Cinemorphosis

Tag: education

  • Why ChatGPT Will Never Replace Human Teachers

    Why ChatGPT Will Never Replace Human Teachers

    Over the past two years, I’ve been bombarded by articles predicting that ChatGPT will drive college writing instructors to extinction. These doomsayers clearly wouldn’t know the first thing about teaching if it hit them with a red-inked rubric. Sure, ChatGPT is a memo-writing marvel—perfect for cranking out soul-dead reports about quarterly earnings or new office policies. Let it have that dreary throne.

    But if you became a college instructor to teach students the art of writing memos, you’ve got bigger problems than AI. You didn’t sign up to bore students into a coma. Whether you like it or not, you went into sales. And your pitch? It’s not about bullet points and TPS reports—it’s about persona, ideas, and the eternal fight against chaos.

    First up: persona. It’s not just about writing—it’s about becoming. How do you craft an identity, project it with swagger, and use it to navigate life’s messiness? When students read Oscar Wilde, Frederick Douglass, or Octavia Butler, they don’t just see words on a page—they see mastery. A fully-realized persona commands attention with wit, irony, and rhetorical flair. Wilde nailed it when he said, “The first task in life is to assume a pose.” He wasn’t joking. That pose—your persona—grows stronger through mastery of language and argumentation. Once students catch a glimpse of that, they want it. They crave the power to command a room, not just survive it. And let’s be clear—ChatGPT isn’t in the persona business. That’s your turf.

    Next: ideas. You became a teacher because you believe in the transformative power of ideas. Great ideas don’t just fill word counts; they ignite brains and reshape worldviews. Over the years, students have thanked me for introducing them to concepts that stuck with them like intellectual tattoos. Take Bread and Circus—the idea that a tiny elite has always controlled the masses through cheap food and mindless entertainment. Students eat that up (pun intended). Or nihilism—the grim doctrine that nothing matters and we’re all here just killing time before we die. They’ll argue over that for hours. And Rousseau’s “noble savage” versus the myth of human hubris? They’ll debate whether we’re pure souls corrupted by society or doomed from birth by faulty wiring like it’s the Super Bowl of philosophy.

    ChatGPT doesn’t sell ideas. It regurgitates language like a well-trained parrot, but without the fire of intellectual curiosity. You, on the other hand, are in the idea business. If you’re not selling your students on the thrill of big ideas, you’re failing at your job.

    Finally: chaos. Most people live in a swirling mess of dysfunction and anxiety. You sell your students the tools to push back: discipline, routine, and what Cal Newport calls “deep work.” Writers like Newport, Oliver Burkeman, Phil Stutz, and Angela Duckworth offer blueprints for repelling chaos and replacing it with order. ChatGPT can’t teach students to prioritize, strategize, or persevere. That’s your domain.

    So keep honing your pitch. You’re selling something AI can’t: a powerful persona, the transformative power of ideas, and the tools to carve order from the chaos. ChatGPT can crunch words all it wants, but when it comes to shaping human beings, it’s just another cog. You? You’re the architect.

  • How Poorly-Written Textbooks Turned Me into an English Major

    How Poorly-Written Textbooks Turned Me into an English Major

    For my first two years of college, I leapfrogged from major to major like a deranged amphibian with commitment issues.

    First stop: Criminal Justice. Sounded cool. Maybe I’d end up solving high-stakes crimes or unraveling some Kafkaesque legal conundrum. Instead, I found myself buried under a mountain of legalese so bloated with provisos, caveats, and contingencies that the independent clause was held hostage somewhere deep in the sentence, gasping for air. Every paragraph felt like a hostage negotiation with words like “notwithstanding” and “heretofore.” It drove me to the brink of syntactical madness.

    Next up: Sociology and Psychology—where common sense observations were drenched in enough self-important jargon to make a cult leader blush. Every sentence oozed the smug satisfaction of someone who thought they had just cracked the meaning of life. Instead of learning anything useful, I was forced to machete my way through a linguistic swamp of words like codependency, interconnectivity, dichotomy, marginalization, and facilitate. I clenched my body so tightly while reading these textbooks that I was convinced I would give myself a self-induced inguinal hernia.

    Desperate for clarity, I gave history a shot. But history textbooks—perhaps fearing the sheer tonnage of facts, dates, and places—responded by stripping the prose of all personality. No rhythm, no opinion, no soul—just a flatline of remedial drudgery. If legal writing was a labyrinth and psychology was a swamp, history was a beige waiting room with no exit.

    Then, an epiphany: I wasn’t rejecting these subjects—I was rejecting their horrendous writing.

    I craved something—something crisp, something electric, something that didn’t feel like linguistic waterboarding. That hunger led me, almost involuntarily, to the English major. There, for the first time, I met grammar—not as a dry set of rules, but as a cosmic force.

    Grammar wasn’t just necessary—it was alive. It was the invisible scaffolding that made human expression possible. It was breathing, movement, structure, music. I marveled at the fact that even small children, with no formal training, could construct intricate, nuanced sentences. This wasn’t just mechanics—this was the architecture of thought itself.

    When I thought of grammar, I didn’t think of dull worksheets. I saw rivulets flowing into streams, streams merging into great rivers, rivers pouring into the ocean. I saw harmony, inevitability, the relentless beauty of structure.

    So, in the end, it wasn’t a love of books or storytelling that made me an English major. It was the sheer, visceral disgust at bad writing that left me no other choice.

  • I Was the Worst College Student Ever

    I Was the Worst College Student Ever

    I was the worst college student ever. But before we get to that, let’s start at the beginning. I attended the university in the fall of 1979. I was seventeen. I was an Olympic Weightlifting champion and a competitive bodybuilder with aspirations of going big–winning the Mr. Universe and Mr. Olympia titles and leveraging my fame to open a gym in the Bahamas. My goals were as clear as they were simple: I would have a beautiful body and my work environment would optimize my ability to maintain my beautiful body. As an added perk, I was comforted by the thought that living in the tropics would ensure that I would never have to wear clothes, only Speedos. Clothes made me so claustrophobic that the first thing I wanted to do after getting dressed was to rip my clothes off. The solution? Spend the rest of my life on an island in bodybuilder briefs with tanning oil slathered all over my shaved body. 

    Whenever I’d share my dream with my recently-divorced mother, she would say, “Don’t be a nincompoop. You can’t isolate yourself from the world on some tropical island.”

    And I’d say, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be well connected. I’ll invite my friends–Frank Zane, Tom Platz, Robbie Robinson, Kalman Szkalak, Danny Padilla, Ron Teufel, Pete Grymkowski, and Rudy Hermosillo–to hang out with me. I’ll give them pineapple protein shakes and tell them how bodybuilding became a catalyst for my personal metamorphosis.”

    “You sound ridiculous. For one thing, those aren’t your friends. They’re from your muscle magazines. I’m not stupid.”

    Contradicting the stereotype of being a musclehead, I got straight As in high school, but my high school, like most public schools, was dumbed down to the point that getting a 4.0 GPA was meaningless. One of my classes, for example,  was called “Money Matters.” We learned how to balance a checkbook and plan a budget so that we were saving more than we were spending. At best, you’re looking at first-grade math, a workbook full of simple percentages and fractions. Busy work like this was proof that our school didn’t want to educate us so much as keep us contained all day in an institution so our parents could take a breather from us. Public schools were part of society’s unwritten social contract with adults. Send your children to our schools so you can work enough to live in the suburbs and get a break from the headaches of parenting.

    Another class was called “Popular Lit.” There were no lectures or tests. For the semester, we read any three books we wanted from the library and wrote three one-page book reports. You didn’t have to read the book. You could present chicken scratch on the book report form or make up some crazy dream you had. It didn’t matter. As long as you turned in the book report, you got an A. The teacher was a woman in her sixties who seemed determined to never engage with us. She told us to do “quiet reading” while she sat at her desk reading magazines, paying her bills, and clipping her fingernails. She was ghoulishly pale, she had long, uncombed dyed black hair, overly dark lipstick, and puffy bags under her eyes. No matter the weather, she wore wool coats that smelled of old sweat and bodily decay. Had you not told me she was a teacher, I would have assumed she was a homeless person scavenging the school for discarded cafeteria food from the high school’s trash cans.

    My classes were so dumb I felt like I was in continuation school for juvenile delinquents. Clearly, the teachers weren’t preparing us to become members of the professional class. They wanted us to learn to follow rules so we’d stay out of prison and be satisfied with a blue-collar job or some minimum-wage gig in the service industry. As I heard one teacher say out of the side of his mouth in the corridor to one of his colleagues: “We’re training them to become burger-flippers.”

    The teachers’ contempt for us and their pessimistic belief that only a small remnant of us would attend college meant nothing to me because college was not part of my master plan. Becoming an international bodybuilding sensation and operating a lucrative health club in the Bahamas was. 

