As a newcomer to the teaching profession, I found myself facing the usual classroom challenges for the first time. The introduction of artificial intelligence (AI) felt overwhelming, akin to drinking coffee during a panic attack.
Two years ago, at 39, I embarked on my journey to become a school teacher, aiming to teach English and inspire students to become proficient readers, writers, and thinkers. After 15 years as a freelance writer and novelist, I felt prepared to contribute meaningfully. However, as I progressed through my training, uncertainty began to cloud my confidence, particularly regarding one pressing issue: the role of AI in education.
The immediate dilemma arose from the fact that students now have access to free online chatbots that can generate complex prose at will. This raised a multitude of questions about the purpose of schooling and effective teaching strategies: What are we striving for in education? How do we measure success? As a novice, grappling with these issues while integrating AI felt like an insurmountable task.
I dove into exploring various perspectives on the intersection of AI and English instruction through podcasts, Substacks, and YouTube channels dedicated to pedagogy. My online feeds began to reflect my burgeoning interest, inundating me with content that promised solutions to my pressing questions and guidance on how to best serve my students.
The discourse surrounding AI in education was fervent and often contentious. On one side, the AI rejectionists—teachers and commentators who viewed AI as a direct threat to the fundamental activities within classrooms—argued vehemently that students must learn to confront challenges head-on. They believed that exposure to complex texts and the development of intricate arguments were essential processes, often fraught with difficulty. In their view, the ease of AI-generated content enabled students to avoid these essential struggles.
Rejectionists shared alarming anecdotes of students submitting AI-generated papers while being unable to answer basic questions about their content. They cited studies indicating that reliance on chatbots could dull cognitive faculties and hinder mental development. Ethical concerns were raised regarding AI’s environmental impact, copyright issues, and the monopolistic tendencies of tech companies. Many advocated for a classroom environment that minimized AI's influence, suggesting a return to in-class essays and oral assessments.
Conversely, the AI cheerleaders—teachers and advocates who recognized the potential benefits of AI—argued that, despite its risks, AI could serve as a powerful educational tool. They posited that chatbots could offer personalized feedback to students, engaging them in a manner that traditional methods could not achieve. From their perspective, rejecting AI tools reflected a misunderstanding of their potential and a disservice to students who would need technological fluency in their future careers.
As I sifted through the contrasting viewpoints, my anxiety grew. Teachers, myself included, often harbor a profound fear of failing to meet our responsibilities: of employing ineffective strategies or neglecting students' needs. We understand that while effective teachers can profoundly impact lives, poor teaching can leave lasting scars—especially in English, where disengagement can lead to what Kelly Gallagher terms ‘readicide’.
Amid these fears lurked a deeper concern: the dread of being perceived as out-of-touch, clinging to the classroom amid a rapidly evolving world. I was determined not to fall prey to technological hype but equally reluctant to dismiss tools that could prove beneficial.
Ultimately, I needed a provisional decision that would guide my teaching. My task was not to label AI as a devil or a savior but to discern its implications for the high school English classes I was about to teach. I immersed myself in more resources, hoping that a deeper understanding would bolster my confidence.
Last spring, I spent 15 hours weekly observing a seasoned English teacher in a Chicago suburb, a school renowned for its academic excellence. My mentor, whom I’ll call Emily, taught two age groups: 14-year-olds entering high school and 18-year-olds nearing graduation. What I observed in her classroom inclined me toward the rejectionist viewpoint.
I witnessed firsthand the disruptive effects of AI: students submitting fully AI-generated papers, presenting fabricated quotes, and engaging in tense discussions with Emily about the authenticity of their work. I joined her in the laborious process of grading, often struggling to distinguish between student effort and AI-generated polish.
My motivation for becoming a teacher was rooted in my desire to engage deeply with students' writing, honoring their voices. However, the presence of AI—both in its actual and potential forms—interfered with this process. I grew increasingly aware of the despair that comes with evaluating a paper not for its content but for its origins.
Emily’s students were equipped with school-issued laptops, and she utilized monitoring software that displayed their screens in real-time, a disconcerting surveillance reminiscent of Big Brother. While some students refrained from using AI, others did so at every opportunity, instinctively turning to it for answers. I observed students unknowingly funneled into AI use by simply searching for information online, leading them to chatbots offering instant assistance.
Emily explained that much of the reading had to occur in class, often with her reading aloud. This revelation shocked me. Despite being aware of the so-called ‘reading crisis,’ witnessing the diminished reading skills of teenagers was disheartening. My aspirations as a teacher were filled with visions of guiding students through literary complexity, yet here I was, faced with students who struggled to read independently, opting instead for AI assistance when it came to writing.
