Back to the Basics (Digital to Analog)...

I’m not exactly the most organized person. I use Google Calendar to send me reminders throughout the day—even for basic things like taking my meds—and honestly, without those digital nudges, I’m not sure where I’d be.

And I’m also oh-so-thankful for Google Classroom.

About a decade before the 2020 pandemic, I was still mostly an analog teacher. (Is it wrong to be a little thankful for the pandemic? Maybe don’t answer that.) Everything was paper and pencil, and I hated it—absolutely hated it. Student assignments piled up until they covered nearly every inch of my desk, forming what could generously be called a filing system and more accurately be called a paper-based ecosystem. I tried sorting them into “corrected” and “to be corrected” stacks, but, yeah, that never really worked. I could never catch up, let alone get ahead. Eventually, students would tell me they had turned in an assignment, and I’d simply have to take their word for it—because by then, finding one missing paper in those stacks was less like grading and more like working an archaeological dig.

So when the pandemic pushed schools from paper assignments to remote, digital work, I was honestly relieved. With Google Classroom, Google Docs, and sites like Newsela and CommonLit, I could finally grade assignments consistently and return them on time—which made me feel remarkably competent for someone who had spent years losing papers on his own desk. After all those battles with the paper piles, the shift felt like a genuine lifesaver.

For once, I felt like I had a system that actually worked—which was exciting, if slightly suspicious. I could spend more time teaching and less time grading, and—best of all—leave my work at school instead of carrying it home every night. After several years in the classroom, that felt pretty wonderful: a little more organization, a little more breathing room, and far fewer chances to lose an assignment somewhere between my desk and the front door.

Then last Friday, I had a small realization: maybe all this digital convenience had led me right back to the basics—to the once-familiar world of—gasp!—pen and paper. So much for the digital revolution.

But before I go any further, let me back up a little. I remember handing essays to my high school English teachers and getting them back so covered in red ink that my own blue or black writing nearly disappeared. All that feedback felt overwhelming, so instead of carefully working through it, I usually accepted the grade, tucked the paper away, and moved on. Not exactly a model of scholarly perseverance, I know. Still, I knew I didn’t want my own students to feel the same way.

Then, early in my teaching career, rubrics came along, which revolutionized the paper-grading process. In English Language Arts, a rubric is basically a clear scoring guide that spells out the expectations, criteria, and performance levels used to evaluate reading, writing, speaking, and listening assignments. I especially liked that rubrics moved much—if not all—of the red ink off the student’s page, which we were beginning to treat as something almost sacred: work worth preserving in its original form. It seemed like a thoughtful approach, and since it also made me look a little more organized than I actually was, I was more than happy to give it a try.

The pandemic brought even more digital tools into the classroom; publishers began offering online textbooks with readings, activities, and assessments all in one place. For a while, that setup worked pretty well for me, too.

Then came the advent of Artificial Intelligence, or AI. 

A colleague across the hall has always—always—given her students pen-and-paper tests. At first, I quietly scoffed, still happily settled in my digital paradise. Lately, though, and especially after my little epiphany, I’ve started to see the wisdom in her approach.

Late last week, I gave my classes a test on the poem we had just finished studying, “To My Old Master,” using the publisher’s online assessment. It did not go well. Out of roughly twenty students in each class, only five actually submitted the test—and three of those five copied and pasted an AI-generated answer into the essay response box. There was nothing subtle about it; the answers were blatant and almost strangely unapologetic.

And yes, this happened after I had reminded them several times not to use AI.

Today, I gave the paper test to all of my classes and told the students, “No device necessary—just a pen and the test.” A few looked at me as though I had proposed writing on stone tablets; the rest simply got to work. I gave them the full eighty-minute block to complete the twelve-question, open-book test.

Needless to say, every student who was in class today finished and submitted the test without a problem. That left me wondering what it is about an analog test that helps students settle in and get the work done. Is it the feel of a pen moving across paper? The physical act of writing? The fact that the essay has to be composed right there, in real time? Or does pen and paper simply feel more natural than pecking at a keyboard and clicking around a screen? I don’t have an answer yet, but apparently I’ve reached the stage of my career where rediscovering paper counts as innovation.

Taking a page from my wiser colleague, I think I’ll keep doing things this way from now on.

Maybe some old-fashioned, analog habits still have a welcome place in the classroom.