The premise of checking for human writing is daft. It confuses the exercise with the outcome, labour with intelligence, finger movement with mind movement. We should ask whether someone had something useful to say, understood it, made decisions, checked claims, and can defend the work—not whether they typed every keystroke.

This mirrors past technological panics. Fire, calculators, search engines, spellcheck, photography—all were accused of weakening human capacity. Eventually tools become ordinary. In 2026, AI helps millions explain, translate, code, create, yet we develop elaborate ways to prove nobody received too much help.

The demand assumes a privileged body: two working hands, good vision, fluent spelling. Stephen Hawking couldn't type but produced profound work via technology—nobody questions his authorship. The Mouth Pad lets quadriplegic users control devices via tongue and breath. At what point does work cease to be theirs? Authorship lives in intention, judgment, responsibility—not tendons.

Some contexts need unaided work (schools, employers, novelists). Define the ability, create conditions, assess it. But unaided typing as a general certificate of humanity is backward and exclusionary. I don't care if you wrote with bare hands; I care if the thought is yours, you exercised judgment, the result deserves attention, and you'll stand behind it. Your fingers were never the author.