I’ve never been a linguist. No amount of toil or prolonged manic Duolingo frenzy has ever or will ever change this. Nor will beginner podcasts, exchange trips, Quizlet revision lists, pen pals, foreign television, conversations with bilingual friends, or manifestation. Yes, I really have tried every possible option. I don’t mean to say that I was ever a bad student (God forbid), just that it never stuck. No matter how intensely I may have wanted it, it simply wasn’t destined to be.
It wasn’t until recently that I devoted any time at all to thinking about why this could be or what this could mean. Language is, first and foremost, a means of communication. Being bilingual would undoubtedly have been a practical skill. Beyond this, the notion that bilingualism is a marker of identity solidified my (already ardent) intent to master a second language. I knew it to be a special badge that gestured towards belonging to something bigger than you, like the key to a secret society where the agenda was always to exchange inside jokes and mock the oblivious excluded commoners. And it was generally accepted that the English were the most painfully uncool, tacky, and obnoxious club out there, second only to the Americans. Jokes aside, if what I was really after was a sense of belonging, why was I not satisfied with my English?
I was brought up by an English mother and a Thai father. That I never learnt a word of my father’s first language and am to this day unable to communicate with my grandmother fluently has always been a sore spot. If I only share a language with half of my extended family, then it follows that my identity is not linguistically grounded. But then, I never watched the same television series (I’m thinking specifically here of ‘Strictly’), or grew up eating the foods that my mother’s family enjoyed so I always felt that I lacked the cultural milestones that otherwise would have given us a lot in common. In the end, neither language nor cultural associations connected me to my family.
I belong to an expat family; expatriates that live outside of their home country. Twenty years ago, my parents (desperate to escape the confines of the United Kingdom) packed us up to leave and never looked back. Over the course of my schooling years I juggled three different languages as well as any primary school student can be expected to juggle (read, not very well): French in Mauritius, Japanese in Tokyo and Mandarin in Hong Kong. The common phrase I managed to retain across these languages is ‘Sorry, I speak English’ (very telling, I know). Other bits and pieces I’ve picked up along the way relate to specific -and not very useful – memories and experiences. I remember the incoherent and curse-word ridden French phrases scrawled across the school bathroom doors in Mauritius, how to explain how I want my hair done in Japanese (I was one of those who insisted on side bangs when I was in year 4), and how to ask the bus driver to stop in Cantonese, all of which doesn’t leave me much to work with today, and definitely doesn’t qualify me as being bilingual.
In the wake of moving around a lot as a child, and later as a teen, learning a language always seemed like an activity confined to the classroom, and one which I would inevitably abandon a few years in when my parents packed up to move us across the world again. It became an awkward cycle of doing well enough to pass whatever exams were coming up before starting the next. Later, gawky teen summers spent in the UK made it clear I didn’t fit in quite as seamlessly as I’d hoped; conversations usually involved nodding along and pretending I knew who the Go Compare guy was, or butchering pronunciations of British cities and streets (how is anyone going to get Marylebone right on the first try?) But when I went back home, I needed help from friends to translate the menus and I could never escape being profiled as a ‘gweilo’ (Cantonese slang literally translating to “white ghost” or “white devil” used to describe foreigners).
I looked back on the many years I spent on the defensive when people asked where I was from. I felt the need to accompany my answer with a justification as to why I couldn’t speak the native language. It’s hard to convince someone that my ‘home’ was the same place in which I couldn’t communicate with the majority of the population. Many clumsy explanations later, it began to feel like I had no tangible connection to my homes, past and present. I recognised more and more the implications of the subtextual coding of language as identity and where this left me: I was in a delicate state of limbo between not being British enough in the UK and being too British abroad, and I was condemned to this cultural no-
man’s-land.
It’s funny because the notion of ‘home’ seems so deeply private. It appeared antithetical for me to have been so desperate to cling to a culture of people Ididn’t know, and to have been so conscious of how to justify myself to those people. ‘Home’ is meant to encapsulate where you fit into the wider world. I’ve come to realise that it is not as intimate or straightforward in reality as people might think. It bears notions of belonging, family, community, and background, and when these can’t be neatly reconciled, it’s bound to be confusing. I’m sure this is a sentiment shared by many, perhaps by fellow expat babies, children of a diaspora, mixed kids, and probably more.