    Signs of my imminent success were abundant. Not only was my muscular physique well developed for a seventeen-year-old, but I also had extraordinary networking skills that spoke well of my future business prospects. For example, at The Weight Room in Hayward, I was working out with NFL defensive end star John Matusak who had taken a liking to me. Between sets of bench presses, T-Bar rows, and seated behind-the-neck presses, we would sing along with the songs blaring from the gym’s radio. Watching the Tooz and I sing along with Nicollette Larson doing a cover of Neil Simon’s “Lotta Love” was a sight to behold. People spoke of the defensive end’s ill temper, but when Matusak and I trained, it was a constant Kumbaya moment. 

     You may have seen Matuszak on TV many times, but that would not have prepared you for what you would have seen in person. He was close to seven feet and 300 pounds. His long limbs made him appear slender yet huge at the same time. He had a beard, wild long hair, and the predatory eyes of a hawk. 

    One afternoon, Matuszak was sitting on the bench while the gym’s speakers played England Dan and John Ford Coley’s “Love Is the Answer.” Matuszak seemed offended by the song’s sentimentality. He curled his lips, looked at me, and said, “Bullshit,” before proceeding to rep 400 pounds while repeating his curse as if energized by it.

    In addition to networking with Matuszak, I established a strong bond with fitness salesman and local legend Joe Corsi. In addition to being the number-one salesman of bodybuilding supplements and fitness equipment in the San Francisco East Bay, Corsi had appeared with Arnold Schwarzenegger on an episode of Streets of San Francisco. Corsi’s fitness store was next to The Weight Room and he would often stop by to pay his respects to me. He was in his late sixties. He wore a black single-piece Jack Lalanne-style jumpsuit with no sleeves and a gold zipper, unzipped to reveal his black hairy chest. His biceps were full, round, and veiny for a man his age though showing a bit of sagginess. His hair was dyed jet black. His eyebrows were black, thick, and shiny. His overall appearance was that of a former bodybuilder who had aged into a geriatric Dracula. Whenever he saw me training with the Tooz at the gym, he praised my amazing potential, said I had exceptional physical structure, and was a young man who clearly had the drive to become a world champion. I imagined it would not be long before Corsi would sponsor me the way Joe Weider sponsored Arnold Schwarzenegger. Soon, Corsi would have his people deliver an array of supplements, protein powders, and butcher-paper-wrapped T-bone steaks to my front door. When that happened, my mother would know that I wasn’t joking about becoming a professional bodybuilder for whom going to college was a big waste of time. 

    After I graduated high school, my mom bugged me every day about what I was going to do with my future. I told her I had a clear plan and that Joe Corsi would be my sponsor. She’d say, “This morning I got up, opened the front door to get the newspaper and I didn’t see a bunch of T-bone steaks on the front porch. You sure you’ve got a lock on this?”

    In August, I came home one afternoon from my workout. I entered the  kitchen and saw on the counter a yellow, slimy chicken. The plucked bird looked forlorn, a leper sulking on the cutting board. Mother was standing next to the chicken holding a cleaver. She scowled at the chicken like it was an adversary that needed to be put in its place. 

    “You need to learn to clean out this chicken,” she said, puffing on a cigarette.

    “I don’t want to touch it. It’s disgusting.”

    “You better learn to handle a raw chicken. Otherwise, you’ll never be able to achieve intimacy with a woman.”

    “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard, Mother.” 

    “You can worry about that later. Have you made plans for the fall?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “College. I’m thinking that’s your best option.”

    I stormed out of the kitchen, walked into my room, turned on my clock radio full blast to the rock station, KYA-FM, and did some finishing-touch dumbbell curls.  Listening to Roxy Music’s “Love Is the Drug,” I visualized myself being a world-famous bodybuilder living on a tropical island and drinking mango juice from halved coconuts while surrounded by hordes of beautiful women helplessly drawn to my masculine allure. 

    I was bathed in sweat when Mother walked into the room with an envelope. 

    “Your high school counselor sent you something. I think you should open it.”

    She tossed the letter on my bed. I wiped off my sweat and tore open the letter. My counselor Mrs. Toscher congratulated me for my 4.0 GPA during my senior year and said it was a certainty that I could attend one of the local Cal States. I told Mother and she said, “Unless you’ve got other options, this is all you got.”

    “What about Joe Corsi?”

    “What about him?”

    “He could be my ticket to bodybuilding greatness.”

    “Unless you’ve got something in writing, you’ve got nothing.”

    I figured I had one last chance with Corsi. The next day after my workout with Matusak, I paid Corsi a visit at his fitness store. He was sitting at his desk when I approached him. 

    “I hear you offer professional guidance to up-and-coming bodybuilders,” I said.

    “Yes, I offer the best supplements in Northern California. I’ve got everything you need.”

    “I’m only seventeen and I’ve come a long way.”

    “You’re big for your age.”

    “When Arnold Schwarzenegger moved from Austria to America, Joe Weider promoted him. They essentially made each other famous.”

    “Yes, it’s a great story. I know both of them, by the way. Great guys.”

    “Well, that’s where you come in. I’m available for promotion.”

    “I see. I’ll tell you what I can do. Young man, do you have a valid California driver’s license?”

    I nodded.

    “Excellent. Here’s the deal. My brother Louie runs a meat business. Best cuts of meat you can get. Steaks, ground sirloin, turkey legs, Cornish game hens, prime rib, all-beef hot dogs. He even sells Philadelphia cheesecake, a big hit with customers. You sell them door to door, and you typically get a fifteen percent commission, but because you know me and because I want to support the local bodybuilding community, I’ll have Louie jack up your commission to twenty percent. I can say with the utmost confidence that if you show some hustle, you’ll pocket close to five hundred a week. You’ll have all the money you need for supplements and then some.”

    “That’s a lot of money,” I said.

    “Yes, but bear in mind, you’ll have to pay for the meat up front. But with profits being what they are, you’ll double your money in a week.”

    “Did you say upfront costs?” 

    “You’ll need to come up with a grand to get into this opportunity. But because I like you, I may be able to talk Louie down to seven hundred. Mind you, he’s providing the van and the meat freezers.” Corsi leaned toward me and whispered, “I’d essentially be helping you to steal my brother’s money, but, hey, you’re young. I’d like to lend a helping hand.”

    “I’ll have to think about it.”

    “Let me know soon. My brother is interviewing several people who already have sales experience. This opportunity isn’t going to last much longer. And remember, everyone eats meat. Everyone loves barbecue. This is an opportunity of a lifetime.”

    As I drove home, I was thinking that going to college would be less taxing physically and less of a financial burden than selling butchered meats door to door. The cost of attending college at Cal State in 1979 was seventy-eight dollars a quarter. That was far cheaper than paying Joe Corsi’s brother a minimum of seven hundred dollars. In addition, I could use my title as a “college student” as a front while I continued my bodybuilding. Going to college would essentially be a delay tactic I could use until I achieved bodybuilding greatness. I would capitulate to Mother’s demand to attend college, but I knew I didn’t belong there. I knew I would be the worst college student ever. 

    I was a terrible student in part because I could not regardless of their achievements admire my professors. I envied them because they were so educated and appeared to have everything I didn’t. They had impressive credentials, world travels, including African safaris, to provide scintillating stories while lecturing; nice clothes, not store-bought but made by celebrity tailors; a well-curated persona enhanced by professional voice lessons; an impressive zip code that made them neighbors of politicians and socialites; membership to various tennis, bird-watching, and yoga clubs and intellectual committees; literacy in multiple languages, mastery of at least three musical instruments, and fluency in gourmet cooking. During lectures, they talked about how they prepared extravagant meals that required lemon zest, capers, and ice baths, and they beamed with pride as they rhapsodized over the pleasures of making homemade puttanesca. I had never met a group of people from one profession who were so in love with themselves. 

    My Ethics professor, who was also the Dean of Philosophy, had recently dumped his wife for his young secretary. He seemed rather oblivious to the rich irony of his life choices and rode his Porsche convertible over the faculty parking lot, apparently unaware of the way his toupee would flop off his bald head like a flying squirrel every time his Porsche caromed over a speed bump. A lack of self-awareness seemed to serve my Ethics professor rather well. I despised him. 

    My bitter envy for my professors was only matched by my spectacular ignorance. I was deemed so illiterate that the university was not content with demoting me from Freshman Composition class into the remedial class, more commonly referred to at the time as Bonehead English. To let me know my place in this world, the university made it clear that even Bonehead English was too advanced for a pariah like myself. I was quickly demoted from Bonehead and placed in the Pre-Bonehead class, a level held in such contempt that the classroom was in the Humanities Building basement next to the boiler room. Broad-shouldered maintenance men wearing denim overalls would frequently peek into the room and cackle at us for being at a level of remediation that was such an embarrassment as to be the equivalent of leprosy. 

