MIT Grad Blog

He had approached the window looking like everyone else:  wrinkled, dry and leathered from the sun.  He was hunched from sleeping in some urban crevice – a stairway, a doorway, maybe two or three in the same night.  But his tired eyes were unblinking.  He asked me again.

“Why are you here?”

I didn’t know what else to do, so I smiled, and offered him a plate.  He didn’t take it; he pressed again.

“Why are you here? Are you having fun?”

“Um,” I replied, intelligently.  After an eternity, he accepted his plate and moved away.  He tossed his final thoughts over a withered shoulder.   “This is not a fun place.  Don’t have fun.  I don’t know why you’re here.”

No one else at the shelter asked me any questions that night.  Nothing more than the usual what’s your name, where are you from, can I have mine with no sauce, please.  But his question would not quit.  Would not SIT DOWN.  Kept spinning and reeling and dancing in my head.

To be honest, it scared me.  By the end of the night, I scared me.  Mind you, I was no stranger to soup kitchens; a large portion of my adolescence was spent cheerfully racking up community service points by playing “Restaurant” at my church’s monthly feed.  I donned my favorite apron and circulated the seminary room, doling out hot bowls of chili, refilling glasses of punch, and serving up seconds on cornbread and thirds on smiles.  I smiled because this work made me happy – I was near food, I was feeding people, I was having fun.  And THAT – that last bit – that was his question, and my fear.  The fun-ness of all this.  And whether I should be having fun.

It took a week of brain-racking and soul-searching, but I think I made peace with my friend’s question.  He just wanted me to remember that those community service hours were serious, too.  Those extra points on my pretty pink card may have been someone’s only meal that day, and after they turned in their plate, and I turned in my card, they went on to deal with problems bigger than I could ever hope to understand, and I just went to go home and wash my apron.

And now, even though I am long out of high school, and I return to shelters because I still like being near food and feeding people and doling out cornbread and smiles – despite all of these reasons for being here, I have to remember that what I am actually doing is something real and important.  At its core, service is not something fun; it is something necessary.

Last night at the shelter, I smiled a little less, but stood a little taller and moved a little faster.  My friend returned.  “Back again, Crazy?”  His eyes were unblinking, but this time I think I detected a smile.  “Why are you here?”

I am only going to make predictions for economics. I think what makes sense is to predict which subfield would be awarded, and from there, we should be able to identify a short list.

Econometrics (Jerry Hausman (MIT), Halbert White (UCSD), Dale Jorgenson(Harvard))

Finance (Stephen Ross (MIT), Eugene Fama (Chicago))

Industrial Organization, Applications of Game theory  and Theory of Contracts/Firms (Jean Tirole(Toulouse/MIT), Oliver Hart (Harvard))

Economic History (Paul David (Stanford), Joel Mokyr (Northwestern))

Wild Cards:
Alan Krueger (Princeton), Peter Diamond (MIT)

This was published in Nature a while ago (Nature 456, 836 (11 December 2008) | doi:10.1038/456836a; Published online 10 December 2008). It was a very welcome breath of fresh air in the midst of all the technicalities and scientific rigor.

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The suicide note itself wasn’t particularly remarkable.

Handwritten, of course. Even the oldest computers would have detected the quiver in the voice, or parsed the strained phraseology, and automatically alerted the authorities. The blue ink scratched its way across the paper, as if hard pressed to recall the individual shapes of letters. At one point the nib had pierced the white sheet. Few people wrote regularly with pens. It was still taught at school, but the odd love letter or shopping list was as far as most people got. And suicide notes, of course. This was no different; the writing was that of the very old, or the very young.

In a way the hand was old, the oldest that had still lived. But just as the sunrise is as old as time and new each dawn, so this hand was new: three months and twelve days, according to the factory’s records.

Even the words, the symbols of the man’s thoughts, were not worthy of note. They would have won no literary prize; inspired no doomed, romantic quest; enquickened no tired and demoralized army. The very human story was the usual one: of love, of ennui and, ultimately, of heartbreak.

No one, least of all himself, remembered quite when or how he had lost his first hand, more than 300 years ago. The accident was recorded, but if the loose-leaf binder still existed, the cheap ink was long faded into obscurity. Sometimes he claimed it was an explosion in a fume hood; at other times a gas cylinder had fallen from its moorings and crushed him.

What his memory was clear on, and what was attested to in the medical literature, was that he had attached (’single-handedly, haha!’ he would joke) an artificial limb to the remains of his own arm. Not a simple prosthetic, but a fully functioning organ of composite fibre, ceramic joints and golden threads carrying two-way nervous traffic. The body’s own electrical impulses provided power to the tiny servos that drove the slender titanium flexors and extensors.

No accident, the second prototype: it was tested and retested, planned months in advance. His wife directed the operation, and when he woke, his right arm to the shoulder was fully robotic. A fortnight later, while he was still delirious from antibiotics and analgesic, she was killed by a drunk-driver.

The record shows that he opened a new lab with venture capital, employed three dozen scientists and disappeared into his research. The exclusive clinic followed: he himself was its first patient, walking out on legs of alloyed titanium — and straight back into the lab.

