Perspective from the Average
Jason Watson sat in a small Chicago café over his last cup of coffee. It was six in the morning; the city was just stirring from sleep, and the sound of footsteps on the street broke the quiet. He liked this time — the world at life-size, an ordinary stretch in which nothing special happened. Until three years ago, for the self he had been, this had been his entire life.
Yet now, within that ordinariness, he could see complex patterns he had never noticed before. The regularities in pedestrians’ choices of action, the efficiency of the transit system, the rules governing the use of urban space — to the man who had undergone cognitive enhancement, the ordinary morning scene appeared like a kaleidoscope filled with mathematical beauty and social insight.
“Is change a curse, or a blessing?”
He murmured the words. It was the fundamental question that had tormented him throughout the past three years.
On the table lay the invitation from the World Intelligence Council and a draft of a letter to his former self. The letter would never be sent, but for him it was an important instrument of introspection. It was an attempt to put into words, from the present self with an IQ of 180, the experience of transformation for the former self with an IQ of 110.
“To my self of three years ago — You are about to undergo the most difficult and most beautiful experience of your life. Your world will expand, and at the same time something will be lost forever. You will become a genius, yet you may also cease to be yourself…”
Jason set down his pen. There was a complexity here that could not be fully expressed in words.
His memories returned to a spring day three years earlier. At the time he had been working as a janitor at the University of Chicago. Thirty-two years old, after dropping out of high school he had drifted through various jobs — factory worker, warehouse laborer, and finally university custodian. He possessed no special talent and no special ambition. He had been a typical “average American.”
But that day his life changed dramatically —
“Excuse me, you’re the cleaning staff, right?”
The voice belonged to Professor Sarah Chen of the Department of Cognitive Science. She had stayed late in her lab; he had been making his night rounds. Their paths crossed by chance.
“Yes. Is there something I can help with?”
“Actually… I have a question. What kinds of books do you usually read?”
It was a strange question. A university professor asking a janitor about reading habits was not ordinary.
“Books?” Jason was perplexed. “Mostly… newspapers and sports magazines, I guess.”
“But tonight I was watching you thinking. It looked as though you were thinking about something very seriously.”
It was true. That night he had been more pensive than usual. He had been thinking about a news story he had seen during the day — a special feature on educational disparities in poor areas. Why, born in the same country, were such different opportunities given? Why did intelligence correlate with social status? Simple questions, yet he had found no answers.
“I am researching cognitive-enhancement technology,” Professor Chen explained. “In particular, the intellectual potential of adults who have not had access to learning opportunities. If you wouldn’t mind, would you be willing to participate in an experiment?”
At the time Jason had not fully understood the meaning of the proposal. But the payment offered and simple curiosity led him to agree.
The first six months were conventional intensive study. Mathematics, science, literature, history — subjects he had never learned in high school, studied from the basics. Jason was astonished at his own learning ability. He was by no means a genius, yet he discovered that with concentration he could understand a great deal.
“Your baseline intelligence may be above average,” Professor Chen told him after six months. “It’s simply that limited learning opportunities prevented that potential from being expressed.”
Then the next phase began — the application of cognitive-enhancement technology.
The first procedures were mild: neural stimulation to improve memory, pharmaceutical therapies to strengthen concentration. The effects were gradual but certain. Reading speed increased; grasping complex concepts became easier.
The true transformation, however, occurred with the second-stage procedures.
“The procedure we are about to perform aims at cognitive improvement at a deeper level,” Professor Chen explained. “Processing speed, pattern recognition, abstract thinking — overall intellectual capacity will increase. However, side effects and psychological impacts are still under study.”
The morning after the procedure, Jason was a different person.
The way the world appeared had changed fundamentally. Details he had never noticed before stood out sharply; complex relationships became intuitively comprehensible. Reading the newspaper was no longer mere information-gathering but multidimensional analytical reading. From a single news article, insights from economic theory, psychology, and sociology rose naturally to the surface.
At the same time he felt a profound sense of loss. The simple wonder, the uncomplicated joy, the unconscious ease he had once known — he could feel them fading.
In the café the present Jason looked back on that moment of transformation. The first week after enhancement had been a chaos of excitement and bewilderment.
He had continued his cleaning job, yet it was no longer simple labor. Problems of efficiency in building design, the environmental impact of cleaning chemicals, the relationship between workers’ rights and the economic system — everything became an object of analysis.
“What’s the matter, Jason? You seem different lately.”
His colleague Mike asked with concern. They had worked together for five years; on weekends they drank beer and watched sports.
“Nothing in particular… it’s just that there’s a lot to think about.”
“Thinking? That’s not like you. You were always easygoing and optimistic.”
Mike was right. The old Jason had not been the type to brood deeply. When problems arose he accepted them with “it can’t be helped” and lived content with the status quo. That simplicity was now lost to him.
The most difficult aspect of the change was the transformation in human relationships. Conversations with family and friends gradually became awkward. Their concerns — sports, entertainment news, everyday complaints — began to seem superficial. At the same time the topics that interested him — political theory, the social impact of technology, problems of the education system — bored them and were difficult for them to understand.
“Jason, it’s getting hard to talk to you lately,” his longtime friend Jim said frankly. “I don’t know… it feels like you’re looking down on us.”
The words wounded him deeply. He had not intended to look down on anyone. Yet it was true that he could now see the intellectual limitations of those around him, and it was difficult to hide it.
A year later Jason quit his cleaning job and began working as a research assistant in Professor Chen’s lab. He re-enrolled at the university, studying philosophy and cognitive science. In two years he earned a bachelor’s degree; now he was in a doctoral program researching cognitive ethics.
