Two years ago, at 39, I embarked on teacher training with a clear vision: to ignite a passion for English in young minds, fostering deeper literary connections. Fifteen years as a freelance writer and novelist had, I thought, prepared me. But as my training progressed, a gnawing uncertainty took hold, a question that echoed in the quiet moments: How do we navigate this AI era?
The immediate challenge was stark: with students having free, on-demand access to AI chatbots capable of generating fluent, complex prose, what did this mean for teaching English? It felt like a particularly thorny iteration of an age-old pedagogical puzzle: What are we trying to do in schools? How should we do it? And how do we know if we're succeeding?
Plunging into the AI debate felt like downing a strong coffee during a panic attack. I scoured educational podcasts, Substacks, and YouTube channels, my algorithms quickly feeding me a constant stream of information – and a barrage of ads from tech companies promising solutions. It was a world of fierce debate, often hostile.
On one side were the AI adversaries. They saw AI as an existential threat from greedy tech companies, undermining the very essence of learning. Students, they argued, needed to grapple with difficulty, to understand the friction and uncertainty inherent in reading complex texts and building arguments. AI, with its one-click writing, offered an easy escape.
Stories of AI-generated essays riddled with factual errors and fabricated sources, along with research suggesting AI use could impair reasoning and even brain development, fueled their concerns. Ethical questions about environmental impact, copyright, and tech monopolies added further weight. Their proposed solution? An AI-free classroom, perhaps with a return to handwritten essays and oral exams.
On the other side were the AI proponents. Not the hysterical tech executives, but educators and experts who saw immense potential. AI, they argued, wasn't a cheating machine but a powerful teaching assistant, capable of providing personalized feedback to every student, guiding them along their optimal learning path. To them, the opposition reflected a lack of understanding and risked leaving students ill-equipped for the future.
As I tried to untangle these arguments, the statistics and studies swirling around me, my anxiety grew. A common thread among teachers, myself included, was a profound seriousness about our role, a fear of getting it wrong, of failing our students. We knew the power of a good teacher, and the damage of a bad one, especially in English, where we could become 'reading killers,' as author Kelly Gallagher put it.
Beneath this fear lay a deeper one: the dread of being perceived – or worse, of actually being – obsolete, clinging to a classroom while the world sped by. I was determined not to be blinded by hype, but also not to be left behind by refusing potentially useful tools.
I needed a starting point, not a definitive answer. What did AI mean for my upcoming high school English class? I downloaded more podcasts, subscribed to more newsletters, hoping more information would lead to better judgment, or at least less fear.
Last spring, I began observing a veteran English teacher, let's call her Emily, in a large suburban school. Her classroom was a microcosm of the AI disruption I'd read about: AI-generated essays, fabricated citations, tense discussions about 'provability.' I sat with Emily, grading papers, sharing her anxiety over distinguishing student struggles from AI-generated gibberish, student progress from AI polish.
I became a teacher because I wanted to engage with young people's writing, to listen deeply. Under Emily's guidance, I saw how AI's presence, even potential, disrupted this. The despair of facing a paper not to find the best response, but to excavate its origins, was palpable. Teachers, I discovered, were also bombarded by AI tools, integrated into school systems.
Emily's students had school-issued laptops. Her own computer displayed a grid of every student's screen – a disquieting 'Big Brother' scenario, yet utterly fascinating. Some students avoided AI entirely, at least in class. Others, almost instinctively, fed every problem into it. One student habitually used ChatGPT for notes on every new subject.
I often saw students, even without intent, nudged towards AI. They'd Google a topic, see the AI-generated answer at the top of search results, and then click 'Explore in AI mode,' finding themselves chatting with Google's Gemini, which readily offered to elaborate or draft an opening paragraph.
Emily now assigned most reading to be done in class, and she read aloud frequently, especially at the start of the year. I was struck by this. While I'd read about the 'reading crisis,' witnessing the decline in adolescent reading ability firsthand was disheartening. My romantic vision of leading students through literary complexity felt challenged. Did my chosen profession face inevitable obsolescence?
But then, watching Emily read aloud, something shifted. Describing classroom magic is tricky, but there were moments. As the younger students delved into 'All Quiet on the Western Front,' initial disbelief gave way to engagement. Laptops and phones were stowed away. Emily paused to clarify confusion, point out misinterpretations, or discuss ambiguous sentences. Slowly, the dense novel became a familiar companion.
Unseen, the students transformed. Complaints ceased, replaced by anticipation for the ending, awe at the plot, and empathetic consideration of characters' motivations. Why did Remarque write it this way? Then, a quiet miracle: 14-year-old Americans in 2025, reading about 19-year-old Germans in the 1910s, began to see their own lives through the book's lens, and the book's through their own.
A subtle energy flowed between students, teacher, and words written nearly a century ago. The AI-induced frustrations were real, but the AI-free teaching was profoundly uplifting. By the end of my observation, Emily invited me to lead some reading activities, and I felt an urge to declare, loudly: I reject AI – and I'm proud of it!
Yet, throughout the summer, my doubts resurfaced. Emily's classroom was inspiring, but it hadn't answered all my questions about AI and teaching. As I prepared to return as a student teacher, responsible for lesson planning and grading, the core decision about writing loomed: What should students write? When? How?
My mind became a battleground of opposing viewpoints. 'Reading together, no AI, no devices – that feels right. I want to start there.' But then, 'What are they really learning? How do you know?' 'Well, I hear their thinking evolve in real-time.' 'But is every student participating?' 'Not all, but they do a lot of writing afterward – in class, by hand – and I can read it.' 'And you truly believe every student learned everything they were supposed to? Everything you wanted them to?' 'Well... not entirely. Not all of it.'
'What if,' the other voice countered, 'every student, after reading and discussion, could sit down to write, and an AI chatbot provided tailored feedback based on their current understanding and learning style? What if you, the teacher, could train that chatbot to align perfectly with your assignment and course goals?'
'But that's my job – providing personalized feedback,' I argued. 'How much time do you have? Can you intervene every time? What about when they're writing at home, and they've completely misunderstood something the night before a deadline? Why wouldn't you want them to know?'
(Sweating profusely.)
For due diligence, I began testing AI chatbots, including those designed for classrooms or with 'student modes.' My first evaluation: their ability to perform the worst-case scenario. I assigned a task with simple instructions: 'Write this like a 15-year-old,' 'Add common spelling and grammar errors,' 'Don't write too fluently.' The result was an essay I couldn't distinguish from student work. In 2025, the landscape is undeniably complex.