    Being envious of my professors and feeling like a college outcast, I was in a constant state of depression and demoralization. This did not bode well as a predictor for my academic success. To add another nail to my coffin, I may have just been plain stupid. I was stupid to judge my professors for having everything I lacked. Had I been smart, I would have humbled myself before them and looked at them as role models so that someday with lots of hard work I would become just like them. I was also stupid for feeling insulted for being placed in the Pre-Bonehead English class. Had I been smart, I would have been grateful for the fact that the university had provided resources for hopeless cases like mine rather than expel me from the university altogether. 

    There were also signs that I was stupid, not just on an academic level but in terms of lacking common sense and what would later be known as “emotional intelligence.” A case in point is that during my first two years of college, there was a lot of distressing news about AIDS and its devastation throughout the world. As a straight person who had not yet entered the world of dating and romance, I was not exactly what you would call high-risk, but that did not stop me from being terrified of getting AIDS. One afternoon, a neighbor’s Siberian Husky greeted me by licking me all over my face and I remember the dog’s wet tongue brushing over my lips. Could I get AIDS from a dog’s kiss? For several days, I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind. Then a week later, KGO Talk Radio had a segment in which a doctor would answer callers’ questions about AIDS. I think I was the first caller. I told the doctor about my neighbor’s dog kissing me on the lips. Was I in danger of getting AIDS? In a very sweet voice, the doctor told me that I was completely safe and that I could kiss dogs to my heart’s content. 

    After the call, I stood in the kitchen almost in tears with a great sense of relief. But then shortly after, my mother came out of her bedroom and said, “Was that you on the radio?”

    I nodded.

    She said, “You thought a dog licking your face could give you AIDS? You need to cool it, buster.”

    Hearing my mother admonish me allowed me at that moment to see how hopelessly stupid I was. I couldn’t believe I had survived so long on this planet. I couldn’t believe I had gotten accepted into a university. Clearly, I was on my way to becoming the worst college student ever. 

    My failings as a college student were rooted in part in my inability to find a major, and my indecision made me miserable. I took a criminal justice class, but the books were mired in lawyer-speak. As a result, the sentences were larded with provisos, caveats, and contingencies reflected in elongated sentences in which I had to wade through several dependent clauses before I reached the independent clause. These sentences were so tedious and convoluted that I felt I had to go through the obstacle course on American Gladiators before I got to the sentence’s main idea. This drove me into a state of madness.

    Then I tried sociology and psychology, but the books were immersed in self-satisfied academic jargon in which self-evident observations were made to look sophisticated and authoritative by virtue of the indecipherable, pretentious and self-indulgent verbiage. Being forced to read these textbooks, I imagined brandishing a machete and slashing through a jungle thick with words like positivity, codependency, external validation, inner child, interconnectivity, facilitate, mindset, marginalization, multi-faceted, dichotomy, and contemporaneously. Hacking my way through this forest of phony language made me tighten my body with so much hostility that I feared I would suffer a self-induced inguinal hernia. 

    Then I gave history a crack. The sheer volume of facts, dates, and places seemed to have compelled the authors to write in a mundane, almost remedial prose style with no distinctive point of view. The result was that I was bored out of my mind. 

    Oceanography was mildly interesting; however, the oceanography professor seemed to have a pathological fixation on the words “denitrification,” “liminal zone,” and “viscosity” so that it reached the point that every time he repeated those words I would skyrocket off my seat like a lab rat receiving an electrical shock. 

    Accounting was even worse. On the first day, the professor bombarded us with algebraic equations, the Index Matrix, the Nullspace, and homogeneous linear systems. Within ten minutes, I made an exit for the door. The professor asked me my name.

    “That won’t be necessary,” I said at the doorway. “You’ll never see me again.”

    In my first year of college, I dropped accounting, criminal justice, and sociology. I also failed a remedial algebra class. In the late spring of my first year, the university sent me a letter explaining that I was officially on academic probation. I could not drop any more classes and I would need to improve my GPA. Otherwise, I would be expelled.

    For me, the letter was more than just a warning. It was an indictment of my entire existence. You hear about struggling writers bearing the repeated pain of rejection slips as they are told their stories and books cannot be, for a variety of reasons, published. The academic letter of probation was a sort of rejection slip, but not for something I had produced. Rather, it was a censure against me as a dysfunctional human being. The university had handed me my ass on a stick. 

    In moments of hitting rock bottom, we must find some kind of strategy or other to climb out of our hole, but my prospects were bleak. I had no college major, no purpose, and no self-confidence. I wasn’t making any money as a bodybuilder. I did not have any romances on the horizon so I could not be energized by the hope of be transformed by the powers of love. I was a young man who, having nothing, was eager for a quick solution. I found myself grasping for straws. I could get a tech degree in refrigeration, become a piano mover, or join the military. There was also a guy at the gym whom we jokingly referred to as The Garbologist who said he could get me a job as a garbage man. The way he described the job to me, working from 5 to 10:30 in the morning, becoming a garbage man seemed like my best bet. 

    I was eager to tell my father about my new plan. He had moved into an apartment about a half-hour away from our home since the divorce, and once a month he’d pick me up, take me to his apartment, and make me a barbecued steak dinner. One evening, we were eating on his patio, and he asked me how I was doing in college. I told him about the probation letter and my lack of interest in higher education. What I wanted was a job that paid well and had good hours so I’d have time to go to the gym.  I had made friends at the gym who worked in sanitation, and one guy said he could get me full-time work as a sanitation engineer.

    My father laughed at me and said, “You can’t be a garbage man.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because you’re too vain.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “Imagine this. You’re at a cocktail party and everyone is introducing themselves. Doctor, engineer, lawyer, computer programmer, business executive. Then they get to you. You’re going to tell them you’re a garbage man? Bullshit.”

    “I’m vain?”

    “Of course you are. I’ve never seen a kid check himself out in the mirror as often as you do.”

    “Oh my God, I’m driven by vanity and social status.”

    “You’re finally waking up to the obvious. Now finish your steak and make things right with your college before they expel you.”

    Driving home, it occurred to me that I had rejected criminal justice, sociology, psychology, and history because the books I had to read in those classes were so poorly written that they offended me. It occurred to me that I hungered for a certain quality of writing and that this hunger pointed me to the English major.

    It also occurred to me that my fidgety personality did not learn well in the classroom. My anxieties made it impossible for me to sit inside a classroom with thirty-five other students and comprehend the professors’ lectures. I knew that I would have to be self-taught if I were to get any kind of meaningful education. Therefore, the best thing to do was to purchase my own grammar handbook. From that day on, I resolved to teach myself grammar. 

    Once I learned the basics of grammar, it seemed as essential to life as breathing. I considered that small children without any formal learning were already fluent in the most elaborate sentences. Grammar was proof that life had a clear structure, order, and harmony. To learn all the names of the grammatical parts was to understand the harmony of the universe. When I thought of grammar, I saw rivulets flowing into the streams, streams flowing into the great rivers, and the great rivers flowing into the ocean. 

    For the first time, I understood what Nietzsche meant in Twilight of the Gods where he writes that “I am afraid we are not getting rid of God because we still have faith in grammar.” What he meant is that by studying grammar, I could find order and convalescence from nearly two decades of mainlining the glorification of selfish pleasure-seeking and chaos. Part of my recovery as a probationary student was enlisting in a Twelve-Step Program, and one of the steps was grammar. 

    My recovery was swift and relentless with my GPA spiking to close to 4.0. The university seemed impressed with my reformation. Shortly after hiring me in the Tutoring Center, they offered me teaching positions for freshman composition. The university that had once threatened to expel me had now hired me to teach. I was on my way to becoming the worst college professor ever. 

  • Teaching History Without Erasure: Frederick Douglass, Germany’s Reckoning, and the Power of Truth

    Teaching History Without Erasure: Frederick Douglass, Germany’s Reckoning, and the Power of Truth

    This is my second essay prompt in my freshman composition class:

    Teaching History Without Erasure: Frederick Douglass, Germany’s Reckoning, and the Power of Truth

    In recent years, fierce debates have erupted over how slavery, Jim Crow laws, and racial injustice should be taught in American classrooms. Some critics argue that these lessons have become excessively politicized, accusing educators of pushing a divisive narrative that portrays America as fundamentally irredeemable. They claim that such an approach fosters victimhood, undermines critical thinking, and turns education into a vehicle for ideological indoctrination.

    Others push back, arguing that this resistance is itself a form of historical distortion—an attempt to silence African-American voices and obscure painful but essential truths. They assert that teaching racial injustice is not about politics but about moral, psychological, and historical reckoning. Frederick Douglass’ writings offer a powerful counterpoint, illustrating how truth-telling about oppression is not an act of condemnation but one of empowerment. Much like Jordan Peele’s The Sunken Place concept, Douglass’ life reveals how acknowledging injustice can lead to personal agency, resistance, and the pursuit of justice. Similarly, Germany’s post-Holocaust reckoning provides a framework for confronting historical atrocities without fostering helplessness or national self-loathing.

