Chapter 7
ARE WE IN A SIMULATION à LA THE MATRIX?
I’m going to hate this class. Calling it now.
Hearing about philosophy from a couple friends’ older sisters, I knew in my heart to expect as much, but I was trying not to knock a whole class and subject before walking into the room.
Now? It’s a fact I don’t have to spend any time thinking about.
We’re not going to be friends. My bullshit meter has never gone off so intensely.
As someone who’s gotten at least pretty alright at thinking over the last eighteen years and a few months, I can confidently say that there is a right answer to that question up on the board, but I know we’re about to spend the entire class having a whole discussion about how the wrong answers could be valid and we should hear them out.
I let out a loud sigh as I start walking farther into the theater-style classroom, up a few rows before dropping into a chair close to the aisle.
I get my laptop out, pull up the Notes app, and do everything I can to hopefully force (or, at the very least, trick) my brain to try to listen and be studious.
I’ve always been a better-than-average student, and I’m not letting a class where we talk about what movies we’re living in instead of actually learning tank that.
But, for the record, no, this isn’t a simulation like The Matrix . And call me a killjoy or a hater when I say no amount of talking or thinking about it will change that.
“Gabriel Pi n a,” this guy I’m assuming is Professor Coolidge—maybe early forties, white, wearing a sportscoat over a polo shirt and jeans—calls, loud enough for the whole room to go quiet.
Everyone’s looking around with him, trying to find a face to the name.
My name and my face. Got to at least give props to him for pronouncing Gabriel like my mom intended it.
“I—yes?” There’s the tiniest crack of nervousness in my voice.
Doubt anyone heard it, but I definitely felt it.
First day, first class—in the first minutes —and I’m already getting called out for something.
And I’m pretty sure it’s not because my name happens to be at the top of his alphabetic roster.
Am I in trouble? Did I accidentally call this class trash out loud?
“Ah, there you are!” He gives me a smile as he pivots to look up at me, and he starts taking steps in my direction. “Question for you: do you think?”
“Do—” The word is drawn out and my mouth’s open puro baboso for whole seconds. My eyes are squinted, brows all stressed, head tilted. “Do I think … what?”
“That’s the question,” he says back, leaning against one of the curved, row-length tables a few steps below me. “Do you think. Period. Or, rather, question mark.”
“Well, yeah. Obviously.”
“And what makes you so sure about that? If this was something that wasn’t as obvious to me as it is to you, how would you explain your reasoning?”
My eyes drop from him for a second, glancing around the room, at the bodies in the rows in front of me, all their heads turned around to face me.
Half of them are looking at me like this is some truly thrilling shit.
Like they’ve been waiting all morning for someone to ask if we think.
The other half look like they’d rather be anywhere else than here and are feeling grateful that at least they’re not me.
“I mean, I had to think about whether you were going to say anything after ‘think.’ I thought about how much time I needed to give myself this morning when I set my alarm last night. I’m thinking about what I might get for lunch later.”
“Good examples. However, all those things you listed are tasks a computer could do, right? Text autofill, a planner app on my phone, even the flip of a coin could take away the necessity of choice as to whether you’re having a sandwich or pasta.
They’re less pondering and more decision making. What’s your major, Gabriel?”
“Mathematics.”
“Hmm. Braver than me, that’s for sure,” he says, getting some laughs and nods.
I do my best to give him some kind of smile back, like, I get it .
Math is a love or hate sort of thing and some people think numbers are scary.
Me? I’d much rather be talking about derivatives and integrals than keep on with wherever this is going.
“In math, though, you rely on solid facts, right?” Coolidge continues. “Ten times ten will always be one hundred. You rely on formulas, like A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared, and if it doesn’t, you did something wrong. That pi and its excessive specificity cannot be disproven.”
My shoulders rise and I nod while I let out a “Sure.”
“When you look at a math problem, are you really thinking about how to solve it or simply going into that filing cabinet of all the things you know and finding the one that fits the need of the situation?”
