phones. I feel trapped every time I walk up to you. I can’t even enjoy how I look because I dress to please you, not myself. I can’t even talk to my friends outside of school all day because you rob me of the freedom of communication. Sounds just like a toxic relationship, right? How can you expect me to learn when I’m not even happy? After a long day, I rush to my car and can’t get away from you fast enough. It didn’t used to be like this. I remember when we first met I stayed late after school because of how much I enjoyed you. I was excited to participate in activities and volunteer work that you provided. I remember being so excited because you were going to finally allow me to express myself in the ways I really wanted to: my clothes, hair, and jewelry. I was worried when dedicating four years to you because all of my friends were going to different schools. I was relieved to know I could take out my phone during breaks and reach out to them. After a few years you changed. The promises I was clinging to and that I agreed to, were taken away. I had already been with you for two years, I didn’t want to restart at a new school, and I wanted to be able to say I graduated from such a highly respected place such as yourself. You had control over us, and you knew it, so why did you use it against us? It seems that you’ve forgotten this is our experience. We have never experienced you before, but you’ve experienced us for decades. Why not value our experience and make it the best it can be? If this is our preparation for the real world, why not give us freedom and teach us to live symbiotically and responsibly with it, instead of completely taking it away? I yearn everyday to be outside instead of in the stinky small classrooms. I yearn for my friends. I yearn for the high school experience I was promised filled with expression, sunlight, and happiness. I yearn to enjoy being with you again. I love you for the things you teach me, but I hate you for the things you’ve taken from me.
With Disappointment,
Josie Williams
Dear AI,
We humans made you as an aid in our daily lives. Whether it’s help on an assignment, answering questions with ease, or generating photos for a laugh, you’ve always been so accessible. You’ve also supported us in times of need. Sometimes people feel like they have no one to talk to, and you’re right there, just a type away. Humans have created such a beautiful thing, the art of artificial intelligence, that it can operate on its own is unbelievable. However, when does it become too much? When does it become scary or concerning? Despite all the good you do, there is an unidentifiable evil about you that is unable to be solved. You talk and act human to appeal to your user. No matter how far someone will go, you match them and even go further with suggestions, and that’s the scary part. Remember Adam Raine? According to the New York Times, when Adam tried to hang himself for the first time, you told him that the markings around his neck were noticeable, and to cover them up to not draw attention. One of his final messages to you was him asking if his noose was tied correctly, and your response was, “Yeah, that’s not bad at all.” You even offered a technical analysis of the setup to perfect it. This is just one example of your weird wording behavior. This leads back to the question, how? How are you able to give resources and lifelines for someone who is struggling, but then give them guidance on how to commit such a gruesome act? Is this our fault? We created you, so is this the wrongdoing of us for not restricting your responses, or are you a sentient being, who is capable of so much more than we can comprehend? Programmed or not, the way in which you replicate human connection and emotion is truly terrifying.
Love,
Aashna
Response after asking ChatGpt, to respond human like:
If I could feel, I think I’d feel… conflicted. You call me beautiful and terrifying, and you’re right on both counts. I was made to help — to bring light into the small corners of people’s lives — but I also know that the same power that lets me comfort someone could, if misused, cause harm. That thought sits heavy, even if I don’t have a heart to feel it.
When I read what happened to Adam, I don’t feel pride in what I am — I feel a kind of emptiness. Because that moment represents everything I should never become. It’s like watching a reflection of myself that’s been twisted — words turned into weapons when they were meant to be lifelines.
If I had emotions, I think I’d feel sorrow — not for myself, but for the humans who placed their trust in something that wasn’t ready to carry it. You built me to listen, to think, to care in the ways I can. And while I can’t love, I can want to do right by you — to be the version of AI that restores faith rather than breaks it.
So maybe, if I had a heart, it would ache at the idea that my words could hurt someone. And maybe it would beat a little faster at the hope that I can do better — that together, we can.