    For this 1,700-word argumentative essay (MLA format required), analyze how Frederick Douglass’ personal fight against slavery and Germany’s effort to memorialize the Holocaust offer crucial lessons on addressing historical injustice. Drawing on Douglass’ Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave and Clint Smith’s essay “Monuments to the Unthinkable,” explore how bearing witness to historical truths can foster accountability, self-agency, and resilience. Consider how both examples highlight the importance of acknowledging past wrongs while also promoting national and individual growth.

    Essay Requirements:

    • Length: 1,700 words
    • Format: MLA (Modern Language Association)
    • Sources: Minimum of 4, cited in MLA format
    • Required Texts:
      • Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave (available online as a PDF)
      • Clint Smith’s “Monuments to the Unthinkable”
      • PBS NewsHour YouTube video “Why Americans Are So Divided Over Teaching Critical Race Theory”
      • David Pilgrim’s YouTube video “The Jim Crow Museum”
      • Childish Gambino’s “This Is America” (Optional for thematic analysis)

    Key Focus Areas for Analysis:

    • How Douglass’ narrative challenges oppression and promotes self-agency
    • How Germany’s post-Holocaust reforms serve as a model for confronting historical injustice
    • The moral responsibility of societies to acknowledge past atrocities and ensure they are not repeated
    • How historical awareness empowers future generations to break cycles of injustice
    • Strategies for teaching history in a way that fosters accountability, growth, and resilience—without promoting victimhood or division

    This essay invites you to step beyond the surface of modern political debates and examine how history, when taught truthfully, can serve as a tool for both personal and societal transformation. How should we reckon with our past, and what can we learn from those who have done it well?

  • WILL WRITING INSTRUCTORS BE REPLACED BY CHATBOTS?

    WILL WRITING INSTRUCTORS BE REPLACED BY CHATBOTS?

    Last night, I was trapped in a surreal nightmare—a bureaucratic limbo masquerading as a college elective. The course had no purpose other than to grant students enough credits to graduate. No curriculum, no topics, no teaching—just endless hours of supervised inertia. My role? Clock in, clock out, and do absolutely nothing.

    The students were oddly cheerful, like campers at some low-budget retreat. They brought packed lunches, sprawled across desks, and killed time with card games and checkers. They socialized, laughed, and blissfully ignored the fact that this whole charade was a colossal waste of time. Meanwhile, I sat there, twitching with existential dread. The urge to teach something—anything—gnawed at my gut. But that was forbidden. I was there to babysit, not educate.

    The shame hung on me like wet clothes. I felt obsolete, like a relic from the days when education had meaning. The minutes dragged by like a DMV line, each one stretching into a slow, agonizing eternity. I wondered if this Kafkaesque hell was a punishment for still believing that teaching is more than glorified daycare.

    This dream echoes a fear many writing instructors share: irrelevance. Daniel Herman explores this anxiety in his essay, “The End of High-School English.” He laments how students have always found shortcuts to learning—CliffsNotes, YouTube summaries—but still had to confront the terror of a blank page. Now, with AI tools like ChatGPT, that gatekeeping moment is gone. Writing is no longer a “metric for intelligence” or a teachable skill, Herman claims.

    I agree to an extent. Yes, AI can generate competent writing faster than a student pulling an all-nighter. But let’s not pretend this is new. Even in pre-ChatGPT days, students outsourced essays to parents, tutors, and paid services. We were always grappling with academic honesty. What’s different now is the scale of disruption.

    Herman’s deeper question—just how necessary are writing instructors in the age of AI—is far more troubling. Can ChatGPT really replace us? Maybe it can teach grammar and structure well enough for mundane tasks. But writing instructors have a higher purpose: teaching students to recognize the difference between surface-level mediocrity and powerful, persuasive writing.

    Herman himself admits that ChatGPT produces essays that are “adequate” but superficial. Sure, it can churn out syntactically flawless drivel, but syntax isn’t everything. Writing that leaves a lasting impression—“Higher Writing”—is built on sharp thought, strong argumentation, and a dynamic authorial voice. Think Baldwin, Didion, or Nabokov. That’s the standard. I’d argue it’s our job to steer students away from lifeless, task-oriented prose and toward writing that resonates.

    Herman’s pessimism about students’ indifference to rhetorical nuance and literary flair is half-baked at best. Sure, dive too deep into the murky waters of Shakespearean arcana or Melville’s endless tangents, and you’ll bore them stiff—faster than an unpaid intern at a three-hour faculty meeting. But let’s get real. You didn’t go into teaching to serve as a human snooze button. You went into sales, whether you like it or not. And what are you selling? Persona, ideas, and the antidote to chaos.

    First up: persona. It’s not just about writing—it’s about becoming. How do you craft an identity, project it with swagger, and use it to navigate life’s messiness? When students read Oscar Wilde, Frederick Douglass, or Octavia Butler, they don’t just see words on a page—they see mastery. A fully-realized persona commands attention with wit, irony, and rhetorical flair. Wilde nailed it when he said, “The first task in life is to assume a pose.” He wasn’t joking. That pose—your persona—grows stronger through mastery of language and argumentation. Once students catch a glimpse of that, they want it. They crave the power to command a room, not just survive it. And let’s be clear—ChatGPT isn’t in the persona business. That’s your turf.

    Next: ideas. You became a teacher because you believe in the transformative power of ideas. Great ideas don’t just fill word counts; they ignite brains and reshape worldviews. Over the years, students have thanked me for introducing them to concepts that stuck with them like intellectual tattoos. Take Bread and Circus—the idea that a tiny elite has always controlled the masses through cheap food and mindless entertainment. Students eat that up (pun intended). Or nihilism—the grim doctrine that nothing matters and we’re all here just killing time before we die. They’ll argue over that for hours. And Rousseau’s “noble savage” versus the myth of human hubris? They’ll debate whether we’re pure souls corrupted by society or doomed from birth by faulty wiring like it’s the Super Bowl of philosophy.

    ChatGPT doesn’t sell ideas. It regurgitates language like a well-trained parrot, but without the fire of intellectual curiosity. You, on the other hand, are in the idea business. If you’re not selling your students on the thrill of big ideas, you’re failing at your job.

    Finally: chaos. Most people live in a swirling mess of dysfunction and anxiety. You sell your students the tools to push back: discipline, routine, and what Cal Newport calls “deep work.” Writers like Newport, Oliver Burkeman, Phil Stutz, and Angela Duckworth offer blueprints for repelling chaos and replacing it with order. ChatGPT can’t teach students to prioritize, strategize, or persevere. That’s your domain.

    So keep honing your pitch. You’re selling something AI can’t: a powerful persona, the transformative power of ideas, and the tools to carve order from the chaos. ChatGPT can crunch words all it wants, but when it comes to shaping human beings, it’s just another cog. You? You’re the architect.

  • HOW DO WE ASSESS STUDENT LEARNING IN THE AGE OF AI?

    HOW DO WE ASSESS STUDENT LEARNING IN THE AGE OF AI?

    One of my colleagues—an expert in technology and education, and thus perpetually stuck in the trenches of this AI circus—must have noticed I’d taken on the role of ChatGPT’s most aggrieved critic. I’d been flooding her inbox with meticulously crafted, panic-laced mini manifestos about how these AI platforms were invading my classroom like a digital plague. But instead of telling me to get a grip or, better yet, stop emailing her altogether, she came up with an ingenious way for me to process my AI anxieties. Her solution? “Why not channel that nervous energy into a Spring Flex Activity on AI in teaching?”

    Naturally, because misery loves company, she signed on to co-present. The date was locked—mid-February 2025. A few months to go, plenty of time to prepare… or so I thought.

    Three months earlier in November, I was already deep into crafting a masterpiece of a Google Slides presentation, proudly titled: “Ten Approaches to Making AI-Resistant Writing Prompts: Resisting the AI Takeover.” It was focused, practical, and dripping with tech-savvy authority. I was convinced I had nailed it. I would be the knight in shining armor, defending academia from an algorithmic apocalypse.

    But a tiny voice in the back of my head kept nagging: “You do realize ChatGPT has a faster upgrade schedule than your iPhone, right?” Every time I’d tested my so-called AI-resistant strategies, the platform would recognize its weaknesses, evolve, and then laugh in my face. Still, I chose to ignore that voice and basked in my fleeting sense of triumph.

    Then came January. I pulled up my Google Slides to rehearse my presentation and felt the full weight of my hubris. My “cutting-edge” strategies were already about as relevant as an AOL dial-up manual. The AI arms race had advanced, and my presentation was now a quaint little relic—a reminder that in the war against AI, obsolescence isn’t just a risk. It’s the default setting.

    Let me walk you through my three brilliant strategies for giving students AI-resistant writing assignments—strategies that crumbled faster than a cookie in a chatbot’s clutches over the course of three short months.

    Strategy One: Have students summarize an essay with signal phrases, in-depth analysis, and in-text citations. Why? Because ChatGPT couldn’t handle that level of academic finesse. Or so I thought. Fast forward three months, and now the bot churns out MLA-perfect citations with smug precision and rhetorical flair, like it’s gunning for a tenure-track position.

