We are living through a quiet crisis in education, and it is not primarily a technological one. It is a crisis of fear. The rise of AI unsettles teachers for good reason. Students can now generate passable essays in seconds. The old signals of authorship (i.e., grammar, fluency, sophistication) no longer mean what they once did. Something very real has changed.
But what’s been even more alarming than the technology itself is the speed with which many schools have responded by shrinking the very thing they exist to teach.
Catching Cheaters Is Ruining Education
Across the country, departments are quietly retreating from extended writing and replacing it with in-class essays and tightly controlled environments. The logic seems obvious: if students can cheat outside of class, then bring all writing inside. If AI can generate essays, then you simply need to eliminate the conditions under which it can be used.
It feels responsible. It feels firm and safe. And it is a disaster. Why? Because in the rush to secure authorship, we sacrifice formation.
Education, at its best, is not about producing artifacts that can be authenticated. It is about shaping minds… slowly, imperfectly, through drafts, revisions, hesitations, and rethinking. Writing is not merely how students display what they know; it’s how they come to know it.
When you remove extended writing, you’re not just changing the logistics of assessment. You amputate one of the central ways students learn how to think.
Long-form writing trains habits that cannot be replicated under time pressure. It forces students to live with a problem long enough to realize they do not understand it. It requires them to test claims against texts. This kind of writing gives them space to revise in light of new insight. It cultivates intellectual humility: the awareness that first thoughts are rarely best thoughts.
In-class essays train something else. They train speed and fluency. They teach risk management. In-class essays instill the ability to sound coherent under pressure.
Those are not worthless skills. But they are not the same skills.
A student who can speak quickly and a student who can think deeply are not the same person. A student who can generate polished prose on demand is not necessarily a student who can reason well, revise carefully, or hold a complex idea steady long enough to refine it.
When schools replace extended essays with in-class writing, they quietly redefine what it means to be educated. They exchange formation for performance.
The Bitter Irony of AI Surveillance
Want to hear what’s truly ironic? This shift does not even solve the AI problem it is meant to address.
Students do not need a keyboard in front of them to use AI. They can consult it at home for summaries, interpretations, outlines, and arguments. They can memorize phrasing and internalize structures. Likewise, they can rehearse ideas generated elsewhere and then reproduce them under supervision.
So what has changed? Not the influence of AI on their thinking, but only where the typing happens.
The policy feels strict, but it’s superficial. It targets the surface of cheating, not its substance. The most determined students will adapt immediately. Meanwhile, the students who actually need time, feedback, and revision (i.e., the ones who benefit most from the extended process) are the ones being punished.
That is the perverse outcome of fear-based reform: integrity-minded students lose the most.
A deeper philosophical problem lurks beneath all this. When schools shift to in-class-only writing, they tacitly adopt a new vision of education: one in which the primary goal is not intellectual growth but complying with procedures.
The teacher becomes less a mentor of thought and more a gatekeeper of conditions. The student learns that the real issue is not whether the work is honest, but whether it is provably theirs.
That is not moral formation. That is a cat-and-mouse game.
Turning Classrooms into Courtrooms
Even teachers from classical education schools are making this mistake. Classical education, of all traditions, should know better. It has always been understood that truth, judgment, and character are formed through practices that take time. Teachers can’t rush virtue nor compress wisdom into a fifty-minute window. You can’t substitute surveillance for mentorship and expect to produce adults who care about truth when no one is watching.
If students learn that honesty only matters when it is enforced, then dishonesty becomes rational whenever it is not.
What actually reduces inappropriate AI use is not restriction but visibility. When students must submit outlines, drafts, revisions, reflections, and respond to feedback, the writing process becomes traceable. (My students do all their work on a Google Doc shared with me so I can see every bit of the process.)
Thinking leaves a trail. Ownership becomes legible. The teacher can see not just what the student produced but how they arrived there. That process is the antidote to AI misuse, not the vulnerability.
A single in-class essay is a black box. You see the output, but you learn almost nothing about the intellectual journey that produced it. Extended writing, when designed well, does the opposite. It makes thinking visible. It allows teachers to mentor judgment rather than police behavior.
The tragedy of the current moment is that schools are responding to a genuine challenge with a retreat from their own deepest strengths.
The question we should be asking is not, “How do we stop students from using AI?” It is, “What kind of thinkers are we trying to form?”
If we want students who can reason, revise, weigh evidence, confront counterarguments, and speak honestly about what they believe, then we must preserve the slow, difficult, beautiful work of extended writing.
If we’re willing to sacrifice that in order to catch a few more cheaters, then we’ve already lost something far more valuable than academic integrity.
We have lost the courage to teach.
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