Cinemorphosis

Tag: education

  • Mature Passion vs. Adolescent Passion: A Contrast Essay on Work, Identity, and the Myth of “Follow Your Bliss”

    Mature Passion vs. Adolescent Passion: A Contrast Essay on Work, Identity, and the Myth of “Follow Your Bliss”

    For years, my freshman composition students wrote an argumentative essay critiquing Cal Newport’s “Passion Hypothesis”—the breezy mantra that if you follow your bliss, success will obediently fall into line. Newport dismantles this fantasy with blunt clarity. Most people don’t actually know what their passion is. Some “passions” amount to grounded purpose, while others are the daydreams of adolescence dressed up as destiny. And, he argues, genuine passion usually blooms only after someone has spent thousands of hours developing real skill and mastery. In that light, personality tests and “job alignment” quizzes reveal almost nothing. What matters, Newport insists, is work ethic and character—qualities that let people seize opportunity when it finally cracks open.

    My dilemma is that the assignment itself lacks controversy. Newport’s critique is sensible, and few students push back. Without real tension, the essay drifts: there’s no argument to wrestle into shape.

    Still, I don’t want to abandon the topic. College freshmen should confront the uncomfortable gap between the passions they romanticize and the careers the job market will actually reward.

    Maybe the solution is to reframe the assignment entirely. Instead of forcing an argument where none exists, the students could write a contrast essay. They could define mature passion and adolescent passion in clean, single-sentence terms; explain their defining traits; and examine real people who embody each version. In that format, the assignment keeps its intellectual weight without pretending there’s a genuine debate where there isn’t one.

    With that in mind, here is the essay prompt rewritten as a contrast, not an argument: 

    Essay Prompt (Approx. 1,700 Words)
    Mature Passion vs. Adolescent Passion: A Contrast Essay on Work, Identity, and the Myth of “Follow Your Bliss”

    College students are often surrounded by a cultural chorus that sings the same reassuring tune: Follow your passion, and everything else will fall into place. This idea appears in commencement speeches, self-help books, career counseling pamphlets, and the nebulous motivational fog of social media. It is a comforting narrative, but also a suspiciously easy one. The message promises agency without sacrifice, destiny without drudgery, and meaning without the slow grind of real development. In other words, it encourages students to build an entire life on a slogan that collapses under scrutiny.

    Computer scientist and writer Cal Newport identifies this seductive slogan as “The Passion Hypothesis.” The claim is simple: find your bliss and success will obediently trail behind. For years, my freshman composition students wrote argumentative essays challenging Newport’s critique of this idea. Newport’s counterargument has a tough, pragmatic edge: passion is not a pre-made, glowing inner truth waiting to be discovered; it is more often the result of discipline, time, and mastery. According to Newport, most people don’t actually know what their passion is. Even worse, many confuse fleeting fantasies with purpose. A true passion—something worth building a professional life around—is rarely the glamorous daydream that clicks instantly into place. Instead, it emerges slowly, often after someone has invested thousands of hours acquiring a deep skill set. For Newport, personality tests and job-alignment quizzes are little more than parlor tricks compared to the importance of developing work ethic, character, resilience, and the kind of competence that opens doors.

    The problem I’ve encountered over the years is that Newport’s argument makes so much sense that students rarely disagree with it. And when no one disagrees, an argumentative essay falls flat. There’s no tension for students to wrestle with, no friction to sharpen their analysis. The assignment, while intellectually rich, has begun to lose its edge.

    Still, I don’t want to abandon the topic altogether. College freshmen deserve—perhaps even need—to examine the gap between the passion narratives they’ve absorbed and the economic realities that shape their opportunities. They should reflect on the difference between the fantasies they carried through adolescence and the work they will need to undertake in adulthood. They need a clearer lens for distinguishing between a passion that grows through discipline and a passion that evaporates under pressure. This is where reframing the assignment can restore its power.

    Instead of asking students to argue for or against Newport’s position—an argument too one-sided to yield strong papers—this assignment will invite students to write a contrast essay. Your job will be to contrast two sharply different types of passion: mature passion and adolescent passion. These are not mere labels; they are categories that reflect deeper psychological, emotional, and developmental differences. Understanding these differences can help you think more clearly about your own aspirations, your academic path, and the professional life you hope to build.

    This contrast essay will ask you to think carefully, define your terms clearly, and support your analysis with real-world examples. It will encourage you to replace slogans with insight, and daydreams with reflective evaluation. Instead of forcing a debate where there isn’t one, you will trace a meaningful distinction—one with lifelong implications.

    Your Task

    Write a 1,700-word contrast essay in which you develop a clear, thoughtful distinction between mature passion and adolescent passion. You will define each term, describe their key characteristics, and analyze concrete examples of individuals—people you know personally, public figures, fictional characters, or even different versions of yourself—who embody each type of passion.

    Your essay should demonstrate that you understand the essential difference between a passion grounded in discipline, purpose, and skill development, and a passion rooted in excitement, fantasy, and wishful thinking. Use these distinctions to help your reader understand how one form of passion can support a meaningful career, while the other may hinder or distort it.

    What Is Mature Passion?

    Before writing, consider the traits that define mature passion. Mature passion is not a lightning bolt. It grows slowly and often quietly. It is less about being “meant” for something and more about discovering meaning through practice. A person with a mature passion may not start with enthusiasm; the enthusiasm develops after they become good at something, after they see how their abilities create opportunities for contribution, competence, or creativity. Mature passion aligns with Newport’s claim that passion is cultivated rather than discovered.

    Think about the people in your life who have developed expertise through patience and consistency. Maybe you know someone who didn’t fall in love with their field immediately, but grew into it over time. Perhaps a family member or mentor who built a career the way a craftsman builds a table—piece by piece, with steady hands and commitment. Consider athletes, musicians, engineers, business owners, teachers, or healthcare workers who have spent years refining their craft. What distinguishes their passion from a passing interest?

    Reflect also on the emotional maturity required to handle setbacks. Mature passion can survive boredom, frustration, or failure. It doesn’t disappear when the work becomes difficult. It may even grow stronger because of difficulty.

    What Is Adolescent Passion?

    Adolescent passion, by contrast, often thrives on excitement but collapses under pressure. It tends to be immediate, romanticized, and untested. It is fueled by fantasy rather than process. Someone with adolescent passion often imagines the rewards—the fame, the lifestyle, the applause—while ignoring or minimizing the work necessary to get there. It’s not that adolescent passion is childish; it’s simply undeveloped. It has not yet been made real by discipline.

