My colleagues and I were sitting in a summer teacher workshop discussing artificial intelligence, talking about predictive text and how large language models guess what word is statistically most probable to come next, when something inside me revolted.
I wanted to stand up and yell, "No! I am here! I am the chooser of my words, and you would never guess what I am going to say!"
So, I blurted out, "Flamingo!"
The startled faces of my classmates almost made me giggle. After a beat, we all laughed. My outburst became a rallying cry for our group, and it has since grown into a philosophy for my teaching. When I say, “Flamingo!” what I mean is: I am alive! To write is to be alive. To talk about writing is not the same as writing, and prompting a bot is not the same as the messy act of writing, either.
Yet, as an educator preparing future English language arts teachers, I cannot pretend generative AI doesn’t exist. It’s a literacy technology, and it “has sparked both excitement and concern,” as the English Language Arts Teacher Educators (ELATE)’s position statement reminds me. I don't want to be an ostrich (or a flamingo) with my head buried in the sand. I want to remain informed, curious, and discerning.
My colleague Ronelle Kilmer pointed out that flamingos spend much of their time standing on one leg—a perfect metaphor for my growing relationship with educational technology. A "flamingo stance" for me means keeping one foot in the mix—exploring tools, understanding the tech, and remaining open to the opportunities it might offer—while keeping one foot pulled up and separate on purpose, fiercely protecting my humanity.
Here are three ways we can cultivate this stance in our schools:
1. Prioritize Interior Reflection
The conversation around generative AI is too often inflamed into a toxic pro/con debate. As educators, we must be more invested in curiosity than in being "right." We should ask: What is this technology doing to our inner worlds, our relationships, our minds, and our hearts? Philosopher Martin Buber famously distinguished between “I-It” relationships (where one person treats another as an object or utility) and “I-Thou” relationships (where two people forge a deep, authentic connection, with concern for each other). Learning about these distinctions in grad school helped me to see my students in a more in-depth way, instead of as generic desk occupants or side characters in my teaching story.
Now I think about Buber because AI can seem so friendly, lifelike, or even human in the way it replies. And yet, AI—no matter how empathetic or poetic its output feels—is an I-It interaction. This technology is not human—it’s a utility—and we must interact with it as such.
I have experienced profound I-Thou moments in my classroom. When I read or listen to a student share their writing in class, a liminal moment is created, where, despite our differences, I feel a shared connection. I nod and think, me too. If we outsource all our thinking and relationships to algorithms, what happens to our capacity for moments of genuine human connection?
This isn't about blindly being anti-tech; it’s about honoring what makes us human and holding space for it. Technology will continue to be a key cog in our educational systems, and we must learn and be aware of both its potential and its dangers. Young people need guardrails and guidance. We can and must take on the messy work of leading students through the messy, human/technology negotiation of this time.
2. Create Intentional, Tech-Averse Spaces
For years, I started my edtech course by asking pre-service teachers what percentage of technology was "good" and what percent was "bad." I would claim technology was both 100 percent good and 100 percent bad—that it all came down to our intention.
I’m not sure I believe that anymore.
And that is a surprising admission after nearly two decades of cheerleading educational technology. Conversations in a Nebraska Writing Project summer institute focused on AI pushed me to engage more seriously with critical perspectives on AI. I still believe intention matters, but I’m less convinced that it is enough. Beyond our choices, these technologies shape our attention, our habits, our relationships, and even the ways we think. Generative tools are increasingly embedded into the daily work of schools. Gemini sits in student Google toolbars, phones may be banned, but are still close by, and predictive search alters how kids gather facts. This isn't a quiet shift; it's a structural overhaul. Perhaps it is our generation’s Copernicus moment—a seismic shift in our understanding of knowledge and our ways of being.
A "flamingo stance" for me means keeping one foot in the mix—exploring tools, understanding the tech, and remaining open—while keeping one foot pulled up and separate on purpose, fiercely protecting my humanity.
