The Looming Algorithm

Fran sits amidst a community grappling with the rapid onset of AI. Voices rise and fall, debating the threat and promise of technology in preserving and communicating their unique stories and identities in Northwestern Ontario.

“—and so the concern, as I see it, is not merely one of displacement,” Mr. Bouchard’s voice, a gravelly river stone, cut through the murmurs, “but of an insidious erosion. When we entrust our narratives, our very ways of seeing the world, to a machine, what then of the human hand? The lived experience? Can an algorithm truly comprehend the nuance of a Cree syllabic, or the weight of a particular turn of phrase in Anishinaabemowin, when its training data is, at best, a pale echo of our collective memory?” He rested his gnarled hands flat on the table, the old wood groaning softly under the gesture, his gaze sweeping across the faces assembled. His eyes, the colour of faded denim, fixed on mine for a fleeting second, a silent challenge.

My pulse quickened. The aroma of stale coffee, usually comforting, suddenly felt cloying. I shifted in my chair, the plastic squealing beneath me, and gripped my pen tighter. He had articulated the fear that had been a dull ache in my own chest for months now, ever since the first glossy articles about AI’s creative prowess started appearing online like invasive weeds. Winter 2025 felt closer than ever, a looming horizon of digital unknowns.

“I appreciate your candour, Mr. Bouchard,” Larry, our community council facilitator, responded, her voice smooth and measured, a balm attempting to soothe the rising tension. She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose, a habit she adopted when navigating difficult discussions. “However, we must also consider the practicalities. The sheer speed at which these tools are being adopted by larger institutions – media companies, publishing houses. If we do not engage, do we risk being left behind, our voices drowned out in the amplified clamour of AI-generated content produced elsewhere?”

Willow, seated opposite me, chimed in, her tone more direct, less philosophical. “Drowned out, yes, but also denied. The cost of traditional media production, the barriers to entry, they’re immense. I mean, even for my short films, the editing alone… the hours, the software licences. AI could democratise that. It could allow us to tell stories with a production quality that was previously impossible for a community group like ours, on our budget. Imagine the reach, the impact, if our elders' stories could be animated, subtitled, translated, and disseminated globally, not just locally.” She gestured with an expressive hand, a loose strand of her bright, dyed hair falling across her eye.

I saw the point. Willow was right about the practicalities. I’d spent countless late nights wrestling with video editing software myself, trying to make my short documentaries look half-professional. The promise of an AI assistant that could handle the tedious parts, freeing me to focus on the narrative, was intoxicating. But then, the image of a machine interpreting the subtle inflections of a traditional story… a tremor of unease ran through me, cold as the breath that misted on the windowpane.

“But at what cost, Willow?” Mr. Bouchard’s voice deepened, a slight tremor in his tone. “At what cost does efficiency become a substitute for authenticity? We are speaking of our histories, our very identities, not commercial jingles. How does a machine learn the feeling of the land beneath our feet, the shared humour in a glance, the unspoken grief carried through generations? It cannot. It processes data. It does not feel.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Krenshaw interjected, adjusting her posture, her academic rigour evident even in her casual plaid shirt. “Mr. Bouchard raises a crucial distinction. Current AI models, particularly large language models, are pattern-matching systems. They extrapolate based on vast datasets. They do not ‘understand’ in the human sense. They do not possess consciousness or lived experience. What they produce is a statistical approximation of human creativity, not an original thought process born of subjective experience. If the input data is biased, or incomplete, the output will reflect those biases and gaps.”

I scribbled furiously in my notebook: *statistical approximation ≠ original thought*. Dr. Krenshaw, a visiting researcher from a university down south, specialized in algorithmic ethics. Her presence was intended to ground our discussions in scientific reality, away from the sensationalism. Her words, though dispassionate, were a powerful counterweight to Willow’s enthusiasm, yet they didn't entirely extinguish my own nascent hope.

“However,” Dr. Krenshaw continued, holding up a finger, “that doesn’t negate their potential as tools. A hammer does not build a house, but it is indispensable to the carpenter. The question becomes: who controls the hammer? Who wields it, and for what purpose? And crucially, who defines the blueprint?” She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, her gaze sharp.

---

A silence fell, heavy with the implications. The radiators clanked again, a metallic sigh. I could feel the chill seeping in from the windows, a tangible reminder of the turning season outside. The discussion had shifted from whether AI *should* be used to how, and by whom. This was the crux of it, the path to self-determination that Larry had hoped we would uncover.