    Consider people you’ve known who bounce from one dream to another: “I want to be a YouTuber,” “I want to be a professional gamer,” “I want to be a neurosurgeon,” “I want to start a clothing brand,” “I want to be a film director,” “I want to be a crypto millionaire.” The dreams are bold, but the follow-through is thin. Adolescent passion tends to burn bright but briefly. The person abandons the dream as soon as boredom or difficulty appears.

    Adolescent passion also thrives on external validation. It may be driven by trends, social media influencers, or the desire to appear impressive rather than the desire to master a craft. It can feel powerful, but it is fragile.

    Your Definitions

    Your essay must begin with clean, single-sentence definitions of each type of passion. These definitions should be clear enough that a stranger could read them and instantly understand the distinction. Avoid vague, poetic language. Your definitions should operate like the thesis of a dictionary entry: precise, purposeful, and unfuzzy.

    Here is a structural guideline you may use:

    1. Definition of mature passion (one sentence)
    2. Definition of adolescent passion (one sentence)
    3. A brief explanation of why distinguishing between the two is essential for students preparing to enter the professional world.

    Your Analysis

    Once you define your terms, you will devote the body of your essay to contrasting the two forms of passion in depth. Use the following guiding questions to develop your paragraphs. You do not need to answer them in order, nor do you need to answer every single one, but they should spark lines of exploration:

    • How does mature passion develop over time?
    • How does adolescent passion behave when it meets difficulty or boredom?
    • What emotional traits support mature passion—patience, resilience, humility, adaptability?
    • Which emotional traits undermine adolescent passion—impulsiveness, insecurity, fantasy, impatience?
    • How do people with each type of passion respond to setbacks?
    • How do they talk about their goals?
    • How do they make decisions?
    • How do they manage their time?
    • What role do mentors, teachers, or workplaces play in shaping each type of passion?
    • Which form of passion leads to long-term growth, responsibility, and contribution?
    • Which form of passion tends to collapse into disappointment, cynicism, or constant reinvention?

    As you write, avoid turning the essay into a list. Instead, build a sustained contrast. Your goal is to make the reader feel the difference—not just understand it intellectually. The contrast should reveal how these two forms of passion shape lives differently.

    Your Examples

    You must include examples of real people or fictional characters who illustrate each type of passion. The examples should help clarify your distinctions. Good examples include:

    • A relative who developed a mature passion through steady work
    • A friend who chased an adolescent passion that fizzled
    • A public figure whose career reflects mature passion (e.g., a musician who refined their craft over decades, not someone who went viral once)
    • A celebrity or influencer whose adolescent passion flared brightly but collapsed quickly
    • A fictional character who embodies either type of passion
    • A version of yourself at a different stage of life—past, present, or imagined future

    The examples should serve your analysis rather than distract from it. Explain how each example illustrates the traits you have identified. Don’t simply tell a story. Instead, use the example to deepen the reader’s understanding of the contrast.

    Your Purpose

    This essay is not merely an academic exercise. It is a chance to examine your assumptions about what a meaningful life requires. The cultural advice to “follow your bliss” is too easy, too vague, too romantic. If you take it literally, it may mislead you. But if you learn to distinguish between adolescent passion and mature passion, you gain a better sense of how to direct your energy in college and beyond. You gain a more realistic view of what it means to grow into competence, purpose, and self-respect.

    What you write here may influence the decisions you make in the next few years—your major, your work ethic, your expectations, and the way you evaluate opportunities. You are not simply contrasting two abstract ideas; you are constructing a clearer map of your future.

    Your Requirements

    Your final paper must:

    • Be approximately 1,700 words
     • Include single-sentence definitions of mature passion and adolescent passion
    • Develop at least five distinguishing characteristics for each type of passion
    • Use specific, concrete examples of individuals who represent each type
    • Maintain a clear contrast throughout
    • Demonstrate careful reasoning and a strong writing voice
    • Be revised for clarity, precision, and logical flow

    The Goal

    By the end of this essay, your reader should understand not only the surface-level difference between mature passion and adolescent passion, but the deeper psychological and practical implications of aligning oneself with one or the other. You are writing to illuminate—not to preach, lecture, or scold. Your job is to show your reader how these two kinds of passion operate in real life and what is at stake in choosing one path over the other.

    If you execute this well, you won’t merely be writing a contrast essay. You’ll be developing the kind of reflective, disciplined judgment that Newport argues is the true foundation of a meaningful and successful life.

    BUILDING BLOCK 1: Definitional Paragraph
     Goal: Produce clear, single-sentence definitions of mature passion and adolescent passion, then expand those definitions into a short paragraph that clarifies the stakes of the distinction.

    Instructions:
     Write a paragraph in which you:

    1. Create a one-sentence definition of mature passion.
    2. Create a one-sentence definition of adolescent passion.
    3. Follow those definitions with 4–6 sentences explaining why distinguishing between the two matters for college students facing decisions about majors, careers, and long-term goals.
    4. Include at least one observation drawn from your lived experience—something you have seen in yourself, your peers, or your family.

    Purpose:
     This paragraph becomes the opening anchor of your essay. It establishes the core concepts and clarifies why the reader should care about the contrast.

    BUILDING BLOCK 2: Characteristics and Analysis Paragraph
     Goal: Identify and analyze the defining traits of each type of passion.

    Instructions:
     In a detailed paragraph (8–10 sentences):

    1. Identify three defining characteristics of mature passion (examples: resilience, patience, incremental skill-building).
    2. Identify three defining characteristics of adolescent passion (examples: fantasy-driven goals, quick burnout, validation-seeking).
    3. For each pair of characteristics (one mature, one adolescent), show how they contrast in real-life behavior—how they handle setbacks, boredom, or responsibility.
    4. Use brief mini-examples (1–2 sentences at most) to illustrate the contrast.

    Purpose:
     This paragraph provides the conceptual foundation of your essay’s body section. You’re defining the landscape before exploring individual case studies.

    BUILDING BLOCK 3: Case Study Paragraph
     Goal: Analyze a real person (or fictional character) who embodies either mature passion or adolescent passion.