Half a dozen more clinics started up across the nation, opening their doors to anyone whose medical insurance would pay the fees. For ten years the company replaced natural limbs with artificial constructs that were functionally equivalent to the original. More than equivalent: these never wore out, never got cancer, never got tired, never felt weak or cold.

For ten years the clinics operated and the lab researched. No papers were published, no patents applied for, and investors grew nervous. Interest waned. Two clinics closed; a third of the research staff was laid off. Rumours circulated, created by and lost in the noise of the Internet. It was another three years later when, finally, a press conference was called on the lawn of the first clinic, the handful of journalists who bothered to turn up were turned away — — and were called back, to face a man who under crepusculine clouds glistened.

The patents and the papers followed on the morrow: the artificial blood, the fuel cells, the intricate and minuscule fibres and vessels and motors: in short, a body wonderfully and fearfully man-made.

Only his face appeared natural, and over the following years even that was slowly replaced. Having no need of food, depending solely on a defined and especially formulated medium, protected by filters and powered by the elements, no toxins could threaten him. With hard, durable alloys and man-made composites in place of bones and tissues, redundant systems and every organ replaceable, he was all but indestructible.

Alzheimer’s had been cured by the time he reached 105, and the last bastion of mortality — the uncontrolled cell division leading to legion neoplasms — tamed a few years after that. And then he was a living brain in a metal and plastic shell, talking, walking and living: never fatigued, immune to all disease, the Tree of Life incarnate.

For 200 years he lived like this, never needing to eat: a weekly cocktail of nutrients and pharmaceuticals keeping the one, irreplaceable fleshly and uniquely human organ alive.

When the end came it was without fanfare or press conference. No papers were written, no patent lawyers notified. With the finest of Torx drivers he opened an access panel, removed a wire, took out a power cell, held it — his life in his own hands.

The suicide note of the world’s first immortal ended simply enough:

I cannot live without her.

I witnessed this on the last day of my first attempt at quals.  In retrospect, it may have been prophetic.  Like quals, it left me wondering about things I (or any human, for that matter) may never know the answer to.

A breeze blew.  A girl screamed.  The world stopped.

I looked out my window.  75 seconds prior,  I had heard a gasp from the pavement below.  I had peered out to spy the owner of the gasp — a girl my age, awestruck by the adorable Mommy Duck and ten Baby Ducks fearlessly waddling across Pacific St.

From my apartment perch high above, I had taken a minute to admire Mommy Duck’s confidence.  She glided, head held high above her adorably ducky shoulders.  She sashayed from side to side with sexiness and determination, followed by an army of chicks struggling to mimic her swagger.  She cocked her sexy ducky head to have a look at the line of cars waiting for her to cross the street.  “Yes,” she was thinking.  “I stop traffic.  I’m amazing.”  She laughed a haughty ducky laugh and continued on her way.  I had resolved to copy her swagger when I next headed out, and I had returned to my work.

Fast forward to the scream.   I located its owner — again, that emotional girl my age.  But she was not awestruck this time.  She was upset.  She was crying, tugging at her boyfriend and pointing at — pointing at — I had to open my blinds, and move to the side of the window to get a better angle — she was pointing at —

The . . .  sewer grate.  Through which one of the baby ducks had just dropped.

how do you waddle away from this?

The world stopped.  But only for a second.  The stalled cars eventually screeched out of line and sped past.  A man on a cell phone furrowed his brow but kept his pace.  Emotional Girl and Emotional Girl’s Boyfriend approached the sewer.  But Mommy Duck — surely Mommy Duck was overcome with despair, no longer the sexy confident duck-stress she had been moments ago.  Was she quacking little quacks of grief?  Calling for her lost child?  Comforting her little ducklings, demanding that they sit tight while Mommy goes for help?

No.  Mommy Duck threw one sexy ducky glance over her left shoulder, another sexy ducky glance over her right shoulder, PICKED UP THE PACE, and waddled away.

She left her child.  Her child!  Now a ducky orphan!  In a sewer!  How could she DO that?  What could possibly be more important?  Did she have a duck plane to catch?  Was her duck house on fire?  NO!  Mommy Duck said, “Aha, NOW’S my chance!  I always hated Duckling No. 7!  He whined!  He ate too much!  He was ugly!  I’m OUTTA HERE! C’mon kids, let’s GO!!!!”

Me, Emotional Girl, and Emotional Girl’s Boyfriend were more upset than Mommy Duck.  A little mad too.  We temporarily lost our faith in humanity.  Then we remembered that technically ducks aren’t humanity.  Then The Cambridge Department of Public Works saved the day.