“Those aren’t—” Breathe, Gabi. Calm, cool, collected. “I’m not sure what the difference is.”
“And that is where we land at the point of why we’re here. Further, if you’ll let me”—he hurries back to his desk, his face full of excitement; because I guess one of us has to be—“I can take a look at you and observe that you seem pretty fit. I’d assume you work out. Do you play any sports?”
“Football. Or, soccer.”
“For the school or for fun?”
“Both.”
“What position do you play?”
“I’m a keeper. Goalkeeper.”
He’s quiet for all of two seconds, his gaze somewhere close to the ceiling, before coming back to me.
“So then, interrogating that for a second, do you put actual thought into the theory of goalkeeping or do you just … do? Is it only acting in a way that is the correct answer to the equation in front of you, to mix sport and math together? And I ask this question not to insult but to create a conversation. Is thought real? Or is it all just formulaic? Are we all simply machines in a universe that’s actually out of our control, only doing as we were built and predetermined to do? ”
“You’re asking me if I’m a machine?”
“I’m asking you if all of us are machines,” he replies, his arms reaching out like that Jesus statue in Brazil.
“If we are creatures of thought or creatures of simply existing to find the right answer. I’d guess that you’re very good at problem solving, Gabriel.
A STEM major, athlete, maybe you’re among the best in the room at it.
But this isn’t Introduction to Problem Solving. ”
I force an all-lip smile and a short nod as I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest, everywhere going tense while I try to at least hold back most of the body language that would tell him I think this whole discussion has been a waste of a few minutes.
“We’re not interested in the quantitative data but rather the qualitative aspects of discussing existence. Do you get what I mean by that?”
“I—I could guess what most of that means.” My face clenches and my eyes have to look pretty lost. “But it just sounds like words to me, honestly.”
“What I mean is, I want you to think without needing to compute a solution to a problem, because so many things in life require thinking not as a path toward solutions but to discovery. And by the look on your face, I’d assume you have some thoughts on that.”
“I … sorry. I’m not—”
“It’s fine. I called on you to get your thoughts, not to talk specifically at you.”
“You—I don’t see a difference in coming to a solution and discovering something. It’s the same thing.”
“Then, say I’d written on that board ‘We are all robots.’ I don’t want a thesis on why that’s wrong, but, rather, I want a discussion on what makes us human.
I don’t want you relying on all the facts you’ve been told growing up, explaining why things are the way they are.
You were taught we all have hearts and blood, and thus, we are human.
You were told that God made us all man and woman, and thus we can’t be robots.
Leave those behind. I want you to find your own truths.
I want to know not why all of us in this room aren’t robots, but why you , Gabriel Pi n a are a human. Thoughts?”
My leg shakes as the one actual thought I have in my head right now sits there while I debate whether to be real with this guy. But as he stares at me, waiting, I realize this isn’t something I’m getting out of by being quiet.
“I just … I don’t really get the point.”
“Well, thankfully I have about sixteen weeks to hopefully help you find it. How about we consider something tied to you. What makes you, Gabriel Pi n a, great at soccer? Not what makes a person excel at it. You specifically. ”
“I guess … I think a lot of it’s come from realizing all the ways I’m not made for football.
At least, not in any way that a lot of the best players are.
I’m shorter than most goalkeepers. I didn’t grow up getting the sort of training a lot of the greats got growing up.
I make mistakes daily in practice and during games. ”
My phone flashes on the table in front of me with a text from my mom wishing me a good first day.
And, behind her, my wallpaper, my two boys from high school, friends and teammates, after our very last game as Martin Catholic Seagulls.
The three of us with huge smiles on our faces, even after our loss.
For a second, I remember of all the lunch periods we’d spend kicking a ball around after eating. How we pushed one another and never let any of us give up. How some of the blame for why I’m great is because I had a support system like them for a few years.