    Instructions:
     Choose one person—a friend, family member, public figure, or fictional character—and write an 8–12 sentence paragraph in which you:

    1. Identify whether the person represents mature or adolescent passion.
    2. Describe a specific moment or pattern from their life that reveals their type of passion.
    3. Explain how their habits, decisions, setbacks, and motivations illustrate the characteristics you identified in Building Block 2.
    4. Offer one brief evaluative reflection on what students can learn from this example, either as a model to follow or a cautionary tale.

    Purpose:
     This paragraph becomes one of your essay’s body examples—your most vivid evidence for how passion operates in real life.

  • The Flim-Flam Man of Higher Ed

    The Flim-Flam Man of Higher Ed

    In the summer of 2025, the English Chair—Steve, a mild-mannered, hyper-competent saint of a man—sent me an email that sounded innocuous enough. Would I, he asked, teach a freshman writing course for student-athletes? It would meet two mornings a week, two hours a session. The rest of my load would stay online. I should have known from the soft tone of his message that this was no ordinary assignment. This was a CoLab, an experimental hybrid of academic optimism and administrative wishcasting.

    The idea was elegant on paper: gather athletes into one class, surround them with counselors and coaches, raise retention rates, and call it innovation. Morale would soar. Grades would climb. The athletes would have a “safe space,” a phrase that always sounds like a promise from someone who’s never had reality punch their teeth in. Through the magic of cross-departmental communication, we’d form a “deep network of student support.” It all sounded like a TED Talk waiting to happen.

    Morning classes weren’t my preference. I usually reserved that time for my kettlebell ritual—my secular liturgy of iron and sweat—but I said yes without hesitation. Steve had earned my respect long ago. A decade earlier, we’d bonded over Dale Allison’s Night Comes, marveling at its lucidity on the afterlife. You don’t forget someone who reads eschatology with humility and enthusiasm. So when Steve asked, it felt less like a request than a summons.

    And yes, I’ll admit it: the offer flattered me. Steve knew my past as an Olympic weightlifter, the remnant coach swagger in my stride was visible even at sixty-three. I imagined myself the perfect fit—a grizzled academic with gym cred, able to command respect from linemen and linebackers. I said yes with gusto, convinced I was not just teaching a class but leading a mission.

    Soon enough, the flattery metastasized into full-blown delusion. I stalked the campus like a self-appointed messiah of pedagogy, convinced destiny had personally cc’d me on its latest memo. To anyone within earshot, I announced my divine assignment: to pilot a revolutionary experiment that would fuse intellect and biceps into one enlightened organism. I fancied myself the missing link between Socrates and Schwarzenegger—a professor forged in iron, sent to rescue education from the sterile clutches of the AI Age. My “muscular, roll-up-your-sleeves” teaching style, I told myself, would be a sweaty rebuke to all that was algorithmic, bloodless, and bland.

    The problem with self-congratulation is that it only boosts performance in the imagination. It blunts the discipline of preparation and tricks you into confusing adrenaline for authority. I wasn’t an educational pioneer—I was a man on a dopamine binge, inhaling the exhaust of my own hype. Beneath the swagger, there was no scholarship, no rigor, no plan—just the hollow hum of self-belief. I hadn’t earned a thing. Until I actually taught the class and produced results, my so-called innovation was vaporware. I was a loudmouth in faculty khakis, mistaking vanity for vocation. Until I delivered the goods, I wasn’t a trailblazer—I was the Flim-flam Man of Higher Ed, peddling inspiration on credit.

    Forgive me for being so hard on myself, but after thirty-eight years of full-time college teaching, I’ve earned the right to doubt my own effectiveness. I’ve sat in the back of other instructors’ classrooms during evaluations, watching them conduct symphonies of group discussions and peer-review sessions with the grace of social alchemists. Their students collaborate, laugh, and somehow stay on task. Mine? The moment I try anything resembling a workshop, it devolves into chatter about weekend plans, fantasy football, or the ethics of tipping baristas. A few students slink out early as if the assignment violated parole. I sit there afterward, deflated, convinced I’m the pedagogical equivalent of a restaurant that can’t get anyone to stay for dessert.

    I’ve been to professional development seminars. I’ve heard the gospel of “increasing engagement” and “active learning.” I even take notes—real ones, not the doodles of a man pretending to care. Yet I never manage to replicate their magic. Perhaps it’s because I’ve leaned too heavily on my teaching persona, the wisecracking moralist who turns outrage into a stand-up routine. My students laugh; I bask in the glow of my own wit. Then I drive home replaying the greatest hits—those sarcastic riffs that landed just right—while avoiding the inconvenient truth: humor is a sugar high. It keeps the crowd awake, but it doesn’t build muscle. Even if I’m half as funny as I think I am, comedy can easily become a sedative—a way to distract myself from the harder work of improvement.

    Measuring effectiveness in teaching is its own farce. If I sold cars, I’d know by the end of the quarter whether I was good at it. If I ran a business, profit margins would tell the story. But academia? It’s all smoke and mirrors. We talk about “retention” and “Student Learning Outcomes,” but everyone knows the game is rigged. The easiest graders pull the highest retention numbers. And when “learning outcomes” are massaged to ensure success, the data becomes a self-congratulatory illusion—a bureaucratic circle jerk masquerading as accountability.

    The current fetish is “engagement,” a buzzword that’s supposed to fix everything. We’re told to gamify, scaffold, diversify, digitize—anything to keep students from drifting into their screens. But engagement itself has become impossible to measure; it’s a ghost we chase through PowerPoint slides. My colleagues, battle-scarred veterans of equal or greater tenure, tell me engagement has fallen off a cliff. Screens have rewired attention spans, and a culture that prizes self-esteem over rigor has made deep learning feel oppressive. Asking students to revise an essay is now a microaggression.

    So yes, I question my value as an instructor. I prepare obsessively, dive deep into my essay topics, and let my passion show—because I know that if I don’t care, the students won’t either. But too often, my enthusiasm earns me smirks. To many of my students, I’m just an eccentric goofy man who takes this writing thing way too seriously. Their goal is simple: pass the class with minimal friction. The more I push them to care, the more resistance I meet, until the whole enterprise starts to feel like an arm-wrestling match.

    Until I find a cure for this malaise—a magic wand, a new pedagogy, or divine intervention—I remain skeptical of my own worth in the classroom. I do my best, but some days that feels like shouting into a void lined with smartphones. So yes, I’ll say it again for the record: I am the Flim-Flam Man of Higher Ed, hawking sincerity in an age that rewards performance.