Bob Fecho argues that classrooms should “wobble,” that being a bit knocked off our normal balance can challenge assumptions and result in real learning. But the wobble of this moment feels different. We didn’t intentionally create it; the educational ground is shifting beneath our feet.
To find some balance, it is important to intentionally create low-tech or no-tech spaces for ourselves and our students. I’ve been doing Linda Rief’s Heartbooks with college students, sensing their own desire to put pen to paper, and the resulting word/image mash-ups led an observer in my classroom to say, “The art in these is amazing.” The thing is, I’m not grading the art. Yet the time, attention, motivation, and depth of thought my students bring to these books dwarf what I’ve seen in more computer-based essay brainstorming. I wonder if those who say college students simply want AI to outsource their thinking are missing something.
Intentional time apart is giving me that same energy, the same “magic,” if you will, that I sensed when I entered edtech spaces in 2006. Back then, that was where the creative teacher energy lived. Now, I feel the inverse. Time away from my phone on a Sunday brings me back to myself. Intentionally pulling back might just give us a needed vantage point to see what's actually going on here and what’s worth preserving in this shift. One thing I see more clearly now is the traditional writing workshop—where humans write, share, and grapple with ideas face-to-face—has a secret sauce that technology cannot replicate. French sociologist Émile Durkheim called it "collective effervescence": that intangible, joyful energy when human minds connect over a common purpose. Protecting those non-digital spaces isn't being a luddite; it’s being a steward of the good work that humanities courses have always done.
3. Move with Discernment
At the same time, calls for completely banning screens miss the mark. Technology has genuine potential for streamlining systems, lowering barriers, expanding access, and differentiating instruction for students with diverse learning needs. The key is moving with discernment.
Teach evaluation as a core literacy: If students use AI to brainstorm or structure thoughts, our job is to train them to evaluate the outputs for voice, depth, and truth. Where does the AI-generated text feel flat? Where does it lack soul? Where is it wrong? When should a student step back in as the author? What does their unique voice and experiences bring to this assignment or moment?
Keep humans in charge: At the recent ISTE annual conference, a Google representative emphasized that we don't just need a "human in the loop"—we need a human in charge. Curricular interventions like the University of California at Davis’ PAIRR (Peer and AI Review + Reflection) have students use AI in intentionally designed feedback loops, but keep human reflection and peer discussion at the center.
Keep humanities at the table: School AI policy shouldn't be dictated solely by tech companies moving fast and breaking things, or even by administrative leadership alone. Philosophers, English teachers, psychologists, and art educators need to be consulted and considered in shaping policy. In my roles on a technology board and as a faculty member in an English department, I see such disparate opinions and debates on this, all happening in different silos. We can find our way to better answers if we include a diverse group of voices in any sort of policy conversation. These technologies have far-reaching consequences not for how we live and thrive as human beings, and how we interact with one another.
More Human, Not Less
In response to my silly-yet-profound “Flamingo!” moment, I made a linocut block print of a flamingo to share with colleagues. While carving, I put a top hat on the flamingo because one of them mentioned how her students spent the year drawing top hats on everything. That seems silly—and yet, those unscripted stories, the classroom "lore" we create each year, and the quirky moments of shared joy are what make our jobs sustainable over time. They are the heart of nurturing belonging and community, and I think the top hat gives my flamingo print a bit of sass.
Evi Wusk’s linocut block print of her flamingo drawing. Credit: Evi Wusk
When I pull a print from a carved block, the final image never looks quite like the carving. The print block faces opposite the finished work—a mirror image looking back from a different perspective. That feels symbolic of where we are now. The unpredictability of a hand-pulled print is what makes it art, and the unpredictability of human connection is what makes our classrooms sing.
Teaching, and specifically teaching writing, is a messy, deeply human endeavor. As we navigate this AI landscape, we don't have to choose between total surrender or head-in-the-sand rejection. We can stay curious, hold our ground, and embrace a flamingo stance: one foot thoughtfully engaged with the future, and one foot pulled back intentionally, keeping space for our shared humanity. The best technologies have always made us more human, not less.
