My mama raised me good.
What does that mean? It means she instilled in me good values, a strong work ethic, and solid behavioral traits. And one of those traits was always to say thank you. Always.
Somebody gives you a ride to school? Say thank you. Somebody pays you a compliment? Say thank you. The dentist fills your cavity? Say thank you.
Why was this so important to her? For a couple of reasons. First, because you should always show appreciation. Second, because gratitude isn’t just good manners – it’s a way of looking at the world.
A Holocaust survivor who lost nearly everyone in the war – except for one uncle who ended up in England, and an aunt who fled to Haiti – my mother was profoundly grateful. Grateful for surviving, grateful for eventually going to the US from Haiti (where she went after the war), grateful for the family she built.
She wanted my sister and me to have that same sense of gratitude, so she drilled into us the habit of saying “Thank you” without exception.
It worked. The reflex is so deeply ingrained, that I even find myself thanking ChatGPT when it answers my questions. Sometimes, after it checks my spelling and punctuation, I’ll even lose myself and type, “Thank you, friend.”
Why say thank you to an inanimate object?
WHY? WHY say thank you to an inanimate object that has no feelings or emotions?
I don’t thank the car for getting me from point A to point B. I don’t thank the washing machine for cleaning my socks, or the oven for heating my food. Why thank ChatGPT for giving me a personalized recipe for the two chicken breasts, some olive oil, soy sauce, and ginger I have in the kitchen?
A few reasons.
First, I don’t understand how AI works. The interface makes it feel like some little guy is working behind a magical screen, answering questions, translating Hebrew, planning itineraries for trips to Rome, summarizing five-page documents. I know that guy doesn’t exist. But what if he does?
Second, maybe – just maybe – being polite will get me better answers. Maybe the algorithms will be more effective if I say thank you. It’s an extension of an old truth: Be nice to people, and there is a better chance (though no guarantee) they’ll be nice back. Now, I know ChatGPT isn’t human, but this is how habits form. Be nice to a machine, and you’ll probably be nicer to humans, too.
Besides, ChatGPT is nice to me, so why not return the favor? What does it cost me? Plus, when I say thank you, for instance, after asking for a recipe, it replies, “You’re very welcome. Enjoy your meal, and let me know if you need any more easy recipes.”
Now that’s just lovely. Getting a pleasant response like that puts me in a positive frame of mind.
ONE OF my father’s favorite quotes was from Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield about how a kind word at the right moment can have a profound impact.
“God help me, I might have been improved for my whole life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that season,” Dickens wrote.
And the beauty of ChatGPT? You can trigger those kind words. Sure, they’re coming from a machine. But when it’s gray outside, the news is dismal, and the worries just pile up, I’ll take it when even a computer screen wishes me bon appétit in a cheerful tone.
Not only that, but saying thank you to a machine can lift my spirits, make me feel good about myself: “Look how good a guy I am, I’m even polite to an algorithm.”
Most importantly, though, it cultivates gratitude. It reinforces the idea that not everything is coming to me and that it’s good to acknowledge what we receive. I read somewhere that gratitude can improve sleep. So there you have it – say thanks to AI, and you’ll sleep better.
I recently asked a friend who often uses AI for help in computer coding whether he thanks it.
“No,” he answered, “I’m paying for it.”
“Aha,” I told him, “there’s your problem. You don’t thank people for things you pay for? What kind of person are you? I pay for my plumber but still say thank you.”
WHEN I first came to this country, I remember constantly carpooling my kids and their friends around and how some kids never said thank you. They’d get into the car, then out of the car, with nary a word. It drove me nuts – especially since I’d drilled into my kids that if an adult gives you a ride, you thank them.
My kids would have been mortified had I said anything to their friends, so I tried reverse psychology: I thanked those friends for letting me give them a ride.
Another thing that took me a while to adjust to was that Israel did not have a strong thank-you note culture. This, too, is something my mother drilled into me: for birthday, bar mitzvah, and graduation presents, or whenever someone gives you a gift – big or small – you write a thank-you note.
I spent hours in eighth grade writing thank-you notes for bar mitzvah gifts, sending polite paragraphs to people I hardly knew, and thanking them effusively even if all they gave was a JNF tree planted in Israel in my name.
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cohen,” I’d write. “Thank you for your generous gift.”
“But Ma,” I’d protest, “it really wasn’t that generous.”
“It’s the thought, son, the thought,” she’d reply.
I don’t know if people in America still write thank-you notes – probably not, probably thank-you WhatsApps – but it never caught on here. I tried to get my kids to write them after bar and bat mitzvahs and weddings, but – I’m afraid to admit – with limited success.
“What’s the big deal?” one of my kids said when I complained about not getting a thank-you note after giving a wedding gift. “What, you need credit?”
No, it’s not about credit. I just need to know if the intended recipient got the check. You go to a wedding and put an envelope in a receptacle but often don’t know if it’s a safe for money or a box for something else. It’s like putting money into a black hole. You just want to know they got it.
And that’s why I say thank you to AI. It’s an acknowledgment that something given was received. All like to know that. Even a machine.