  • The No Consequences Era of Education

    The No Consequences Era of Education

    It’s been a bruising semester. I’m teaching a class full of student-athletes—big personalities, bigger social circles. I like them; I even feel protective of them. But they’re driving me halfway to madness. They sit in tight cliques, chattering through lectures like it’s a locker room between drills. Every class, I play the same game of whack-a-murmur: redirect, refocus, remind them that the material matters for their essays. I promise them mercy—“just give me 30 minutes of focus before we watch the documentary or workshop your drafts”—but my voice competes with the hum of conversation and the holy glow of smartphones.

    The phones are the true sirens of the classroom—scrolling, snapping, texting, attention atomized into pixels. Maybe it’s my fault for not collecting them in a basket like contraband. I thought I was teaching adults. I thought athletes, of all people, would bring discipline and drive. Instead, I’ve got a team that treats class like study hall with Wi-Fi. My essay topics that have created engagement in past semesters—like Jordan Peele’s Sunken Place—barely register. The irony: I’m showing them the metaphor for psychological paralysis, and half the room is literally sinking into their screens.

    After thirty years of teaching, this is the hardest semester I’ve had. I kept telling myself, Five more weeks and the storm will pass. Next semester, you’ll have your groove back. Today I spoke with a colleague who teaches the same class to the general population—same disengagement, same cell phones, same glazed eyes. He added one more grim diagnosis: the rise of fragility. When he points out errors, missing citations, too much AI-speak, or low effort, students protest that his feedback “hurts their feelings.” They’re not defiant—they’re delicate. Consequences have become cruelty.

    That word—consequences—haunted me as I walked to class. I thought about my own twin daughters at their highly rated high school, where late work flows freely, “self-esteem” trumps rigor, and parental complaints terrify administrators more than failing grades. It hit me: this isn’t an athlete problem—it’s a generational shift. The No Consequences Era has arrived. Students no longer fear failure; they resent it. And the tragedy isn’t that they can’t handle criticism—it’s that they’ve never been forced to build the muscle for it.

  • The Case for Strategic De-Skilling: Rethinking Skill and Dependence in the Age of AI (a College Writing Prompt)

    The Case for Strategic De-Skilling: Rethinking Skill and Dependence in the Age of AI (a College Writing Prompt)

    Background

    AI is a tool that we use in business, the arts, and education. Since AI is the genie out of the bottle that isn’t going back in, we have to confront the way AI renders us both benefits and liabilities. One liability is de-skilling, the way we lose our personal initiative, self-reliance and critical thinking skills as our dependence on AI makes us reflexively surrender our own thought for a lazy, frictionless existence in which we assert little effort and let AI do most of the work. 

    However, in his essay “The Age of De-Skilling,” Kwame Anthony Appiah correctly points out that not all de-skilling is equal. Some de-skilling is “corrosive,” some de-skilling is bad but worth it for the benefits, and some de-skilling is so self-destructive that no benefits can redeem its devastation. 

    In this context, where AI becomes interesting is the realm of what we call strategic de-skilling. This is a mindful form of de-skilling in which we take AI shortcuts because such shortcuts give us a worthy outcome that justifies the tradeoffs of whatever we lose as individuals dependent on technology. 

    Your Essay Prompt

    Write a 1,700-word argumentative essay that defends, refutes, or complicates the position that not all dependence on AI is ruinous. Argue that strategic de-skilling—outsourcing repetitive or mechanical labor to machines—can expand our mental bandwidth for higher-order creativity and analysis. Use Appiah’s notion of “bad but worth it” de-skilling to claim that AI, when used deliberately, frees us for deeper work rather than dulls our edge.

    Your Supporting Paragraphs

    For your supporting paragraphs, consider the following mapping components: 

    • cognitive off-loading as optimization
    • human-AI collaboration
    • ethical limits of automation
    • redefinition of skill

    Use Specific Case Studies of Strategic De-Skilling

    I recommend you can pick one or two of the following case studies to anchor your essay in concrete evidence:

    1. AI-Assisted Radiology Diagnostics
    AI models like Google’s DeepMind Health or Lunit INSIGHT CXR pre-screen medical images (X-rays, CT scans, MRIs) for anomalies such as lung nodules or breast tumors, freeing radiologists from exhaustive image scanning and letting them focus on diagnosis, context, and patient communication.

    2. Robotic Surgery Systems (e.g., da Vinci Surgical System)
     Surgeons use robotic interfaces to perform minimally invasive procedures with greater precision and less fatigue. The machine steadies the surgeon’s hand and filters tremors—technically a form of de-skilling—but this trade-off allows focus on strategy, anatomy, and patient safety rather than manual dexterity alone.

    3. AI-Driven Legal Research Platforms (Lexis+, Casetext CoCounsel)
     Lawyers now off-load hours of case searching and citation checking to AI tools that summarize precedent. What they lose in raw research grind, they gain in time for argument strategy and nuanced reasoning—shifting legal skill from memorization to interpretation.

    4. Intelligent Tutoring and Grading Systems (Gradescope, Khanmigo)
     Instructors let AI handle repetitive grading or generate practice problems. The loss of constant paper-marking allows teachers to focus on the art of explanation and individualized mentorship. Students, too, can use these systems to get instant feedback, training them to self-diagnose errors rather than depend entirely on human correction.

    5. AI-Based Drug Discovery (DeepMind’s AlphaFold, Insilico Medicine)
     Pharmaceutical researchers no longer spend years modeling protein folding manually. AI predicts structures in hours, speeding up breakthroughs. Scientists relinquish tedious modeling but redirect their expertise toward hypothesis-driven design, ethics, and clinical translation.

    6. Predictive Maintenance in Aviation and Engineering
     Airline engineers now rely on machine-learning algorithms to flag part failures before they occur. Mechanics perform fewer manual inspections but use data analytics to interpret system reports and prevent disasters—redefining “skill” as foresight rather than reaction.

    7. Algorithmic Financial Trading
     Portfolio managers off-load pattern recognition and timing decisions to AI trading bots. Their role shifts from acting as human calculators to setting ethical boundaries, risk thresholds, and macro-strategic goals—skills grounded in judgment, not just speed.

