The following text is a combination of things that never happened, but may feel familiar. But if they feel familiar, it probably did happen, but I made it up so don’t tell anyone I actually said this. But if it did actually happen, that’s on the system and the actors who perpetuate the system, not on the folks who get mandated to enact wild policy that rarely if ever benefits kids. Please, and thanks.

Scene 1:

Mr. Vilson’s first official day is rarely the real first day because he spent about five days cleaning out his new room, the tenth time in 12 years he’d had to change classrooms. That’s why, when he walked into the auditorium, he plopped into a back row somewhere watching his colleagues laugh and hug it out. The usual veterans flipped from smiles to groans as they prepared for the school year. The new teachers either hung out in the first row (“Why would you do that?” Mr. Vilson groaned to himself.) After a few sips of his super-sweet cafecito, Mr. Vilson greets his favorite teachers and acknowledges the others, too.

A few moments later, Principal Binder walks in with a team of boys and men behind her, carrying unmarked boxes that they’d leave on the stage. The colleagues keep chatting until exactly 8:30am when the clock officially starts.

“OK, everyone, welcome back to school! I hope you had a restful and productive summer!” Binder says. She pauses to let the snickers and giggles pass. “I only said that out of courtesy, but,” she snickers loudly, “I have some good news for you. I checked our test scores and, as usual, we didn’t do as well. We do a great job of moving 1s to 2s, and some 2s to 3s, but we’re not moving any of those numbers, I mean students, to 4s. I know many of you spent a lot of time organizing your curriculum binders, but I have some new ones for you! If you know your grade, grab one from your box.”

“But how are we supposed to …” a teacher suggests.

“IT DOESN’T MATTER, UGH! Just … 5th grade to 8th grade from right to left, take one!”

The teachers scramble. Mr. Vilson picks the orange one. Mr. Randle laughs and says, “Of course you pick the odd one.” “I thought it would help … even me out.” Randle and anyone within earshot groan audibly. “HURRY UP!” Mrs. Binder is not impressed. “Now, open up and see what you find.” Teachers open the multicolor binders to see 190 lessons, each formatted with their names, objectives, goals, activities, and closing assessments to the minute. Mrs. Knowles asks, “What even is this?”

“So glad you asked!” Binder exclaims with a grin. “It’s your new, AI-generated lesson plans! The superintendent said your lessons suck across the board and I agree because I always agree with him, even when I don’t! Starting tomorrow, everything from your introductions to the last word you say this year is already spelled out for you here! You said you needed more time, and by my calculations, I’ve saved you at least three weekends of work, so you can spend more time building relationships with students, deeply assessing student knowledge, and all the other things I only skimmed through on my way here.”

Teachers let out an audible groan. “You’re welcome!” Binder always replies.

Scene 2:

Mr. Vilson hasn’t opened this binder in about five months because he just learned how to do the last curriculum to fidelity last year after three years of asking for real professional development for it. He has about 45 minutes before his next class, which is being observed by the assistant principal, Mr. Hart. But 45 minutes lapsed before he could get the binder open, and the kids are already banging on his door. He lets students in and prints out the lesson for the day, following it to the letter. Mr. Hart hasn’t arrived yet, but the students notice the shift.

“Mr. Vilson, this doesn’t feel anything you wrote,” Jessica, one of his students in the front row says. “You’re right! I wanted to switch it up!” Mr. Vilson says aloud for everyone to hear.About 10 minutes into the lesson, he hears the clanging of keys and the clipboard tapping. Mr. Hart gives Mr. Vilson a slight nod and sits next to Bryan, the short, witty kid in the back of the classroom. (Note: Mr. Vilson now has 31 people to keep an eye on at the same time, of course.)

The lesson says to write a thing on the board. Vilson does. The lesson says to put his hands up. Vilson does. The lesson says he’s doing it wrong and to put down the paper so he could do it right. Vilson does. The lesson tells him to call on Estephany. Vilson does. The lesson says that she’ll respond like so. Vilson, to his credit, disagrees. She does what the lesson said she would. Vilson makes a face. The lesson has a footnote: “I told you so.” Vilson crumbles the paper up and yells “Kobe!” The class yells “AIYYO!!!” Mr. Hart smiles, but then puts his regular face back on.

“Mr. Vilson, deadass, that lesson sucked!” Bryan says. Mr. Vilson stands there, wondering if his crumbled-up paper had any stats on LeBron to counter his throw.

Scene 3:

“OK, but Mr. Vilson, you can’t do that.”

Mr. Hart is not pleased.

“You know what it is? It’s that I asked for a new desk when mine fell apart. I didn’t get it for five months and never complained. I asked for air conditioning and the custodian changed the wiring so I couldn’t turn it on myself. In our team meetings, I openly wondered why we have 180 students a day and we’re asked to do so much more for so much less, and now y’all want me to follow a lesson plan that’s AI generated because some research that we never saw said it’d be a good idea? Nah, NAH!”

“I agree with you,” Mr. Hart acknowledges, “but I gotta follow Danielson and …”

“Mr. Vilson.” Binder heard about the lesson. “What was that about?”

Silence.

“You’re supposed to be a professional, and by professional, I mean I’m expecting you to do everything the superintendent, I mean I laid out in the handbook in the beginning of the year. I know all the loopholes in the union contract, so you can try that if you want, but the lessons matter!”

“But how are we professionals if the lessons dictate everything we’re supposed to do to the minute?” Mr. Vilson finally spoke up. “The schedule already tells us when we get to each, when we get to potty, when we get to talk to our peers. Is it gonna tell us when and how to wash ourselves, too?”

“I would hope at your big age you’d know how to do that, Mr. Vilson, but if you don’t, I have an AI-generated lesson for that, too …”

“What. The. F …” Mr. Vilson didn’t finish that sentence, either.

More soon …

Jose, because satire is important, too …