New Voices Part 2

Zines, students, and fucking fucking AI

I’ve completed the second edition of my student-written zine series.

This is really the tale of two summer sessions. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The first class nailed it. I loved their stories! They were hard workers and good at following instructions, in part I think because they come from pedagogies that emphasize memorization and conformity.

It’s a conundrum, because I had a couple of students enthuse over the fact that they were able to express themselves in class and be creative. They told me how different it was from the way they learn at home.

It was nice to hear, but I suspect the reason they got so much out of it is because they had the high levels of self-discipline necessary to succeed in the other system.

The class is loosely structured, as befitting a non-credit summer course. I present a classic short story or two, do a couple lectures on the structure of a short story, then give them class time to write their own.

I make them do two drafts before the final and bring them up for brief one-on-one consultations for each draft.

Some of the topics of the stories for this latest edition:

• Two catchers vying for the top spot on the baseball team learn to work together.

• After his pond dries up, a frog named Bun must make a dangerous journey to find a new home.

• A soldier in Afghanistan struggles between his duty as a solider and his humanity.

When the first session was over, I handed them their printed zine featuring all of their stories. Some of them were quite excited. It made me feel like I was doing my job.

And based on the joy it gave me and my students, I’m here to tell you there’s still some magic in the printed word.

Then the next session started.

These kids didn’t care. I told them and told them not to use Chat GPT but they wouldn’t listen. The dreck they turned in just pissed me off. Jesus I hate reading that Chat GPT tone. It’s gross and treacly.

So I didn’t make a zine for the second session. I didn’t have a class party. I didn’t hand out my little prizes. I checked off the box when they turned in their story and showed a bunch of movies. I’m not trying if they’re not.

The last day, I gave a little speech. It went something like this.

Please learn to read and write, at least in your native language. This is your world you’re making. I don’t care. I’m old. I’ll be gone. But one day the last person who knows how to read and write is also going to be gone, and then what will you do?