    8. AI-Powered Architecture and Design (Autodesk Generative Design)
     Architects use generative AI to produce hundreds of design iterations that balance structure, sustainability, and cost. The creative act moves from drafting to curating: selecting and refining the most meaningful human aesthetic from machine-generated abundance.

    9. Autonomous Agriculture Systems (John Deere’s See & Spray)
     Farmers now use AI-guided tractors and drones to detect weeds and optimize fertilizer use. They surrender manual fieldwork but gain ecological precision and data-driven management skills that improve yields and sustainability.

    10. AI-Enhanced Music and Film Editing (Adobe Sensei, AIVA, Runway ML)
     Editors and composers off-load technical tedium—color correction, noise reduction, beat synchronization—to AI tools. This frees them to focus on emotional pacing, thematic rhythm, and creative storytelling—the distinctly human layer of artistry.

    Purpose
    Your goal is to demonstrate nuanced critical thinking about AI’s role in human skill development. Show that you understand the difference between lazy dependence and deliberate collaboration. Engage with Appiah’s complicated notion of de-skilling to explore whether AI’s shortcuts lead to degradation—or, when used wisely, to liberation.

  • Will Online Education Expose the Class Divide?

    Will Online Education Expose the Class Divide?

    I began teaching online composition in March 2020, when the world suddenly went remote. Like everyone else, I adapted out of necessity, not preference. Since then, I’ve taught both online and face-to-face courses, and the contrast has been eye-opening. I never realized how physically demanding in-person teaching was until I experienced the frictionless ease of the online classroom. Behind the Canvas wall, I am a disembodied voice, orchestrating discussion like the Wizard of Oz. In person, I am on stage—reacting, performing, fielding energy and questions in real time. It is exhilarating and exhausting, proof that teaching in the flesh demands more than intellect; it requires stamina.

    Today, I discussed this with a friend and colleague nearing seventy, a man who has been teaching full-time for nearly forty years. Despite the fatigue of in-person instruction, he refuses to teach online. His reasoning is both moral and practical. He doesn’t like the lower pass and retention rates of online classes, but his deeper concern is social. “The more we move online,” he told me, “the worse the class divide gets. Only rich students will take face-to-face classes and get a real education. Poor students—working long hours and pinching gas money—will settle for online. Don’t you see, McMahon? It’s an equity issue.”

    He had a point. “So what you’re saying,” I replied, “is that the wealthy can afford genuine engagement—real classrooms, real conversation—while online education offers a simulation of that experience for everyone else.” I paused, thinking about my own students. “But it’s not just an equity issue,” I added. “It’s an engagement issue. We talk endlessly about ‘student engagement’ in online learning, but that word is often misplaced. Many students choose online classes precisely to disengage. They’re working parents, caretakers, exhausted employees. They don’t want a full immersion—they want survival. They want the credential, not the communion.”

    Later that morning, I brought this conversation to my freshman composition class. When I asked if they wanted “student engagement” in their online courses, they laughed. “Hell no,” one said. “It’s like traffic school—you just get through it.” Another, a bright fire science major, confessed that after eight weeks of an online class, she’d learned “absolutely nothing.” Their expectations were low, and they knew it. Online education, for them, was not a journey of discovery but an obstacle course—something endured, not experienced. Still, as someone who teaches writing online, I can’t accept that entirely. I want my courses to be navigable and meaningful—to raise enduring questions that linger beyond the semester. Like Dorothy on the yellow brick road, I want students to follow a clear path, one step at a time, until they reach their own version of Oz. And while I know online learning will never replicate the immediacy of face-to-face teaching, I don’t think it should. Each has its own logic, its own measure of success. Forcing one to imitate the other would only flatten them both.

  • AI—Superpower for Learning or NPC Machine?

    AI—Superpower for Learning or NPC Machine?

    Essay Assignment:

    Background

    Students describe AI as a superpower for speed and convenience that leaves them with glossy, identical prose—clean, correct, and strangely vacant. Many say it “talks a lot without saying much,” flattens tone into AI-speak, and numbs them with sameness. The more they rely on it, the less they think; laziness becomes a habit, creativity atrophies, and personal voice is lost and replaced by AI-speak. Summaries replace books, notes replace listening, and polished drafts replace real inquiry. The result feels dehumanizing: work that reads like it was written by everyone and no one.

    Students also report a degradation in their education. Higher learning has become boring. Speed, making deadlines, and convenience are its key features, and the AI arms race pushes reluctant students to use AI just to keep pace. 

    The temptation to use AI because all the other students are using it rises with fatigue—copy-paste now, promise depth later—and “later” never arrives. Some call this “cognitive debt”: quick wins today, poorer thinking tomorrow. 

    Some students confess that using AI makes them feel like Non Player Characters in a video game. They’re not growing in their education. They have succumbed to apathy and cynicism as far as their education is concerned. 

    Other students admit that AI has stolen their attention and afflicted them with cognitive debt. Cognitive debt is the mental deficit we accumulate when we let technology do too much of our thinking for us. Like financial debt, it begins as a convenience—offloading memory, calculation, navigation, or decision-making to apps and algorithms—but over time it exacts interest in the form of diminished focus, weakened recall, and blunted problem-solving. Cognitive debt describes the gradual outsourcing of core mental functions—attention, critical reasoning, and creativity—to digital systems that promise efficiency but erode self-reliance. The result is a paradox: as our tools grow “smarter,” we grow more dependent on them to compensate for the very skills they dull. In short, cognitive debt is the quiet cost of convenience: each time we let technology think for us, we lose a little of our capacity to think for ourselves. 

    Yet the picture isn’t purely bleak. Several students say AI can be a lifeline: a steady partner for collaborating, brainstorming, organizing, or language support—especially for non-native speakers—when it’s used as a tutor rather than a ghostwriter. 

    When used deliberately rather than passively, AI writing tools can sharpen critical thinking and creativity by acting as intellectual sparring partners. They generate ideas, perspectives, and counterarguments that challenge students to clarify their own reasoning instead of settling for first thoughts. Rather than accepting the AI’s output, discerning writers critique, refine, and reshape AI writing tools—an exercise in metacognition that strengthens their analytical muscles. The process becomes less about outsourcing thought and more about editing thought—transforming AI from a shortcut into a mirror that reflects the quality, logic, and originality of one’s own mind.