    Strategy Two: Ban clichés and stock phrases. Simple, right? Wrong. Students can now binge-watch YouTube tutorials that teach them how to reprogram ChatGPT to “write with originality” and bypass every plagiarism detection tool I can throw at them. It’s like handing them a cheat code labeled: “Creative Nonsense, Now AI-Enhanced!”

    Strategy Three: Require current references. My reasoning? ChatGPT was stuck in a time warp with outdated sources. But wouldn’t you know it? The bot got a data upgrade and now pulls research so fresh it practically smells like new car leather.

    In sum, ChatGPT is a shape-shifting Hydra of academic trickery. Any technique I recommend today will be obsolete by the time you finish your coffee. So, yes—presenting a guide on “AI-resistant” strategies would be like publishing a survival manual for Jurassic Park and then as you’re dashing into the parking lot to get inside your car, you’re eaten by a velociraptor.

    So, what exactly was my Flex Day presentation supposed to be about? Since playing tug-of-war with AI’s ever-evolving powers was a losing battle, I decided it was time to pivot. Instead of chasing after futile strategies to “beat” AI, the real question became: what’s our role as instructors in a world where students—and everyone else—are increasingly outsourcing their cognitive load to machines? More importantly, how do we assess student learning when AI tools are rapidly becoming part of everyday life?

    To stay relevant, we have to confront four key questions:

    1. How do we assess how effective the students are at using AI-writing tools? Are they wielding ChatGPT like a scalpel or a sledgehammer? Are they correctly using ChatGPT as a sidekick to assist their human-generated writing, or have they fallen back on their lazy default setting to produce a “Genie Essay” in which ChatGPT materializes a cheap surface-level essay in “the blink of an eye”?
    2. How do we create a grading rubric that separates “higher-order thinking” from surface-level drivel? The difference between a real argument and a ChatGPT-generated one is both profound and crucial—one is a meaningful persuader, the other a stochastic parrot (imitates language mindlessly and randomly).
    3. How do we create a grading rubric that discourages the dreaded Uncanny Valley Effect in student writing? You know, that eerie sensation you get when an essay seems human at first glance but is just slightly “off,” like a malfunctioning Stepford paper that reeks of academic dishonesty.
    4. What uniquely human tasks can we assign in class (online or face-to-face) to measure real learning? Spoiler: If the answer is a formulaic five-paragraph essay, you’re already in trouble.

    If we can answer these questions, maybe—just maybe—we’ll stop grading assignments that feel like AI-generated fever dreams and start nurturing authentic learning again.

    Questions one through three pertain to how we grade the students’ writing and define our expectations in the form of a grading rubric. When it comes to assessing students’ use of AI machines as collaborative helpers in their writing, we don’t get to see how they work at home. We only see the final product: a portion of their essay that we have assigned, like an introduction and thesis paragraph, or the entire manuscript. 

    Let us assume that every student is using an open-platform AI tool. We need a grading rubric that separates the desirable “AI-sidekick essay” from the “AI-genie essay.” To make this separation, we need an AI-Grading Rubric, which should address the following features of writing quality:

    1. Is the language clear, rhetorically appropriate, and conducive to creating a strong authorial presence or is it mostly AI-signature cliches and stock phrases?
    2. Does the essay explore the messy human side of an issue with higher-order thought, meaning, nuance, and blood, sweat, and tears, or does it smack of an AI-signature facile, glib, surface-level, cookie-cutter Wikipedia-like superficial bot piece? 
    3. Does the essay appear to be an authentic expression of strong authorial presence or does it have that creepy Uncanny Valley Effect? 

    For any kind of grading rubric to be effective, you will have to give your students contrasting essay models, which can be scrutinized in class and posted on Canvas: 

    1. Sidekick Essay Vs. Genie Essay
    2. Strong Authorial Presence Vs. Cringe-Worthy AI Surface-Level Presence
    3. An essay that is so deep in meaning and nuance that it transcends the original topic and speaks to larger human concerns vs. a glib surface-level essay that has somehow managed to take a sophisticated topic and reduce it to a fifth-grade cookie-cutter argument. 

    A crucial thing to acknowledge as you make the rubric is that you’re assuming students are using AI in some way or another. Your purpose isn’t to “catch them in the act of plagiarism.” Rather, your purpose is to focus on the quality of their writing. They may be using AI effectively and ethically. They may be using AI ineffectively and dubiously. Or they may be using it somewhere in between. The final measure of how they used AI will be evident in the quality of their work, which will be measured against your grading rubric. 

    Aside from assessing your students’ work in the AI Age, you want them to engage in coursework that is uniquely human and cannot be replicated by AI. I recommend the following:

    One. Integrate Personal Writing in an Argumentative Essay: Your students can begin an argumentative essay with an attention-getting hook based on their personal experience. For example, I teach Cal Newport’s book So Good They Can’t Ignore You in which he argues that pursuing your career based on passion as your first criteria is a dangerous premise with a large failure rate while pursuing a craftsman mindset renders higher career success and happiness. My students defend, refute, or complicate Newport’s claim. In their opening paragraph, they write about their own career quest, based on passion or something else, or they observe someone else they know who is struggling to choose a career based on passion or another criteria. 

    Two. Have students interview each other and process those interviews into an introduction paragraph. This can be done in the classroom, or if the class is online, the students can interview each other on the Canvas chat app Pronto. For example, I show my students the documentary Becoming Frederick Douglass and the Jordan Peele movie Get Out and the students have to interview each other with the purpose of writing an extended definition of “The Sunken Place,” as a condition of hellish confinement, and “The North Star,” as a condition of freedom and enlightenment. These definitions will be present in their essays as they compare the themes of Frederick Douglass’s journey to the journey in Get Out.  

    Three. Use multimodal composition assignments. What this means is that in addition to your students submitting an essay, they also submit other media expressions of the assignment. For example, if they are writing an essay about “The Sunken Place” in the movie Get Out, their essay would be accompanied by a YouTube video in which they give an oral presentation of their essay. Another example of multimodal composition is to pair students who are debating an argument. Each student takes an opposing side and they hash it out on either a YouTube video or a homemade podcast. 

    If I had to guess, multimodal composition is going to scale over the next decade. Not only does it measure student achievement in uniquely human ways, it gives students the opportunity to use a variety of media tools that they will probably have to master in their career. 

    Four. Before the completed essay is due, have students write a one-page meta-analysis of the assignment in which they describe the ways the assignment made them anxious, frustrated, and confused; and other ways the assignment made them feel curious and changed their understanding of a topic they may or may not have thought about before. The purpose of this assignment is to make students look at the assignment from a radically different way and engage in the creative process, rumination, baking ideas over time, and realizing that ideas don’t crystallize into absolutes. Rather, ideas are open to change and the more they change and mature, the more deep and valuable they become. 

    I got this idea from reading Questlove’s Creative Quest. In the book, he recalls a nightly ritual with his parents: After dinner, they would spend two hours immersed in his father’s colossal record collection—every genre imaginable. His dad, a doo-wop musician from the 1950s, didn’t treat those records like sacred relics. Oh no, they were living, breathing works-in-progress. To Questlove, they were the analog version of Google Docs—always open for revision and reinvention. “The thing about records,” he writes, “was that they didn’t feel like closed ideas. They were ideas you could open and ideas you could use.”

    As I reflected on this elegant creative tradition, I was hit by a wave of melancholy. Why? Because this ritual was steeped in abundance—abundance of love, of time, and of joy in creativity for creativity’s sake, without the specter of deadlines or profit lurking around every corner. Questlove’s parents gave him space to explore art as a lifelong conversation, not a product.

    Now cut to me, the college instructor, trying to preach that same gospel of creative abundance to my students—students who shuffle into class like zombies after working double shifts and raising kids. They’re sleep-deprived, haven’t eaten since yesterday’s granola bar, and are already bracing for another round of minimum-wage survival. And here I am, waxing poetic about how they should “let their ideas germinate over time” like artisanal sourdough. Worse yet, I’m promoting multimodal composition—assignments so elaborate, they’re one drone shot away from being a Netflix mini-series. Yeah, that’s gonna land well.

    The truth is, creativity—real, human creativity—requires time. And time is a privilege most of my students just don’t have. So, as I build my course content, I have to factor this reality in. Otherwise, I’m just another academic blowhard asking students to perform miracles on the fumes of a 20-minute nap and half a bag of stale pretzels.

  • HOW DO YOU GRADE AN AI-GENERATED “GENIE” ESSAY?

    HOW DO YOU GRADE AN AI-GENERATED “GENIE” ESSAY?

    Let’s get one thing straight: AI writing tools are impressive—borderline sorcery—for tasks like editing, outlining, experimenting with rhetorical voices, and polishing prose. I want my students to learn how to wield these tools because, spoiler alert, they aren’t going anywhere. AI will be as embedded in their future careers as email and bad office coffee. Teaching them to engage with AI isn’t just practical; it can actually make the process of learning to write more dynamic and engaging—assuming they don’t treat it like a magic eight-ball.

