Saint Viator High School

Tom Foster

Instructional Technology Authority

My mom never wanted to hear me complain about being hungry. She wasn’t apathetic; she was just Irish. Growing up in County Mayo, she played a culinary Russian roulette whenever she told her grandmother she was hungry. Sometimes, Granny would reach for the biscuit tin or toast bread over the fire. Other times, Granny would grab a mallet, head toward the bunny cage and "bop" a little friend on the head.

My mom always used the word "bop" to sanitize the memory, but the story remained a family heirloom—gifted with just enough trauma and guilt to prevent me from ever whining for Cheetos.

The Generation of the Mallet

Truthfully, none of us are that far removed from the generation of the mallet. In 1926, the average American was intimately acquainted with their protein. Whether raised in a backyard coop or plucked from a wooden crate at a local market, even a simple chicken dinner required a level of manual labor we can hardly contemplate today.

Most of us now lack the stomach or the technical competency to turn fowl into food, yet almost all of us can use the "SparkNotes of Pinterest" to find a recipe that turns pre-packaged poultry into a semi-gourmet dinner (i.e. my wife’s “marry-me” chicken). However, we don’t consider the modern home cook a "failure" because they didn't slaughter the bird themselves, so why in academia, do we still seem to value the slaughter over the succulence? We condemn the student who uses AI to bypass the formulaic assembly of a five-paragraph essay and instead of seeing efficiency in their "cooking," we see a moral failing.

Writing as Survival

This obsession with rigid process over personal growth is particularly frustrating to me because of my own history. Following a childhood diagnosis of Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD), which may have been triggered by stories of my great-grandmother’s penchant for rabbit homicide—writing became less of a school subject and more of a psychological necessity.

I was a child wired for conflict, yet writing offered a loophole, to help me understand other perspectives, I was taught to write my behavioral conflicts in the third person. Later, I began writing from the perspective of the very people—the teacher, the parent or the police officer, I was defying.

“AI moves students from the slaughterhouse to the kitchen, where teachers provide the secret sauce of complex, modern prompts. While we must still season their original thoughts through daily practice, refined writing shouldn't happen in a vacuum.”

This wasn't just an exercise in grammar; it was an exercise in empathy. It taught me to articulate my internal world in a story, and I began to appreciate the commentary other authors made on our immediate lives. I became an English teacher because I wanted to share that light—the idea that writing is an essential tool for human connection. It shouldn’t be painful; it should be enlightening.

Moving into the Kitchen

Teaching, however, had other plans. Entering the profession, I found myself defaulting to the "mallet" assignments of 1,000- word dirges on the recurrence of decay in Hamlet or rote summaries of The Scarlet Letter, both the same chickens I had plucked twenty years prior in my English classes. Even today, those same "slaughterhouse" essays are still being assigned across the country, and AI is hammering them out with more precision and speed than Granny in the backyard.

It took a decade of trial and error for my own curriculum to evolve from those "de-feathering" exercises into studentcentered assignments that actually tasted of life. When a student argued the sanctity of Chuck E. Cheese or the regression of the high school cafeteria into Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, they weren't just regurgitating analysis; they were displaying a deep, lived understanding of literature applied to their own world. They were finally learning how to season the dish.

Now, AI is forcing the educational world to rewrite its menu overnight. Luckily, progressive minds like Dr. John Spencer, Dr.Catlin Tucker and Dr. Jean M. Twenge (all of whom I recently saw speak) are guiding the community away from antiquated production and toward AI-resistant prompts. In following their lead, I discovered a delightful paradox: if you’re struggling to design an AI-resistant prompt, ask AI. The algorithm knows its own blind spots—namely, individualized student voice and divergent thinking. By prioritizing those ingredients, teachers finally create room for the true artistry of their chefs.

The Final Verdict

AI moves students from the slaughterhouse to the kitchen, where teachers provide the secret sauce of complex, modern prompts. While we must still season their original thoughts through daily practice, refined writing shouldn't happen in a vacuum. Gemini was my sous-chef for this piece: I provided the flavor, and the AI plated the text. I want my students to collaborate similarly so we can finally taste their brilliance— skipping the bunny-bopping.