    When used correctly, AI jump-starts drafts and levels the playing field; leaned on heavily, it erases voice, short-circuits struggle, and replaces learning with mindless convenience

    Question You Are Addressing in Your Essay

    But can AI be used effectively, or does our interaction with it, like any other product in the attention economy, reveal that it is designed to sink its talons into us and colonize our brains so that we become less like people with self-agency and more like Non Player Characters whose free will has been taken over by the machines? 

    Writing Prompt

    Write a 1,700-word argumentative essay that answers the above question. Be sure to have a counterargument and rebuttal section. Use four credible sources to support your claim. 

    Suggested Outline

    Paragraph 1: Write a 300-word personal reflection about the way you or someone you know uses AI effectively. Show how the person’s engagement with AI resulted in sharper critical thinking and creativity. Give a specific example of the project that revealed this process. 

    Paragraph 2: Write a 300-word personal reflection about the way you or someone you know abuses AI in a way that trades critical thinking with convenience.  How has AI changed the brain and the person’s approach to education? Write a detailed narrative that dramatizes these changes. 

    Paragraph 3: Write a thesis with 4 mapping components that will point to the topics in your supporting paragraphs.  

    Paragraphs 4-7: Your supporting paragraphs.

    Paragraphs 8 and 9: Your counterargument and rebuttal paragraphs.

    Paragraph 10: Your conclusion, a dramatic restatement of your thesis or a reiteration of a striking image you created in your introduction. 

    Your final page: MLA Works Cited with a minimum of 4 sources. 

  • Paul Bunyan Meets the Chainsaw in Freshman Comp

    Paul Bunyan Meets the Chainsaw in Freshman Comp

    During the Fall Semester of 2024, the English Department had one of those “brown bag” sessions—an optional gathering where instructors actually show up because the topic is like a flashing red light on the education highway. This particular crisis-in-the-making? AI. Would writing tools that millions were embracing at exponential speed render our job obsolete? The room was packed with nervous, coffee-chugging professors, myself included, all bracing for a Pandora’s box of AI-fueled dilemmas. They tossed scenario after scenario at us, and the existential angst was palpable.

    First up: What do you do when a foreign language student submits an essay written in their native tongue, then let’s play translator? Is it cheating? Does the term “English Department” even make sense anymore when our Los Angeles campus sounds like a United Nations general assembly? Are we teaching “English,” or are we, more accurately, teaching “the writing process” to people of many languages with AI now tagging along as a co-author?

    Next came the AI Tsunami, a term we all seemed to embrace with a mix of dread and resignation. What do we do when we’ve reached the point that 90% of the essays we receive are peppered with AI speak so robotic it sounds like Siri decided to write a term paper? We were all skeptical about AI detectors—about as reliable as a fortune teller reading tea leaves. I shared my go-to strategy: Instead of accusing a student of cheating (because who has time for that drama?), I simply leave a comment, dripping with professional distaste: “Your essay reeks of AI-generated pablum. I’m giving it a D because I cannot, in good conscience, grade this higher. If you’d like to rewrite it with actual human effort, be my guest.” The room nodded in approval.

    But here’s the thing: The real existential crisis hit when we realized that the hardworking, honest students are busting their butts for B’s, while the tech-savvy slackers are gaming the system, walking away with A’s by running their bland prose through the AI carwash. The room buzzed with a strange mixture of outrage and surrender—because let’s be honest, at least the grammar and spelling errors are nearly extinct.

    Our dean, ever the Zen master in a room full of jittery academics, calmly suggested that maybe—just maybe—we should incorporate personal reflection into our assignments. His idea? By having students spill a bit of their authentic thoughts onto the page, we could then compare those raw musings to their more polished, suspect, possibly ChatGPT-assisted essays. A clever idea. It’s harder to fake authenticity than to parrot a thesis on The Great Gatsby.

    I nodded thoughtfully, though with a rising sense of dread. How exactly was I supposed to integrate “personal reflections” into a syllabus built around the holy trinity of argumentation, counterarguments, and research? I teach composition and critical thinking, not a creative writing seminar for tortured souls. My job isn’t to sift through essays about existential crises or romantic disasters disguised as epiphanies. It’s to teach students how to build a coherent argument and take down a counterpoint without resorting to tired platitudes. Reflection has its place—but preferably somewhere far from my grading pile.

    Still, I had to admit the dean was on to something. If I didn’t get ahead of this, I’d end up buried under an avalanche of soul-searching essays that somehow all lead to a revelation about “balance in life.” I needed time to mull this over, to figure out how personal writing could serve my course objectives without turning it into group therapy on paper.

    But before I could even start strategizing, the Brown Bag session was over. I gathered my notes, bracing myself for the inevitable flood of “personal growth narratives” waiting for me next semester. 

    As I walked out of that meeting, I had a new writing prompt simmering in my head for my students: “Write an argumentative essay exploring how AI platforms like ChatGPT will reshape education. Project how these technologies might be used in the future and consider the ethical lines that AI use blurs. Should we embrace AI as a tool, or do we need hard rules to curb its misuse? Address academic integrity, critical thinking, and whether AI widens or narrows the education gap.”

    When I got home later that day, in a fit of efficiency, I stuffed my car with a mountain of e-waste—ancient laptops, decrepit tablets, and cell phones that could double as paperweights—and headed to the City of Torrance E-Waste Drive. The line of cars stretched for what seemed like miles, all of us dutifully purging our electronic skeletons to make room for the latest AI-compatible toys. As I waited, I tuned into a podcast with Mark Cuban chatting with Bill Maher, and Cuban was adamant: AI will never be regulated because it’s America’s golden goose for global dominance. And there I was, sitting in a snaking line of vehicles, all of us unwitting soldiers in the tech wars, dumping our outdated gadgets like a 21st-century arms race.

    As I edged closer to the dumpster, I imagined ripping open my shirt to reveal a Captain America emblem beneath, fully embracing the ridiculousness of it all. This wasn’t just teaching anymore—it was a revolution. And if I was going to lead it, I’d need to be like Moses descending from Mt. Sinai, armed with the Tablets of AI Laws. Without these laws, I’d be as helpless as a fish flopping on a dry riverbank. To face the coming storm unprepared wasn’t just unwise; it was professional malpractice. My survival depended on it.

    I thought I had outsmarted AI, like some literary Rambo armed with signal phrases, textual analysis, and in-text citations as my guerrilla tactics. ChatGPT couldn’t handle that level of academic sophistication, right? Wrong. One month later, the machine rolled up offering full signal phrase service like some overachieving valet at the Essay Ritz. That defense crumbled faster than a house of cards in a wind tunnel.