However, as I watched Emily read to the class, I was reminded of the magic that could occur in a classroom. Reading time often transformed into something extraordinary. When Emily began their unit on All Quiet on the Western Front, students expressed disbelief at reading 'another whole book'. Yet, with Emily's guidance, they began to grasp the novel’s themes: the harrowing realities of war, loss of innocence, and psychological trauma.
As laptops and phones were set aside, students felt comfortable raising their hands to ask questions. Emily adeptly identified confusing passages, facilitating discussions that gradually transformed the daunting text into a relatable companion. Soon, the students became engrossed in the story, eagerly anticipating its developments and questioning character motivations.
The stark contrast between the dispiriting AI incidents I’d witnessed and the inspiring reading sessions was evident. By the end of my observational period, I had the opportunity to lead some readings, experiencing firsthand the elation that came with connecting students to literature. I felt a sense of pride in my rejectionist stance.
Yet, as summer approached, my doubts resurfaced. Despite the inspiring reading sessions, I recognized that they did not resolve my questions about AI’s role in education. As I prepared to return as a student teacher, I faced critical decisions about writing assignments. What would I ask my students to write, given my concerns about chatbots?
I found myself engaged in an internal dialogue, weighing the merits of various approaches. I was torn between the joy of AI-free reading and the necessity of preparing students for a future where technology plays a significant role.
In an effort to explore AI’s capabilities, I began experimenting with chatbots designed for educational use. Initially, I evaluated their performance in generating essays that resembled authentic student writing. To my dismay, I discovered that these machines could produce text indistinguishable from genuine student work. This reality challenged my previous assumptions about my ability to detect AI-generated content.
Next, I explored less detrimental uses of AI, such as providing feedback on drafts or answering assignment queries. Some bots performed admirably, prompting me to experiment with them on my own writing. I found their feedback surprisingly helpful, leading me to reconsider my stance on AI’s utility.
Throughout the semester, I returned to my memories of those magical reading sessions in Emily’s classroom. The absence of devices fostered an environment of undivided attention, allowing students to engage fully with the text. This separation from technology created a space where students could immerse themselves in the experience of reading without distractions.
As I contemplated my approach for the upcoming school year, I resolved to prioritize AI-free experiences for my students. I believed that they needed sustained opportunities for reading and writing that incorporated the inherent challenges of those processes. However, I also recognized that navigating technology was a crucial life skill.
Teaching, as Freud noted, is an “impossible profession,” where success is elusive, and certainty is nearly unattainable. I reminded myself of this reality as I grappled with uncertainty about my teaching methods. While I found fulfillment in dedicating time to reading, I worried that I might be neglecting essential aspects of writing.
To foster creativity and engagement, I designed innovative writing assignments, prompting students to explore their perspectives. I encouraged them to craft soundtracks for films based on our readings or to engage with satirical essays that challenged conventional narratives. These assignments sparked enthusiasm and deepened their understanding of the material.
Despite my efforts, doubts lingered. I remained vigilant against the potential for AI to undermine authentic learning. Each time I assigned work, I felt torn between trust in my students and concern over their reliance on AI to complete assignments.
One day, I chose to engage my students in discussions about AI, seeking their opinions on the technology's role in their lives. I distributed questionnaires to gauge their experiences, revealing a spectrum of feelings from skepticism to curiosity. Most students expressed concerns about AI's impact on their ability to think independently, though some shared their practical uses for chatbots.
The conversations revealed a lack of understanding about AI’s workings, prompting me to clarify its implications. I sensed that these discussions elevated our collective engagement, enabling us to confront critical questions about technology's influence on our lives.
On my final day of student teaching, I spent time grading my students’ creative assignments. Instead of traditional essays, they produced imaginative stories reflecting the themes we had explored. I allowed for outside work while also requiring in-class discussions to ensure comprehension and connection.
The creativity and depth of understanding demonstrated by my students were heartening. Many drew parallels between their characters and the behaviors of chatbots, illustrating their awareness of the technology’s implications. I felt a sense of fulfillment in witnessing their growth.
As I navigated the complexities of teaching in an AI-augmented world, I recognized that my journey had only just begun. While I could not eliminate AI from my students' lives, I aimed to guide them toward meaningful learning experiences that prioritized critical thinking and creativity. With that goal in mind, I prepared to embrace the challenges and opportunities that lay ahead.
Source: Theguardian News