“So, if we accept that AI tools exist, and are becoming increasingly ubiquitous,” Larry began, her voice regaining its earlier, steady cadence, “then our task is to ensure that our community, our nations, are not simply passive consumers of these technologies. We must be active shapers. We must develop the skills, the literacy, to interrogate, adapt, and even build our own iterations of these tools. Tools that are trained on our stories, by our storytellers, for our people.”

Willow nodded emphatically. “Exactly. Think of it like this: if Hollywood is going to make a movie about us, it’s always going to be through their lens, right? It’s never quite… authentic. But what if *we* had the tools, the AI, to generate storyboards, to write scripts, to edit films that are truly reflective of our identity, our humour, our struggles, without needing external funding or gatekeepers? That’s empowerment.” Her enthusiasm was infectious, a warm current against the intellectual chill.

Mr. Bouchard hummed, a low rumble in his throat. “Empowerment… yes. But what of the training data, as Dr. Krenshaw mentioned? If these tools learn from the internet, from databases compiled without our consent, then they are already tainted. They are already replicating colonial narratives. How do we ensure the sanctity of our oral traditions, our sacred knowledge, when it enters a digital realm that seeks to consume and re-process everything?” His caution was a steady undertow, pulling at Willow’s rising tide of optimism.

“That is precisely where community autonomy comes in,” Dr. Krenshaw clarified, her voice precise. “We would need to curate our own datasets. To control what information the AI learns from. To perhaps develop smaller, specialized models, focused purely on our linguistic and cultural nuances, rather than relying on generic, global models. This requires significant investment in data sovereignty, in digital archives, and in training local specialists.” She outlined the challenge with a clarity that was both daunting and exciting.

My pen hovered over my notebook. *Data sovereignty.* The term felt weighty, important. It wasn’t just about making cool videos; it was about protecting something vital. I thought of the old photo albums my grandmother kept, filled with faded images of relatives, each picture a tiny fragment of a much larger, unspoken story. Could we digitise those, categorise them, teach an AI to recognise the patterns of family, of place, of history, but only for our own internal use? Only to help us preserve, not to expose or exploit?

“It won’t be easy,” Larry admitted, her gaze thoughtful as she looked out at the blurred autumn landscape beyond the window. “There are legal frameworks, ethical guidelines to develop, technical infrastructure to build. This isn’t a quick fix. But the alternative, to remain disengaged, feels like a greater risk to our narrative future. To allow others to define the terms of this technological evolution, to allow the algorithms to be designed without our input—that is the true relinquishing of power.”

“So, we are to become digital weavers, then?” Mr. Bouchard mused, a faint smile playing on his lips, a rare softening. “To thread our own stories into the loom of this new machine, rather than simply accepting the patterns others have designed for us.” He looked at me, and I felt a jolt of recognition. His initial apprehension hadn’t vanished, but it had transformed into something more nuanced, a recognition of agency.

Willow, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward. “And what about actual skills development? My cousin, Odell, he’s always messing around with code, building little apps. Could he learn to adapt these AI models? To make them genuinely useful for our specific needs? Not just for story-making, but for preserving language, for cultural revitalization projects?” Her questions were concrete, immediate, pulling the theoretical discussion into tangible possibilities.

Dr. Krenshaw nodded. “Absolutely. The underlying principles of many AI tools are becoming more accessible. The learning curve is steep, but manageable, especially for young people with existing technical aptitudes. We could establish workshops, mentorship programmes. The goal is not just to use the tools, but to understand their mechanics, to be able to modify them, to truly own them.”

I could almost visualise it: a small, dedicated team, hunched over screens in this very hall, perhaps, but with a different kind of light, an electric glow reflecting off their faces. Not just consuming, but creating. Building. It was a daunting image, but also profoundly inspiring. The fast-paced urgency of the global AI race felt like it was finally meeting the grounded, deliberate pace of community building, a slow, sure current against a rushing river.

We spent another hour discussing funding models, potential partners, and the specific types of stories we might prioritise. The conversation flowed, picking up speed, then pausing, then flowing again, like a river finding its path over new terrain. There was a sense of collective responsibility, a shared ownership of this immense challenge. Nobody had definitive answers, but the questions themselves felt more empowering now, framed by a desire to act, to build, rather than merely react.

The air in the room, though still faintly acrid, felt cleaner. Lighter. The sun had dipped below the treeline, and the last of the autumn light was fading into a deep indigo outside. I closed my notebook, my fingers aching slightly from the insistent grip I’d kept on my pen. The weight of the algorithms, the disruption, it was still there, a constant hum at the edge of my awareness. But now, nestled beside it, was a growing, quiet determination. It wasn’t about fighting the future, but about claiming our rightful place within it, on our own terms. I didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? I just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second.