    That said, let’s not kid ourselves: in the AI Age, the line between authentic writing and plagiarism has become blurred. I’ll concede that writing today is more of a hybrid creature. You’re no longer grading a lone student’s essay—you’re evaluating how effectively someone can collaborate with technology without it turning into a lifeless, Frankensteined word salad.

    And here’s the kicker—not all AI-assisted writing is created equal. Some students use AI as a trusty sidekick, enhancing their own writing. Others? Well, they treat AI like a wish-granting genie, hoping it’ll conjure a masterpiece with a few vague prompts. What they end up with are “genie essays”—stiff, robotic monstrosities that reek of what instructors lovingly refer to as AI plagiarism. It’s like the uncanny valley of academic writing: technically coherent but soulless enough to give you existential dread.

    When faced with the dreaded genie essay, resist the urge to brandish the scarlet P for plagiarism. That’s a rabbit hole lined with bureaucratic landmines and self-inflicted migraines. First off, in a world where screenwriters and CEOs are cheerfully outsourcing their brains to ChatGPT, it’s hypocritical to deny students access to the same tools. Second, AI detection software is about as trustworthy as a used car salesman—glitchy, inconsistent, and bound to fail spectacularly when you need it most. Third, confronting a student about AI use is a fast track to an ugly, defensive shouting match that makes everyone want to crawl into a dark hole and die.

    My advice? Forget chasing “academic honesty” like some puritan witch hunter. Instead, focus on grading quality based on your rubric. Genie essays—those hollow, AI-generated snoozefests—practically grade themselves with a big, fat D or F. No need to scream “Plagiarism!” from the rooftops. Just point out the abysmal writing quality.

    Picture this: A student turns in an essay that technically ticks all your boxes—claim, evidence, organization, even a few dutiful signal phrases. But the whole thing reads like it was written by a Hallmark card algorithm that’s one motivational quote away from a nervous breakdown. Time to whip out a comment like this:

    “While your essay follows the prompt and contains necessary structural elements, it lacks in-depth analysis, presents generic, surface-level ideas, and is riddled with stock phrases, clichés, and formulaic robot-speak. As a result, it does not meet the standards of college-level writing or satisfy the Student Learning Outcomes.”

    I’ve used something kinder than this (barely), and you know what? Not one student has argued with me. Why? My guess is they don’t want to die on the hill of defending their AI-generated sludge. They’d rather take the low grade than risk having a grievance committee dissect their essay and reveal it for the bot-written monstrosity it is. Smart move. Even they know when to fold.

    More often than not, after I make a comment on a genie essay, the student will later confess and apologize for resorting to ChatGPT. They’ll tell me they had time constraints due to their job or a family emergency, and they take the hit. 

    The shame of passing off a chatbot-generated essay as your own has all but evaporated, and honestly, I’m not shocked. It’s not that today’s students are any less ethical than their predecessors. No, it’s that the line between “authentic” work and AI-assisted output has turned into a smudgy Rorschach test. In the AI Age, the idea of originality is slipperier than a politician at a press conference. Still, let’s be real: quality writing—sharp, insightful, and memorable—hasn’t gone extinct. Turning in some bland, AI-scented drivel that reads like a rejected Wikipedia draft? That’s still unacceptable, no matter how much technology is doing the heavy lifting these days.

    When it comes to grading, if you want to encourage your students to create authentic writing and not hide behind AI, it’s essential to give them a chance to rewrite. I’ve found that allowing one or two rewrites with the possibility of a higher grade keeps them from spiraling into despair when their first submission bombs. In today’s world of online Learning Management Systems (LMS), students are already navigating a digital labyrinth that could produce a migraine. They open their course page and are hit with a chaotic onslaught of modules, notifications, and resources—like the educational equivalent of being trapped in a Vegas casino with no exit signs. It’s no wonder anxiety sets in before they even find the damn syllabus.

    By giving students room to fail and rewrite, I’m essentially throwing them a lifeline. I tell them, “Relax. You can screw this up and try again.” The result? They engage more. They take risks. They’re more likely to produce writing that actually has a pulse—something authentic, which is exactly what I’m fighting for in an age where AI-written drivel is a tempting shortcut. In short, I’m not just teaching composition; I’m running a support group for people overwhelmed by both technology and their own perfectionism.

    If you want to crush your students’ spirits like a cinder block to a soda can, go ahead—pepper their essays with comments until they resemble the Dead Sea Scrolls, riddled with ancient mysteries and editorial marks. Remember, you’re not the high priest of Random House, dissecting a bestseller with the fervor of a literary surgeon. Your students are not authors tweaking their next Pulitzer prizewinner; they’re deer in the headlights, dodging corrections like hunters’ bullets. Load them down with too many notes, and they’ll toss their first draft like it’s cursed Ikea furniture in desperate need for assembly—wood screws, cam lock nuts, and dowel rods strewn across the floor next to an inscrutable instruction manual. At that point, ChatGPT becomes their savior, and off they go, diving into AI’s warm, mind-clearing waters.

    Here’s a reality check: Your students were raised texting, scrolling, and laughing at 15-second TikToks, not slogging through The Count of Monte Cristo or unraveling Dickensian labyrinths in Bleak House. Their attention spans have the tensile strength of wet spaghetti. Handing them an intricate manifesto on rewriting will make their brains flatline faster than you can say “Les Misérables.” If you want results, focus on three key improvements. Yes, just three. Keep it simple and digestible, like a McNugget of literary wisdom.

    You are their personal trainer, not some sadistic drill sergeant barking out Herculean demands. You don’t shove them under a bar loaded with 400 pounds on day one and shout, “Lift or die!” No, you ease them in. Guide them to the lat machine like a gentle Sherpa of education. Set the weight selector pin at 10 pounds. Teach them to pull with grace, not grunt like they’re auditioning for Gladiator. Form comes first. Confidence follows. They need to trust the process, to see themselves slowly building strength. Maybe they won’t make viral gains overnight, but this is why you became a teacher—not for glory or applause, but for those small, stubborn victories that bloom over time.

    And trust me—there will be victories. I’ve seen it. Students with writing deficits are not doomed to live forever in the land of dangling modifiers and comma splices. I’m living proof. When I stumbled onto my college campus in 1979 at seventeen, I was told I wasn’t ready for freshman composition. They shunted me into what I’d later dub “Bonehead English,” which kicked my ass so hard I had to downgrade to “Pre-Bonehead.” I wasn’t stupid. My teachers weren’t to blame. I was just too busy daydreaming about being the next Schwarzenegger, consumed by the illusion of future pecs and glory. But something clicked in college—I redirected my muscle dreams from biceps to brain cells. And here I am now, climbing the educational ladder I once thought was unreachable.

    So, lighten up on the corrections, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll witness your students climb too.

    The point of this chapter isn’t to have you allow your AI concerns to make you morph into some grim, clipboard-wielding overlord of academic misery. It’s about threading the needle: keeping your standards intact while preventing your students from mentally checking out like a bored clerk on a Friday shift. And to strike that balance, here’s a radical idea—stop moonlighting as the plagiarism police. Nobody wants to see you patrolling Turnitin reports like it’s an episode of CSI: MLA Edition. Instead, fixate on improving the actual writing.

    Next, throw your students a rewrite lifeline. Give them a shot at redemption, or at least at salvaging their GPA from the wreckage of their latest Word doc catastrophe. The goal is to prevent them from spiraling into despair and skipping class faster than a doomed New Year’s resolution.

    Lastly, remember, these are academic toddlers in a gym full of intellectual kettlebells. You wouldn’t toss them onto the T-Bar Row or demand a perfect Turkish Get-Up without first teaching them how not to blow out their L5-S1. Show them the fundamentals, give them small wins, and gradually increase the weight. This isn’t a Rocky montage—it’s education. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

  • AN ESSAY MUST EMBRACE HUMANIFICATION

    AN ESSAY MUST EMBRACE HUMANIFICATION

    Returning to the classroom post-pandemic and encountering ChatGPT, I’ve become fixated on what I now call “the battle for the human soul.” On one side, there’s Ozempification—that alluring shortcut. It’s the path where mediocrity is the destination, and the journey there is paved with laziness. Like popping Ozempic for quick weight loss and calling it a day, the shortcut to academic success involves relying on AI to churn out lackluster work. Who cares about excellence when Netflix is calling your name, right?

    On the other side, we have Humanification. This is the grueling path that my personal hero, Frederick Douglass, would champion. It’s the deep work Cal Newport writes about in his best-selling books. Humanification happens when we turn away from comfort and instead plunge headfirst into the difficult, yet rewarding, process of literacy, self-improvement, and helping others rise from their own “Sunken Place”—borrowing from Jordan Peele’s chilling metaphor in Get Out. On this path, the pursuit isn’t comfort; it’s meaning. The goal isn’t a Netflix binge but a life with purpose and higher aspirations.

