Recently I made a decision: this year, I’ll run every student essay draft through an AI detector. Yes, every single one. 

I didn’t make this choice lightly. Rather, it’s because of a disturbing trend I’ve seen in some of my students’ writing: prose as smooth and glassy as a pond’s surface before you throw a pebble into it. It doesn’t sound like something humans, with all of their quirks and individuality, would create. Simply put, it’s too good. 

I can already hear the cries of protest about this policy. “It’s not fair.” “Don’t you trust me?” “Other people use it, why shouldn’t I?” “All that matters is getting accepted to college. I’ll worry about ethics later.” And the old standby: “I don’t have time.”

A dear friend of mine in Boston teaches English. You’d be hard pressed to find someone with more reverence for the sanctity of her profession. She is legendary for her devotion to her students and her exacting standards. Not surprisingly, the presence of AI in her students’ writing is the bane of her existence. “I can’t assign papers anymore,” she said. “We are back to timed, in-class writing in good ol’ bluebooks. When my students groan and roll their eyes, I always tell them the same thing: ‘Let’s practice thinking today.’” 

Let that sink in: Let’s practice thinking today. 

Believe me, I get it: the power of AI is addictive. Just this morning, I turned to ChatGPT. With its help, I organized my to-do list and cared for an ailing hydrangea. Not a day goes by that I don’t submit a question to the Borg (resistance is indeed futile): What’s the origin of the phrase ‘one fell swoop’? How come my sourdough won’t rise? What’s the best way to stop my dog from eating rabbit poop? Ask and ye shall receive: MacBeth; the kitchen is too cold; as for your particular dog, it’s hopeless.

Still, my heart sinks when I see a student succumbing to the allure of AI’s instantaneous and flawless execution. Sitting across from them at my office table, I argue with myself. She never uses vocabulary like that when she speaks. He’ll be outraged if I question his integrity. And most distressing of all: What am I going to do about it? I imagine the student at their laptop late at night, tired and overwhelmed: “Just this once. I’ve got too much AP Bio homework waiting for me. It’s all too much.” 

I also envision an admissions officer reading their file. “Yep, the writing is perfect. But who is this applicant, really? Our first obligation is to admit students a professor is eager to teach. How can I assess the potential quality of their intellect when they didn’t actually create what’s on the page?” 

Writing this diatribe, I realize I’m probably spitting into the wind. AI isn’t going anywhere. But when it comes to convincing an admissions officer that you’re worthy of acceptance, I will always believe that authenticity in your writing, with all of its uneven tone and little imperfections, wins. 

So does your brain. 

Let’s practice thinking today.