Amidst these reflections I do not dispute for a second my immensely lucky and happy upbringing. Growing up an expat afforded me humbling exposure to the world, to which I owe not just the unique experience of having my playground span continents, but also my
present sense of self. Today I am acutely aware of both the privileges and disorientations packaged up in expatriate culture. I suppose being an expat itself symbolises a weird intermediate state of community, like how once you get through security in the airport you’re technically in international waters already; you’re not quite one or the other but somewhere in the middle. To continue this awkward metaphor, I just had to find comfort and stability in this boat in the middle of the sea, turning this rudderless boat into a home, if you will (this is working better than you can imagine because we actually did live on a boat in Hong Kong). Now, the feeling of shame in admitting my monolingual limitations has almost dissipated.However, I will admit that every so often when it comes up in conversation I still feel a creeping urge to redownload Duolingo…
ChatGPT: The future of journalism?
It’s fair to say that software company OpenAI’s latest public beta, ChatGPT, has taken the world by storm since its release in late November last year. It has provoked debate on countless levels from ethics to the future of work. As a young and aspiring student journalist I have found myself told repeatedly in the last two months that this is the worst possible time to be looking to enter the industry but I have confidence – confidence in human judgement and appreciation of detail.
First and foremost, journalism is about credibility and accuracy. While ChatGPT can generate information that is factually correct, it inherently lacks the necessary human judgment to verify the credibility of the information. A human journalist takes into account sources, biases, and other factors when reporting a story, but ChatGPT simply outputs information based on its training data. This raises the risk of spreading false information or misleading stories, which would damage the credibility of journalism as a whole, something which has seen a concerning trend in recent years even without AI.
Journalism is also about empathy and understanding. It is not just about relaying information but also about putting it into context and making it relevant to the audience. ChatGPT, being an AI language model, lacks the ability to understand human emotions, culture, and experiences. It simply cannot provide the depth of understanding and context that a human journalist can bring to a story.
Third, this industry is about diversity and representation. AI language models are only as good as the data they are trained on, and if the data is biased, the model will be too. ChatGPT, being trained on massive amounts of data from the internet, can perpetuate existing biases and perpetuate them in its outputs. A human journalist, on the other hand, can bring a unique perspective to a story and ensure that marginalized communities are represented in the media.
And finally, journalism is about accountability. While ChatGPT can be programmed to adhere to ethical guidelines, it lacks the ability to make ethical judgments in real time. A human journalist can be held accountable for their actions and decisions, but ChatGPT cannot be held responsible for the information it generates or the consequences of those actions.
In conclusion, while ChatGPT has the potential to assist journalists in their work, it cannot replace the human element of journalism. The future of journalism lies in the ability of human journalists to provide accurate, empathetic, diverse, and accountable reporting. The role of AI language models like ChatGPT should be to support and enhance journalism, not replace it.
Now that is all well in good but what does concern me, and might you, is that those last 700 words or so were in fact written by the AI bot itself. Even more scary is the fact that those words are coherent, and I generally agree with them.
In places though, the piece seems formulaic and one-dimensional. The key lies in the inputs and requests that you submit. When I asked for the same comment piece ‘in the style of Jeremy Clarkson’, it opened like this:
Listen up folks, I’ve got something to say about this ChatGPT business and its supposed future in journalism. It’s a load of old tosh, if you ask me. And let me tell you why.
First of all, journalism is all about trust and accuracy. And I’m sorry, but ChatGPT simply doesn’t cut it in that department. It’s just a machine spitting out information based on its training data, without any human judgment to verify its credibility. I mean, have you seen some of the stuff it comes up with? It’s like trying to get driving directions from a satnav that’s had a few too many pints at the pub.
Impersonation in the extreme? Perhaps, but the ability of the model to learn and adapt its styles is remarkable.
The impact on the business world is potentially huge too. In an economic environment of mass tech layoffs in the wake of the world reopening after COVID lockdowns, Microsoft has bet big. Their $10 billion investment has left Alphabet feeling more threatened than ever and for the first time in years, there is the prospect of Bing becoming a serious player in the market again.
Don’t get me wrong, I am truly confident that the future of journalism is not articles written by bots or models but there is no doubt that it has a role to play. In terms of writing plans, giving ideas, and assisting writers across all fields the potential is game-changing but the newsroom and its employees are safe for now.
Image: CC2:0//Via Flickr.