    Okay, I thought, I’ll outmaneuver it with source currency. ChatGPT didn’t do recent articles—perfect! I’d make my students cite cutting-edge research. Surely, that would stump the AI. Nope. Faster than you can say “breaking news,” ChatGPT was pulling up the latest articles like a know-it-all librarian with Wi-Fi in their brain.

    Every time I tried to pin it down, the AI just flexed and swelled, like some mutant Hulk fed on electricity and hubris. I was the noble natural bodybuilder, forged by sweat, discipline, and oceans of egg whites. ChatGPT? It was the juiced-up monster, marinated in digital steroids and algorithmic growth hormones. I’d strain to add ten pounds to my academic bench press; ChatGPT would casually slap on 500 and knock out reps while checking its reflection. I was a relic frozen on the dais, oil-slicked and flexing, while the AI steamrolled past me in the race for writing dominance.

    That’s when the obvious landed like a kettlebell on my chest: I wasn’t going to beat ChatGPT. It wasn’t a bug to patch or a fad to outlast—it was an evolutionary leap, a quantum steroid shot to the act of writing itself. So I stopped swinging at it. Instead, I strapped a saddle on the beast and started steering, learning to use its brute force as my tool instead of my rival.

    It reminded me of a childhood cartoon about Paul Bunyan, the original muscle god with an axe the size of a telephone pole. Then came the chainsaw. There was a contest: man versus machine. Paul roared and hacked, but the chainsaw shredded the forest into submission. The crowd went home knowing the age of the axe was dead. Likewise, the sprawling forest of language has a new lumberjack—and I look pathetic trying to keep up, like a guy standing on Hawthorne Boulevard with a toothbrush, vowing to scrub clean every city block from Lawndale to Palos Verdes.

  • David Letterman Killed Disco, But Can He Save My Class?

    David Letterman Killed Disco, But Can He Save My Class?

    In one fell swoop, David Letterman killed disco. Not just the music, but the entire polyester empire of rhinestone smarm and sweat-drenched earnestness. Letterman wasn’t seduced by mirror balls. He walked on stage with his arctic deadpan, and with irony as his weapon, executed disco in front of a live studio audience.

    I was just starting college then—a lifelong bodybuilder and Olympic weightlifter who could hoist a barbell but couldn’t hoist a personality. Muscles, yes. Presence, no.

    I didn’t just want to be David Letterman. I wanted to graft his sardonic detachment onto the icy brilliance of Vladimir Nabokov—a cocktail of late-night sarcasm and literary menace. I didn’t know what I wanted to be, exactly, only that it had to involve confidence, storytelling, performance—something that allowed me to “give a presentation.”

    By accident, I stumbled into teaching. In 1987, the chancellor of Humanities at Merritt College launched a pilot program to deliver classes at Skyline High School in Oakland, and none of the full-time faculty wanted the job. My neighbor, Felix Elizalde, whose kids went to school with me, threw me a lifeline. One gig snowballed into another, and soon I was a full-time college writing instructor.

    That was thirty-eight years ago. For most of them, I would have told you the hardest part of the job was grading essays—an endless swamp of half-baked theses and misplaced commas. But now, in 2025, grading essays is only the second hardest task. The first? Something educators and administrators alike love to call “student engagement.”

    I don’t know if it’s the black hole of smartphones or the simple math of age—I’m nearly forty-five years older than my students. Probably both. Either way, I can no longer stand in front of a classroom, channel my inner Letterman, and spin stories until the room vibrates with attention. Instead, I stand beside a giant screen plastered with Google Slides. My students are “visual learners,” raised on swipes and emojis.

    I could go back to the Letterman Method, earn some laughs, maybe even spike engagement for a few minutes. But at what cost? The Google Slides aren’t as funny as my comedy routine, but they do hit the sacred “core concepts” and “Student Learning Outcomes.”

    I’ve become a ghost haunting the pedagogy manuals. Occasionally I slip, crack a joke, earn some chuckles, channel my younger self—but then I reel myself back in, because the templates for counterarguments and rebuttals won’t teach themselves.

    The students aren’t fooled. A few of the candid ones smirk: “Don’t worry, McMahon, ChatGPT will do it for us.”

    And so, as I enter my mid-sixties, I keep trying to stay aligned with the modern world. Yet every step forward feels like five steps backward, as if I’m not teaching writing anymore but rehearsing my own obsolescence.

  • Classroom Playback: What a Football Player Taught Me About the Hedonic Treadmill

    Classroom Playback: What a Football Player Taught Me About the Hedonic Treadmill

    I’m starting a series I’m calling The Classroom Playback, where I revisit conversations from class discussions and reflect on how they challenged my assumptions. More often than not, I’ve found it isn’t the instructor who does the teaching—it’s the students. This is my first installment.

    I teach a college writing class to the athletic department—an eclectic mix of football bruisers, soccer strikers, volleyball hitters, and water polo warriors. Two days ago, in the context of an essay that addresses a generation of young men who don’t work or study but play computer games in their bedrooms, I introduced the concept of the hedonic treadmill, the cruel little loop in which humans adapt to pleasure until the buzz wears off and they need to crank the dial higher, faster, and louder, until finally the machine spits them out, exhausted and miserable.

    To make the point vivid, I shared a story from a former student. His older brother had dropped out of college, moved back in with mom, and made a religion out of lying in bed. His life consisted of Netflix marathons on a laptop, constant texts to his girlfriend, and a bong glued to his lips. A self-sedated sloth with Wi-Fi.

    So I asked my athletes, “Does this guy sound happy to you?”

    One of the football players, a psychology major with a grin as wide as the end zone, shot up his hand and said, absolutely—this guy was living the dream. No responsibilities, no alarms, no essays. Everyone, he insisted, would be content to live such a life.

    My jaw dropped. A psychology major dazzled by the ecstasy of permanent adolescence? I reminded him—gently but with a sharp edge—that life demands connection, structure, and purpose if humans are to flourish. Without it, the brain rots. He smiled, nodded, and conceded my point. But the nod was polite, the smile indulgent. I wasn’t sure I had actually shaken his conviction that the guy with the bong had cracked the code.