Objectively, all of this was “success.” Subjectively, however, complex emotions swirled within him.
In the café he continued the letter.
Moreover, you will come to feel lonely. It is not the loneliness of intelligence but the loneliness of change. You will no longer be your former self, yet you will not be a born genius either. You will become a being on the boundary — a bridging existence between the ordinary and the excellent.
The most difficult thing after undergoing enhancement had been the reconstruction of identity. Who was he? The original ordinary Jason, or the new intellectual Jason? Both, and neither — the ambiguity continued to torment him.
“Jason!”
He turned at the voice to see Professor Chen approaching.
“Good morning, Professor.”
“How are the preparations for Geneva tomorrow?”
“I’m feeling complicated,” he answered honestly. “All the other participants are natural geniuses. I’m thinking about what it means for someone like me — an artificially enhanced being — to join them.”
Professor Chen sat down. “That is precisely the significance of your existence. You are the only one who has experienced both average intelligence and high intelligence. That perspective is something no one else possesses.”
“But at the same time, I am not fully either one.”
“That is not a defect but a feature. You are someone who can translate — who can convey the experience of average people to the intellectual upper strata, and conversely translate intellectual insights into language ordinary people can understand.”
In the afternoon Jason delivered his final lecture at the university. The theme was “Cognitive Disparity and Social Justice.” It was not coincidence; it was also his final organizing of thoughts before the Geneva assembly.
“I have a question for all of you,” he began, addressing the students. “Suppose you took a special drug and your IQ temporarily rose fifty points. How would you feel afterward, when you returned to your normal state?”
The students pondered. One raised a hand.
“I think… I would feel frustration. Because things that were visible would become invisible again.”
“An interesting answer. Then conversely, suppose you were born with a high IQ and a social policy lowered it to an average level. How would that feel?”
Another student answered. “That would be… close to a kind of personal death.”
“And now, what about someone like me, who started with average IQ and reached a higher level through technological means? Would returning to the original level be liberation, or loss?”
No answer came to this question, because it was one he himself had not yet fully resolved.
After the lecture Jason found himself alone in the lab. On the walls were displayed the results of his research — papers on the socioeconomic effects of cognitive disparity, ethical frameworks for cognitive-enhancement technology, policy proposals on equalizing educational opportunity. Outcomes unimaginable to the man he had been three years earlier.
Yet in one corner of the wall hung an old photograph — a picture with his former colleagues from his janitor days. A simple, happy moment, beer in hand, laughing. The self of that time had been far more isolated from society than now, yet far richer in human connection.
His mobile phone rang. It was his mother.
“Jason, are you well?”
“Yes, Mom. I’m going on a business trip to Switzerland tomorrow.”
“That’s amazing. My son participating in an international conference.” Pride filled his mother’s voice. “But… lately your voice sounds tired. Are you all right?”
Her intuition was sharp. He was indeed tired — not intellectual fatigue, but an existential fatigue.
“I’m thinking about some complicated problems.”
“Don’t think only difficult things all the time. It’s important to enjoy simple things sometimes too.”
Her advice had come naturally to the man he had been three years ago, but for the present him it was difficult. The ability to “enjoy simple things” had also changed in the process of enhancement.
In the evening Jason visited his old workplace for the first time in a while. In the University of Chicago custodial staff break room, his former colleagues were chatting as usual.
“Jason! Long time no see,” Mike called out. “How’s the doctoral program going?”
“It’s going well, thanks.”
“Still talking about difficult stuff all the time?” another colleague, Jim, joked.
The conversation with them was warm and nostalgic. At the same time, however, he felt he could not fully participate. Between their world and his new world there was a gulf that could not be crossed.
“Actually, there’s an important international conference tomorrow,” he said.
“What kind?”
“About human intelligence and social policy.”
Mike frowned. “Sounds tough. Is thinking about that kind of thing fun?”
Jason could not answer the question immediately. Was it fun? There was certainly intellectual stimulation — the joy of understanding, the pleasure of insight, the excitement of new discoveries. Yet it was something different from the simple emotion of “fun.”
“A difficult question,” he answered honestly.
That night, making his final preparations in the hotel, Jason thought about his role. At tomorrow’s assembly he would participate as the only “transformed” person among the seven. Not Naturally Gifted, not a designer baby, not of the AI-symbiosis generation, not a specialized savant. He was an intentionally created genius.
At the same time he was also a spokesperson for average people. If cognitive-enhancement technology became widespread, many would undergo experiences similar to his. At that time, how would society change? How would human identity be redefined?
He finished the letter.
*You will change, yet you will also be a witness to change. Your experience is a trailer for the future of all humanity. It is both a responsibility and a privilege. You will become a bridge — a bridge connecting different worlds.
And most important: both what you lose and what you gain are real. There is no need to deny the loss, nor to underestimate the gain. You are a new form of human being.
Do your best. From your future self*
Jason folded the letter and tucked it into his suitcase. Tomorrow in Geneva he would discuss the future of human intelligence. His contribution to that discussion would be unique, grounded in lived experience.
As a rare being who had journeyed from the average to the excellent, he understood the value of both worlds. And perhaps he could understand more deeply than anyone the effects the Cognitive Gap Rectification Protocol would bring.
Outside the window, night deepened over Chicago. The future of the countless people in this city — people of average intelligence living ordinary lives — might depend on tomorrow’s discussion.
Jason Watson was prepared to enter the most important dialogue in human history as their spokesperson and as a witness to transformation.
His story embodied the possibilities and limitations of being human, the beauty and the pain of change. And it would become an important part of the larger story that would begin tomorrow.