Classroom Implications of ChatGPT
The first time I heard of ChatGPT was last Spring when my son, a middle school Core Math and Science teacher, asked me what I thought of it. I had heard of generative AI and knew the basics, but had not heard of this app and how it might impact student generated content in school classrooms.
Our collective consciousness was certainly raised by the writers’ and the actors’ strikes this past summer. Writers were very concerned that AI generated scripts could replace them. Even actors saw the threat of AI co-opting their likenesses and using them in production without compensating the actors.
Just recently, “Sports Illustrated,” long an icon of sports journalism, has come under attack for outsourcing its content to free-lancers whose empty articles are accused of being generated by AI.
While visiting two grandsons at Thanksgiving, I got into a conversation with the younger one, a 5th grader, about generative AI and shared my curiosity about what ChatGPT could generate in terms of a short story written in the style of a famous author. I downloaded the app, briefly registered for the free version and posed this question:
“Write a short story about a sad man who enters a bar and drinks too much and is bounced from the bar by the bartender in the style of Ernest Hemingway.”
ChatGPT began generating text within a couple of seconds and this brief story emerged. I later added the title.
The Weight of His Own Emptiness
The man entered the dimly lit bar, the weight of the day etched into the lines of his weathered face. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and stared into the glass as if searching for answers. The amber liquid burned down his throat, each sip a fleeting escape.
As the night wore on, the man’s troubles drowned in a sea of alcohol. His laughter echoed, coarse and desperate, blending with the low hum of the bar. The bartender, a silent observer, exchanged glances with the regulars, acknowledging the unraveling spectacle.
The man’s world became hazy, the edges of reality blurring with every swig. In his intoxicated haze, he stumbled over words and stumbled across the room, a marionette manipulated by the strings of intoxication. The bartender, a stoic guardian of sanity, watched with a mix of pity and detachment.
Finally, the man crossed the invisible line between raucous revelry and disruptive chaos. The bartender, a man of few words but swift action, gestured towards the door. In the cold light of sobriety, the man resisted, his protests slurred and futile. The bartender, unyielding, escorted him out into the unforgiving night, the door closing with a finality that echoed the silence within.
Alone on the sidewalk, the man confronted the stark reality he had momentarily escaped. The whiskey-fueled warmth turned into a cold, sobering chill. The streetlamp flickered overhead, casting long shadows on the pavement, each one a reminder of the choices made and the consequences faced. The bar, now a distant murmur, left him standing in the quiet night, grappling with the weight of his own emptiness.
We read the story together and then Garrett said, “why don’t you ask it to write the same story in the style of Dr. Seuss?” So, I did, and, again, ChatGPt spit out the verse within a few seconds.
I added the title
A Whimsical Night
In a cozy bar, on a whimsical night,
A man sat alone, bathed in soft light.
He sipped and he slurped, a bit too much cheer,
His laughter rang out, like a song in the ear.
The barkeep, a fellow with a stern little frown,
Saw the man getting wobbly, about to fall down.
“No more,” said the barkeep with a stern Dr. Seuss tone,
“Your merry time here has now reached its own zone.”
The man blinked his eyes, a bit glazed with delight,
“I’ve only had fun, on this joyous night!”
But the barkeep stood firm, like a Seussian wall,
“No more drinks for you, my friend, that’s all.”
The man tried to protest, his words a bit slurred,
But the barkeep was steadfast, his patience undisturbed.
“Go home with good memories,” he kindly did say,
“But the party’s now over, you’ve had your last sway.”
With a sigh and a stumble, the man left the bar,
His merriment dimmed, like a fading star.
So heed this tale, in Seussian rhyme,
Know when to stop, it’s about that time!
So, what do you think of the first rendering? It doesn’t read like Hemingway to me, although the subject was in his wheelhouse. If anyone knew of bars and being over-served, it’s Ernest. It’s clearly loaded with cliches and reads very much like pulp fiction. But, but, it’s not that bad. It’s grammatically correct and appropriately punctuated. No misspellings. What relief for a teacher to read text, supposedly generated by a student, with no copy edits to make, to be able to focus, instead, on the content, so trite and hackneyed as it is.
Then to witness the app spit out a metric mix of anapests and dactyls that sounds amazingly like the doctor himself! The speed of the app is just astonishing.
As educators, we might scoff at this low level attempt at serious fiction, but, remember, generative AI and, specifically, ChatGPT is in its infancy. How long will it take for this engine to spit out text with superlative authenticity? Years? Months? Weeks?
I decided to give the app one more chance and offered the same prompt, switching the writer to Kurt Vonnegut.
“Write a short story about a sad man who enters a bar and drinks too much and is bounced from the bar by the bartender in the style of Kurt Vonnegut.”
Again, I added the title
A Vessel for his Troubles
In the dimly lit bar, a man named Leonard sat alone, nursing his sorrows with a glass of bourbon. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a troubled past as he drowned his pain in the amber liquid.
The bartender, a grizzled soul named Gus, eyed Leonard with a mix of sympathy and indifference. Leonard’s hunched silhouette seemed to echo the melancholy notes playing on the jukebox.
As the night wore on, Leonard’s glass became a vessel for his troubles, each sip deepening his descent into despair. Gus, wiping down the counter, observed the man’s unraveling with a sense of resignation. The bar’s smoky ambiance mirrored Leonard’s clouded mind.
In the midst of Leonard’s self-induced haze, Gus approached with a measured kindness, “Pal, it’s closing time. You’ve had enough for one night.” His voice carried a weary wisdom, tinged with the echoes of countless other troubled souls.
Leonard, lost in his own world, protested feebly, “Just a bit more, Gus. I need it tonight.”
Gus sighed, recognizing the familiar plea. “I’ve seen folks drown their demons, but the demons learn to swim. You can’t escape ’em in that glass.”
With a firm yet gentle hand, Gus ushered Leonard towards the door, the neon sign outside flickering in the empty streets. As Leonard stumbled into the night, the door closed behind him, and the bar resumed its silent vigil, ready for the next lost soul seeking refuge in its shadows.
Just a reminder. I only registered for the free version. If I had paid a fee, would I have gotten a better product?
Hey, it’s not Hemingway; it’s not Vonnegut, but it’s fairly impressive pulp fiction. Writers should be worried. So should journalists, screenwriters, editors and actors. It might not kill us, but, I fear, it can possibly replace us.
I’m no longer a classroom English teacher. I have no idea how students and teachers will manage ChatGPT in the classroom, or to what uses it will be put. My interest immediately went to how to generate fiction using this app. I would like to ask practicing teachers how they plan to assess student generated content.
We’re in a new era. There is no going back, but I remain fascinated by what is to come.