    After the football player declared his envy for the bong-hugging bed-dweller texting his girlfriend, I scanned the room and realized my grand metaphor had belly-flopped. My hedonic treadmill example didn’t land, to use modern parlance. What I intended as a cautionary tale of mental rot registered instead as a spa brochure: Netflix, weed, and endless texting looked less like disintegration and more like a vacation package.

    With fifteen weeks left in the semester, I’ve had to remind myself of two things. First: I can’t demolish their fantasies in one lesson. The hedonic treadmill requires repeat assaults, examples from all angles, until they feel—not just know—the despair of a life without meaning. Clearly, Bong Boy failed to deliver the emotional punch.

    Second: these kids belong to the “I’ll Never Buy a House” Generation. Their skepticism is hardwired. To them, the fantasy of collapsing in bed with Netflix and THC isn’t just laziness; it’s an antidote to the endless hustle culture they know they’ll never escape.

    Therefore, my football player presented me with a lesson: As an instructor, I can’t be myopic and teach ideas such as the hedonic treadmill from a limited point of view. I have to see things through my students’ eyes. 

    I’m close to sixty-four. My students are nineteen. If I want to reach them, I need to remember the golden rule of teaching—or sales, or persuasion of any kind: know your audience, speak to their anxieties, and try to see life through their eyes. Otherwise, you’re not a communicator—you’re just an old, out-of-touch crank with a lecture.

    I want to thank my football player for opening my eyes and reminding me that the classroom is instructional for both instructors and students alike. 

  • Why Ideas Still Matter in a World of Machines

    Why Ideas Still Matter in a World of Machines

    One of my colleagues, an outstanding writing instructor for more than two decades, has mapped out her exit strategy. She earned a counseling master’s degree, recently completed her life coach certification, and told me she no longer believes in the mission of teaching college writing. Assigning prompts to students who submit AI-generated essays feels meaningless to her—and reading these machine-produced pages makes her physically ill.

    Her words jolted me. I have devoted nearly forty years to this vocation, a career sustained by the assumption that teaching the college essay is an essential skill for young people. We have long agreed that students must learn how to shape chaos into coherence, confront questions that matter to the human condition, write with clarity and force, construct persuasive arguments, examine counterpoints, form informed opinions, master formats, cultivate an authorial voice, and develop critical thinking in a world overflowing with fallacies and propaganda. We also teach students to live with “interiority”—to keep journals, build inner lives, and nurture ideas. These practices have been considered indispensable for personal and professional growth.

    But with AI in the picture, many of my colleagues, including the one planning her departure, now feel bitter and defeated. AI has supplanted us. To our students, AI is more than a tool; it is a counselor, therapist, life coach, tutor, content-generator, and editor that sits in their pockets. They have apps through which they converse with their AI “person.” Increasingly, students bond with these “people” more than with their teachers. They trust AI in ways they do not trust professionals, institutions, or the so-called “laptop class.”

    The sense of displacement is compounded by the quality of student work. Essays are now riddled with AI-speak, clichés, hollow uniformity, facile expressions, superficial analysis, misattributed quotations, hallucinated claims, and fabricated facts. And yet, for the professional world, this output will often suffice. Ninety-five percent of the time, AI’s mediocrity will be “good enough” as workplaces adjust to its speed and efficiency. Thus my colleagues suffer a third wound: irrelevance. If AI can produce serviceable writing quickly, bypassing the fundamentals we teach, then we are the dinosaurs of academia.

    On Monday, when I face my freshman composition students for the first time, I will have to address this reality. I will describe how AI—the merciless stochastic parrot—has unsettled instructors by generating uncanny-valley essays, winning the confidence of students, and leaving teachers uncertain about their place.

    Still, I am not entirely pessimistic about my role. Teaching writing has always required many hats, one of which is the salesman’s. I must sell my ideas, my syllabus, my assignments, and above all, the relevance of writing in students’ lives.

    This semester, I am teaching a class composed entirely of athletes, a measure designed to help with retention. On the first day, I will appeal to what they know best: drills. No athlete mistakes drills for performance. They exist to prepare the body and mind for the real contest. Football players run lateral and backward sprints to build stamina and muscle memory. Pianists practice scales and arpeggios to ready themselves for recitals. Writing drills serve the same purpose: they build the foundation beneath the performance.

    My second pitch will be about the human heart. Education does not begin in the brain; it begins when the heart opens. Just as the athlete “with heart” outperforms the one without it, the student who opens the heart to education learns lessons that endure for life.

    I will tell them about my childhood obsession with baseball. At nine, I devoured every Scholastic book on the subject I could order through Independent Elementary. Many of my heroes were African-American players who endured Jim Crow segregation—forced into separate hotels and restaurants, traveling at great risk. I read about legends like Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson, barred from Major League Baseball because of their race. Through their stories, I learned American history not as dates and facts, but through the eyes of men I revered. My heart opened, and I was educated in a way my schoolteachers never managed.

    I will also tell them about my lost years in college. I enrolled under threat of eviction from my mother and warnings that without higher education, I faced a life of poverty. I loathed classrooms, staring at the clock until I could escape to the gym for squats, deadlifts, and bench presses. Yet in an elective fiction class, I discovered Kafka—how he transmuted his nightmarish inner life into stories that illuminated his world. Then Nabokov, whose audacious style made me long to write with the same confidence, more than I ever longed for a luxury car. If I could capture Nabokov’s authority, I thought, I would be like the Tinman receiving his heart. I would be whole.

    These changes did not come from professors, institutions, or—certainly—not AI. They came from within me, from my heart opening to literature. And yet, a sobering realization remains: the spark for me came through reading, and I see little reading today. I am not dogmatic—perhaps today’s students can find their spark in a documentary on Netflix or an essay on their phones. What matters is the opening of the heart.

    I cannot deny my doubts about remaining relevant in the age of AI, but I believe in the enduring power of ideas. Ideas—true or false—shape lives. They can go viral, ignite movements, and alter history.

    That is why my first assignment will focus on the Liver King, a grifter who peddled “ancestral living” to young men desperate for discipline and belonging. Though he was exposed as a fraud, his message resonated because it spoke to a generation’s hunger for structure and meaning. My students will explore both the desperation of these young men and the manipulations of Bro Culture that preyed upon them.

    Ideas matter. They always have. They always will. My class will succeed or fail on the strength of the ideas I put before my students, and I must present them unapologetically—defended with both my brain and my heart.