The familiar bright orange THE WORKS truck pulled over and ejected two strapping men.  One bounded straight to the sewer, the other paused to grab a hook from the backseat.  He nabbed the sewer grate and flung it to the side like a piece of dirty laundry.  He pounced on the ground and jammed his head into that dark, nasty hole.

chariot of a hero

An arm disappeared into the abyss.  It came up moments later, streaked with black, but duckling-less.  “IT’S TOO DEEP,” shouted a thick Boston accent, “I NEEDA GET SUMTHUN.”  He sped back to the trunk, grabbed sumthun, and sped back to the sewer.  He had grabbed — it was — I had to crouch in the window, now — in his hand — he held –he had grabbed a rope.  He was tying the rope to the bucket!  Brilliant!  He lowered his delicate device with a tenderness that defied his brawn.  Except for the occasional passing car, the world stopped again.  I held my breath.  Emotional Girl held her breath.  Emotional Girl’s Boyfriend held his breath, and Emotional Girl’s hand.  Suddenly, inevitably, the increasingly loud but distinct chirping told us that HE HAD RETRIEVED NO. 7!!! Success, rejoicing, the world continued on.  The bouncing white spot in the orange bucket of black muck was the lost child, lost no more.

But Boston Man didn’t get up.  Boston Man handed the bucket to Boston Man’s Partner, who removed the chick, dumped the remains (hopefully on Mommy Duck, that ducky scoundrel) and HANDED THE BUCKET BACK to Boston Man.  Who lowered it into the abyss.  Which means — no, it couldn’t be true, could it? But there was — there were — here comes the bucket now — and the chirping — a white spot — in black muck — oh my goodnes —

ANOTHER CHICK!  TWO CHICKS! TWO CHICKS!  No.7 AND No. 8!!!!  I rejoiced.  Emotional Girl did a little Emotional Dance of Joy.  Boston Man beamed.  He was no longer A Public Worker.  He was The Hero.  The Hero with two chicks.

The Hero stopped beaming.  He frowned at No. 8, then No. 7.  He slowly turned a full 360 degrees, looking high and low for that deadbeat Mommy Duck — but she was gone.  Off selling her children for cigarettes, probably.  The Hero heaved a heroic sigh, and gingerly placed No. 8, then No. 7, back into the now empty bucket.  He mumbled something to his almost heroic friend, and the two shared a chuckle.  Bucket in hand, they hopped into their orange truck and drove off to whereabouts unknown, amidst a small applause from me and Emotional Girl.

Weeks have passed since then, but I am still conflicted about Mommy Duck.  She had swagger, no doubt, but was that all?  Did she love her ducklings?  Or did she selfishly pare down the stack with a treacherous walk past a sewer? Did she genuinely not know she had lost two children?  Do ducks have foresight?  Or guilt?  Or peripheral vision?  Do they love?  Or is that what the Department of Public Works is for?  If I ever see The Hero again, I’ll be sure to ask him.  Until then, I’ll just keep sitting by my window, waiting for the world to stop.

As a follow up to my previous post on the topic, a distillation of the MBTI is the Keirsey Temperment Sorter. In this reduced model, people are classified into four categories (along with their MBTI equivalents): Artisans (SP), Guardians (SJ), Idealists (NF), and Rationals (NT). Related to each category is a type of intelligence in which the individual excels: tactical, logistical, diplomatic, and strategic (respectively).

Here are some brief descriptions of (and bloggers who I believe are examples of) each category:

The Artisan is spontaneous, well aware of his/her surroundings and how to affect them. The Artisan excels in tactical situations and is adept at fixing immediate problems.
The Guardian is stable, a reliable worker with perfectionist tendencies. Duty and precedent are important to the Guardian, and s/he provides excellent operational support for organizations.
The Idealist is a team player that values their community and seeks significance therein. The Idealist is empathic and passionate, making them adept communicators and advocates.
The Rational is lives by logic, systems, and function. The Rational has an ability to analyze problems with extreme depth and make for excellent strategists.

I encourage you to look amongst your friends and see if any of these fit.

I have gradually acquired an interest in modeling human behavior. Perhaps it is the constant interactions with people I do not wholly agree with, or maybe it is a realization that although humans exhibit incredibly complex behaviors, patterns inevitably emerge. In any case, I have come to believe that by thinking about human behaviors and interactions, one can learn a lot about people. Through adequate practice, one can learn to gauge and predict human behavior, and eventually one may even learn to affect it.

A simple first approximation to human personalities (and by extension, human behavior) is the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). At this point I must admit that although we are discussing a model, we are no longer near the realm of the scientific. What follows is, at best, poor science supplemented by anecdotes and, at worst, witchcraft.

As you might know, MBTI is used by many companies to assign tasks and balance group dynamics. People are parameterized by four dimensions: Extroversion-Introversion, iNtuitive-Sensing, Thinking-Feeling, and Perceiving-Judging. These dimensions give rise to 2⁴ = 16 personality types. I would direct those interested in the definitions and classifications to the Wikipedia article.

I will, however, emphasize a couple of points that I believe are not always conveyed correctly when one learns about the MBTI.

• No type is “better” than another, although I will assert that some types lend themselves more naturally to certain tasks than others.
• The dimensions that MBTI measures indicate preference, not talent, skill, or mastery. A thinker may be a better feeler than s/he lets on, but prefers to think, at least on the first attempt.

Finally, for the curious, over the last 4 years or so, I have consistently exhibited high E and T, nearly maximal J, and alternate between N and S with very weak preferences for either.