How AI Can Make or Break Our Personal Relationships

As a gay couple in this political environment, my partner Krista and I were members of a marginalized community. I’m a Polish/Syrian Jew and Krista identified more man than woman. Four strikes of minority against us.

I’d only seen Mom once in five years due to COVID, finances, and our political divide. It spanned the distance of our west and east coast residences. When her best friend and roommate died suddenly, Mom responded to a strong intuition to leave Gulfport, Florida only a week before Hurricane Helene devastated her community.

She sold everything that wouldn’t fit in her car and drove toward our Oregon home, before she and I would road trip together to see family and friends in southern California.

During Mom’s 11-day, cross-country trek, my therapist helped prepare me. “Who do you want to be with your mom, Jo-e,” she asked. “I want to be a defenseless and benevolent professor, hearing comments with curiosity and equanimity. I want to understand and be understood,” I said.

I twisted up my cocoa-colored hair, sticking up at the crown like feathers, and carried my matcha latte to wait by the window.

            Mom was bisexual, so being gay wasn’t the issue. My belief was that her extreme political ideas were based on who she followed, conspiracies she subscribed to, and algorithms defined by her online searches.

A zing zapped my stomach as her Honda CRV approached. Descending the stairs to greet her, I reminded myself, stay present, Jo-e. Cascading out of her low rubber band, Mom’s silver hair shimmered in the autumn sun. Comforting scents of frankincense and musk greeted me as her door opened. Bohemian scarves covered her belongings; a HAPPINESS sign grew from her back window.

“Sunshine girl,” Mom called me. She was 81, older, gaunter and more hunched than I remembered. My arms wrapped all the way around her. Feeling more ribs than flesh, I thought, she won’t live forever. My inner little-girl sniffled over Mom’s freckled, tan shoulders.

Days later, in our dining room, Mom reacted to an email, proclaiming, “There are too many illegals entering our country.” Krista’s Irish/English skin turned cartoon red as she said, “You mean like your dad who illegally entered America, from Poland?”

“He left and returned legally,” Mom said. “They’re killing people and bringing in drugs.”

“That’s a small percentage,” Krista said, “Aside from natives, we’re all immigrants. Most people are seeking a better life.” Exiting our front door quickly. Krista said, “I’m going for a walk.” She was wood and Mom was fire. 

Mom turned to me and said, “Do you want me to leave Jo-e? I’ll leave if you don’t want me here.” I slowed my breath. “Mom, I don’t want you to leave, but please understand, this conflict of values feels threatening to my connection with you. This is our home and we are passionate about human rights, including yours and our own. I believe that you love people, this planet, and justice… I got those values from you. Are they still yours?” I asked.

“Yes, they are,” she said. “Well, then we are the same. I believe we’re being fed information from opposing and perhaps adulterated sources, proving our beliefs. I have an idea, would you be willing to let AI mediate, by requesting reputable, bipartisan facts and legitimate citations? AI’s not perfect, and we’re not political experts, but it might help us. You in?”

“I’m in,” she said, “As long as you don’t make me wrong.”

“Agreed,” I said.

For the next few hours over tea, we formulated questions about war, immigration, murder, rape, drug trafficking, social security, Medicare, women’s rights… I was somewhat misinformed that social security and Medicare would be totally abolished by Trump. The rumors she heard about war, murders and immigration under Biden and Harris, were highly incorrect or statistically imbalanced. We both were impressed to learn that Kamala was trying to manage illegal immigration issues at their source. We agreed, government shouldn’t decide or punish women for decisions about their bodies. We ended in a relieving embrace.

On our three-day drive to LA, we inquired into each other’s histories, played car games and sang as we passed ascending redwoods, winding rivers, golden plains and the crashing ocean.

Like guns and money, I believe AI is a neutral force whose merit is based upon the intention and outcome of its use. The movies Ex Machina, I-Robot and The Matrix fed my paranoia, but AI may have saved my relationship with my mom.