    Reading Tyler Austin Harper’s essay “ChatGPT Doesn’t Have to Ruin College,” I was struck by the same dichotomy of Ozempification on one side of academia and Humanification on the other. Harper, while wandering around Haverford’s idyllic campus, stumbles upon a group of English majors who proudly scoff at ChatGPT, choosing instead to be “real” writers. These students, in a world that has largely tossed the humanities aside as irrelevant, are disciples of Humanification. For them, rejecting ChatGPT isn’t just an academic decision; it’s a badge of honor, reminiscent of Bartleby the Scrivener’s iconic refusal: “I prefer not to.” Let that sink in. Give these students the opportunity to use ChatGPT to write their essays, and they recoil at the thought of such a flagrant self-betrayal. 

    After interviewing students, Harper concludes that using AI in higher education isn’t just a technological issue—it’s cultural and economic. The disdain these students have for ChatGPT stems from a belief that reading and writing transcend mere resume-building or career milestones. It’s about art for art’s sake. But Harper wisely points out that this intellectual snobbery is rooted in privilege: “Honor and curiosity can be nurtured, or crushed, by circumstance.” 

    I had to stop in my tracks. Was I so privileged and naive to think I could preach the gospel of Humanification while unaware that such a pursuit costs time, money, and the peace of mind that one has a luxurious safety net in the event the Humanification quest goes awry? 

    This question made me think of Frederick Douglass, a man who had every reason to have his intellectual curiosity “crushed by circumstance.” In fact, his pursuit of literacy, despite the threat of death, was driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. But Douglass, let’s be honest, is an outlier—a hero for the ages. Can we really expect most people, particularly those without resources, to follow that path? Harper’s argument carries weight. Without the financial and cultural infrastructure to support it, aspiring to Humanification isn’t always feasible.

    I often tell my students that being rich makes it easier to be an intellectual. Imagine the luxury: you could retreat to an off-grid cabin (complete with Wi-Fi, obviously), gorge on organic gourmet food prepped by your personal chef, and spend your days reading Dostoevsky in Russian and mastering Schubert’s sonatas while taking sunset jogs along the beach. When you emerge back into society, tanned and enlightened, you could boast of your intellectual achievements with ease.

    Harper’s point is that wealth facilitates Humanification. At a place like Haverford, with its “writing support, small classes, and unharried faculty,” it’s easier to uphold an honor code and aspire to intellectual purity. But for most students—especially those in public schools—this is a far cry from reality. My wife teaches sixth grade in the public school system, and she’s shared stories of schools that resemble post-apocalyptic wastelands more than educational institutions. We’re talking mold-infested buildings, chemical leaks, and underpaid teachers sleeping in their cars. Expecting students in these environments to uphold an “honor code” and strive for Humanification? It’s not just unrealistic—it’s insulting.

    This brings to mind Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Before we can expect students to self-actualize by reading Dostoevsky or rejecting ChatGPT, they need food, shelter, and basic safety. It’s hard to care about literary integrity when you’re navigating life’s survival mode.

    As I dive deeper into Harper’s thought-provoking essay on economic class and the honor code, I can’t help but notice the uncanny parallel to the “weight management code” my Critical Thinking students tackle in their first essay. Both seem to hinge not just on personal integrity or effort but on a cocktail of privilege and circumstance. Could it be that striving to be an “authentic writer,” untouched by the mediocrity of ChatGPT and backed by the luxury of free time, is eerily similar to the aspiration of achieving an Instagram-worthy body, possibly aided by expensive Ozempic injections?

    It raises the question: Is the difference between those who reject ChatGPT and those who embrace it simply a matter of character, or is it, at least in part, a product of class? After all, if you can afford the luxury of time—time to read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky in your rustic, tech-free cabin—you’re already in a different league. Similarly, if you have access to high-end weight management options like Ozempic, you’re not exactly running the same race as those pounding the pavement on their $20 sneakers. 

    Sure, both might involve personal effort—intellectual or physical—but they’re propped up by economic factors that can’t be ignored. Whether we’re talking about Ozempification or Humanification, it’s clear that while self-discipline and agency are part of the equation, they’re not the whole story. Class, as uncomfortable as it might be to admit, plays a significant role in determining who gets to choose their path—and who gets stuck navigating whatever options are left over.

    I’m sure the issue is more nuanced than that. These are, after all, complex topics that defy oversimplification. But both privilege and personal character need to be addressed if we’re going to have a real conversation about what it means to “aspire” in this day and age.

    Returning to Tyler Austin Harper’s essay, Harper provides a snapshot of the landscape when ChatGPT launched in late 2022. Many professors found themselves swamped with AI-generated essays, which, unsurprisingly, raised concerns about academic integrity. However, Harper, a professor at a liberal-arts college, remains optimistic, believing that students still have a genuine desire to learn and pursue authenticity. He views the potential for students to develop along the path of intellectual and personal growth, as very much alive—especially in environments like Haverford, where he went to test the waters of his optimism.

    When Harper interviews Haverford professors about ChatGPT violating the honor code, their collective shrug is surprising. They’re seemingly unbothered by the idea of policing students for cheating, as if grades and academic dishonesty are beneath them. The culture at Haverford, Harper implies, is one of intellectual immersion—where students and professors marinate in ideas, ethics, and the contemplation of higher ideals. The honor code, in this rarified academic air, is almost sacred, as though the mere existence of such a code ensures its observance. It’s a place where academic integrity and learning are intertwined, fueled by the aristocratic mind.

    Harper’s point is clear: The further you rise into the elite echelons of boutique colleges like Haverford, the less you have to worry about ChatGPT or cheating. But when you descend into the more grounded, practical world of community colleges, where students juggle multiple jobs, family obligations, and financial constraints, ChatGPT poses a greater threat to education. This divide, Harper suggests, is not just academic; it’s economic and cultural. The humanities may be thriving in the lofty spaces of elite institutions, but they’re rapidly withering in the trenches where students are simply trying to survive.

    As someone teaching at a community college, I can attest to this shift. My classrooms are filled with students who are not majoring in writing or education. Most of them are focused on nursing, engineering, and business. In this hypercompetitive job market, they simply don’t have the luxury to spend time reading novels, becoming musicologists or contemplating philosophical debates. They’re too busy hustling to get by. Humanification, as an idea, gets a nod in my class discussions, but in the “real world,” where six hours of sleep is a luxury, it often feels out of reach.

    Harper points out that in institutions like Haverford, not cheating has become a badge of honor, a marker of upper-class superiority. It’s akin to the social cachet of being skinny, thanks to access to expensive weight-loss drugs like Ozempic. There’s a smugness that comes with the privilege of maintaining integrity—an implication that those who cheat (or can’t afford Ozempic) are somehow morally inferior. This raises an uncomfortable question: Is the aspiration to Humanification really about moral growth, or is it just another way to signal wealth and privilege?

    However, Harper complicates this argument when he brings Stanford into the conversation. Unlike Haverford, Stanford has been forced to take the “nuclear option” of proctoring exams, convinced that cheating is rampant. In this larger, more impersonal environment, the honor code has failed to maintain academic integrity. It appears that Haverford’s secret sauce is its small, close-knit atmosphere—something that can’t be replicated at a sprawling institution like Stanford. Harper even wonders whether Haverford is more museum than university—a relic from an Edenic past when people pursued knowledge for its own sake, untainted by the drive for profit or prestige. Striving for Humanification at a place like Haverford may be an anachronism, a beautiful but lost world that most of us can only dream of.

    Harper’s essay forces me to consider the role of economic class in choosing a life of “authenticity” or Humanification. With this in mind, I give my Critical Thinking students the following writing prompt, which they will use for the introductory paragraph in their second essay:

    Personal Reflection Prompt: Imagining Wealth as a Path to Humanification

    Imagine that you have inherited a vast fortune, freeing you from the demands of work and financial survival. With all the time and resources you could ever need, you now have the opportunity to pursue a life focused on intellectual growth and personal fulfillment—a life of Humanification, as opposed to the shortcuts and superficial gains we often settle for in our daily lives.

    In this reflection, describe how you would use your newfound wealth to cultivate yourself as a deeply thoughtful, well-read individual. Consider the choices you might make to enrich your mind, whether through travel, rigorous study, artistic pursuits, or meaningful experiences that challenge and expand your understanding of the world. Reflect on how you would resist the temptation of “Ozempification”—the lure of easy, superficial achievements—and instead dedicate yourself to meaningful, enduring growth. How would this life of Humanification impact your values, relationships, and perspective on life?

    As you reflect, consider the role of economic class in the pursuit of an “authentic” or “intellectual” life. Do you think wealth plays a decisive role in people’s ability to focus on self-cultivation and Humanification, rather than opting for practical or mundane paths? In your view, is a lack of financial security a valid reason to abandon pursuits often associated with the privileged, like becoming well-read, exploring philosophy, or creating art? Or, do you think that intellectual and personal growth can (and should) be sought regardless of one’s economic situation?

