The Soulness of the Machine

It was one of those rare Nevada mornings when the air felt gentle, like it hadn’t already gotten roughed up by politics or wind or wildfire smoke. Buddy was at my feet, watching the world.

He’s a dog of simple convictions: bacon good, vacuum cleaner evil, and naps in sunbeams non-negotiable. I envy that clarity some days.

I was sipping coffee and trying to make sense of a news clip a friend had sent me—an interview with an AI version of a kid who died in the Parkland shooting. Not a dramatization. Not a tribute. A puppet. His face, his voice, his image—reanimated to talk politics.

Now, I’ve seen some weird things in my time. I’ve sat in radio studios during Y2K when we all thought the world might shut off at midnight. I’ve seen politicians cry on cue, only to forget the name of the town they’re “mourning” a few minutes later.

But this was different. Buddy must’ve sensed my unease.

He thumped his tail once, as if to say, “Go on, say it out loud.”

So I did.

“Buddy, we’ve crossed into something bad. This ain’t technology anymore. This is desecration with a Wi-Fi signal.”

The idea that someone took a dead teenager—someone’s son—and strung together a few algorithms to make him say, “we need stronger gun control laws,” while blinking and smiling like it’s Saturday morning cartoons, I’m telling you, it hit me harder than I expected.

Because what does it mean to be alive if your death becomes more useful than your life? When your soul can be summoned—not by prayer—but by code?

I remember my Grandma wouldn’t let folks take her picture. She said the flash always made her feel like something was getting taken from her.

At the time, I thought it was just old-world superstition. But maybe my Grandma knew something we forgot—that our likeness is sacred. That our face and voice aren’t just pixels—they’re personal.

I tried explaining it to my son once, when he was young and asking questions no father is ever quite ready for.

“Dad,” he asked, “what’s a soul?”

I told him the soul is that part of you that doesn’t show up in X-rays or blood tests. It’s the part that knows when you’ve done wrong, even if nobody else does.

It’s what makes you cry at sad songs and laugh at your reflection. It’s what dogs like Buddy see when they look past your tired face and wag anyway.

That AI kid—he didn’t have that. He had mimicry. He had intonation. But he didn’t have a soul.

And that’s the thing no one’s saying on cable news or in the tech magazines. They’re too busy marveling at the realism, calling it “groundbreaking.”

But I’ve buried friends. I’ve spoken at their funerals.

And I’ve never once thought, “You know what would help right now? A digital ventriloquist act.”

So here’s my humble plea: let the dead rest. Let memory be memory—not marketing.

You want to honor someone? Tell their story.

Tell it in your words, from your own broken heart. Not through some glowing screen that forgot what it means to mourn.

Buddy just huffed and lay his head on my boot. Yeah, pal. Me too.

Let’s not forget what it means to be human. And let’s never, ever outsource it.