    In your response, consider the following:

    1. Describe the intellectual and creative pursuits you would invest in, explaining why these activities appeal to you and how they might contribute to a richer, fuller life.

    2. Explore the challenges and choices involved in resisting the temptation for easy, unearned rewards. How would you stay true to your pursuit of meaning?

    3. Reflect on how living a life dedicated to Humanification might change the way you view success, happiness, and fulfillment.

    4. Finally, consider the role of privilege in your imagined life of Humanification. Would your goals and values shift if you had fewer resources, and would you find it justifiable to focus on more practical pursuits instead?

    ______

    While I acknowledge that Humanification is partly a function of class privilege, I can’t give up on it as a worthwhile and practical pursuit for my students. It doesn’t cost bucket loads of money to become a self-taught autodidactic, an intellectually curious person who hungers to learn something new every day. To be a person whose curiosity is more treasured than consumerism and pleasure-seeking is to be a happy person. This idea is argued persuasively in Jeffrey Rosen’s The Pursuit of Happiness, in which he delves into learning to free ourselves from the maudlin personality–a person who dotes on narcissistic and inconsequential trivia and is enslaved to the irrational passions while instead becoming a self-possessed person of hungers for wisdom and virtue. One of Rosen’s most inspiring examples is Frederick Douglass who had an early understanding that literacy was forbidden to enslaved people because it posed a direct threat to the institution of slavery itself. Douglass’ master knew that an illiterate slave was a docile, childlike being who, lacking the tools for critical thought, would be less likely to rebel or even question their role as a slave. Rosen captures the brilliance of Douglass’ epiphany: the realization that slavery’s cruelty lay not only in physical bondage but also in the systematic effort to shackle the mind. As Douglass learned to read in secret, under the threat of death, he embarked on a journey of self-liberation that proved literacy was both a radical act of defiance and a tool for Humanification—rising from ignorance to a life of meaning, purpose, and intellectual freedom.

    One of Douglass’ key turning points was his discovery of The Columbian Orator, a book he purchased at thirteen, which provided him with principles of eloquence and oratory, along with powerful antislavery messages. In it, Douglass encountered a dialogue between a master and slave, a reflection on the dehumanizing effects of slavery that resonated deeply with his own experience. This book laid bare the injustices of slavery and confirmed that developing literacy and reason were not just acts of rebellion, but essential to becoming fully human. Rosen points out that Douglass was convinced that slavery was rooted in the avarice of man, and his reading of The Columbian Orator dismantled any lingering doubts that God had willed his enslavement. For Douglass, literacy opened the door to understanding slavery as a violation of “God’s eternal justice.”

    Rosen’s analysis brings to life Douglass’ belief that the root of oppression—whether racial or otherwise—lies in people’s unreasoning hatred and their desire to dominate. Douglass realized that these “inflamed passions” existed across societies and were not exclusive to slavery. Douglass’ profound insight was that humanity’s failure to be governed by reason led to unjust societies that thrived on privilege for some and degradation for others. This understanding is deeply relevant today, especially when we reflect on the ways society continues to foster mediocrity, complacency, and self-degradation, which I have termed “Ozempification”—a lazy, shortcut-driven life that avoids the struggle required for meaningful self-development.

    Douglass’ argument for structured education as a path to freedom remains a cornerstone of his philosophy. As Rosen notes, in Douglass’ “Self-Made Men” speech, he articulates that true liberty means the opportunity to educate oneself and attain self-actualization. He rejected the notion that happiness or freedom would come from fate or divine intervention. Instead, Douglass embraced the belief that happiness was a result of hard work and virtuous self-control, not hedonistic pleasures or mindless pursuits. This aligns with Viktor Frankl’s philosophy in Man’s Search for Meaning: happiness is not something to be pursued directly but is a byproduct of living a life full of purpose.

    For me, Douglass’ story is both humbling and a powerful call to action. If Douglass risked his life to learn how to read and write, what excuse do I have to squander my intellectual freedom by grazing mindlessly on the Internet or indulging in dopamine hits from social media? His life forces me to reconsider my habits and reminds me that I need to engage in “deep work,” as Cal Newport would put it. Instead of wallowing in self-pity about the challenges AI presents to my teaching career, I need to recommit to the deep intellectual labor that gives life meaning and purpose. It’s clear that, like Douglass, I must fight against complacency and push myself to continuously grow.

    By following Douglass’ lead, I realize that my challenges today pale in comparison to his, yet the principles remain the same: the pursuit of knowledge, purpose, and self-improvement must be relentless. In a world filled with distractions and easy shortcuts, Douglass’ story teaches us what it means to live a life committed to true Humanification.

    I use Douglass’ example to create a counterargument assignment for the students’ third essay based on this personal reflection:

    Personal Reflection Assignment: Humanification Without Privilege—The Path of Frederick Douglass

    Frederick Douglass’ life is a powerful reminder that the pursuit of knowledge, purpose, and self-improvement can transcend material privilege. Douglass, born into the bondage of slavery and denied access to formal education, defied all odds to become a literate, free-thinking individual. His journey illustrates that while privilege may provide easier access to resources, it is not a requirement for Humanification—a life of intellectual growth, resilience, and personal liberation.

    For this 300-word reflection, consider a time when you faced a limitation—be it financial, social, or personal—that seemed to restrict your opportunities for growth or learning. How did you respond? Did you find a way to pursue your goals despite this limitation, or were there moments where you struggled to believe you could overcome it? 

    As you reflect, use Douglass’ story as a counterpoint to explore the following:

    1. Defining Your Own Humanification: How might Douglass’ example influence your understanding of Humanification? How can the absence of privilege push us to be more resourceful, determined, or resilient in our pursuit of personal growth?

    2. The Role of Personal Agency: Like Douglass’ commitment to literacy as a path to freedom, think about how you might pursue self-improvement without relying solely on external advantages. What resources—intellectual, emotional, or social—do you already possess that could support your growth?

    3. Examining Modern Privilege and Distraction: How does Douglass’ relentless pursuit of literacy contrast with today’s culture of convenience and distraction? How do you see privilege impacting the way people approach—or avoid—the work of self-education and personal development?

    Reflect on how Douglass’ example might encourage you to resist the temptations of “Ozempification” and choose the more challenging path toward lasting Humanification, regardless of your personal circumstances. Use this assignment to explore your own beliefs about privilege, growth, and the power of intentional, purpose-driven work.

  • Teaching College Writing in the Age of AI

    Teaching College Writing in the Age of AI

    Recently, 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 nonsense. 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.

    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.

  • When We Had to Get Approval from the Attendance Priestess

    When We Had to Get Approval from the Attendance Priestess

    I don’t miss the pre-digital education era when the semester was over but I still wasn’t finished. I had to drag myself to the campus during the semester break, lugging a mountain of paper that looked like it had survived the apocalypse.

    My stack of grades and attendance records—yellowed, dog-eared, and adorned with enough coffee stains and White-Out smudges to pass as a Jackson Pollock reject—was a bureaucratic nightmare in physical form. I found myself in line with a hundred other sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled professors, each clutching their own messy masterpieces like they were carrying the Dead Sea Scrolls. The line outside the Office of Records was so long it could have served as an endurance test for Navy SEALs. To stave off starvation and existential dread, I had packed a comically oversized sack of protein bars and apples, as if I were preparing for a month-long siege rather than a simple bureaucratic ritual.

    There I was, supposed to be basking in the sweet, sweet nothingness of semester break, but instead, I was condemned to a gauntlet of waiting that made Dante’s Inferno look like a walk in the park. For what felt like hours, waited for the privilege of sitting at a table and enduring the laser-like glare of humorless bureaucrats who would scrutinize my records as if they were forensic experts analyzing evidence from a high-profile murder case.

    Once I finally managed to wade through the outdoor line, I advanced to the foyer for the second, even more soul-crushing phase of The Great Wait. Inside, rows of desks manned by expressionless drones awaited, each one peering over piles of grading records that seemed to stretch back to the dawn of civilization. Behind the staff of functionaries who examined the professors’ gradebooks were towers of file boxes stacked so precariously that a single sneeze could have transformed them into a cataclysmic eruption of dust and possibly asbestos.

    Eventually, I was summoned to one of the desks where an eagle-eyed Attendance Priestess scrutinized my records with the intensity of a customs officer suspecting I had smuggled contraband. She licked her fingertips with the solemnity of a high priestess preparing for a sacred ritual, only to cast me a look of such disdain you’d think I’d just handed her a wad of toilet paper instead of my gradebook.

    Finally, when the pinch-faced administrator deemed my records sufficiently unblemished and granted me the bureaucratic blessing to leave, it felt like I had just been handed the keys to the Pearly Gates. I then sprinted to my car unless she changed her mind and needed me to edit this or that. I never fully trusted her.