Jade

Jade's Individual Story

It was my third week at Prestige Academy, and I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was living in a dream. New Toronto was a city I could have only imagined to be of the future — sleek, efficient, and overflowing with technology. I had come here from Seoul to pursue my teaching certification, but nothing could prepare me for the kind of education system I’d find in this city.

Back home, we had memorized facts, drilled ourselves with endless assignments, and followed strict curriculums. But here, in New Toronto, everything was different. Education was no longer confined to textbooks or even physical classrooms, and instead, students had the option to dive into the Vivarium, an immersive, “Artificial Intelligence” (AI)-powered virtual world where history, science, and literature were no longer just subjects to study — they were experiences to live. It was hard to reconcile this new form of learning with the traditional methods I had been taught, and even harder to understand where I, a human teacher, fit into the equation.

The first thing that struck me when I entered Prestige Academy was the classroom setup. The room was quiet, serene. A handful of students sat around, some with high-tech AI glasses, others with their heads bent over tablets. The most advanced technology was not what I expected, but rather a subtle part of the space — holographic assistants, interactive boards, and even a low hum of energy as AI silently adjusted the room’s lighting and temperature. Everything was designed for comfort and efficiency. And yet, I wondered if it was enough. My role as a teacher was meant to be a guide, but what role could I possibly play in a system where students could have entire conversations with AI avatars, experience virtual worlds, or even send in holograms of themselves if they couldn't physically attend class? I felt out of place and these questions taunted me continuously during my placement.

My mentor, Ms. Harper, was the only familiar thing here. Her classroom didn’t look anything like the high-tech spaces I had imagined; it was surprisingly simple. There were bookshelves filled with well-worn novels, and the desks were arranged in a circle. The human touch was still there. But the students — they were different. Some came to class physically, others opted to plug into the Vivarium, where their avatars could engage in fully interactive lessons. When I asked one of the students, Claire, why she preferred the Vivarium, she gave me a blank stare.

“Why would I need to be here when I can be anywhere?” she said, her voice flat, as though the question had no real answer. I didn't have an answer either.

At first, I was caught between two worlds: one where AI did most of the teaching, and one where human connection still mattered. Ms. Harper tried to reassure me, telling me that the Vivarium was just a tool, not a replacement for teachers. The AI could provide individualized lessons, helping students understand concepts they’d otherwise struggle with. But it could never offer the kind of emotional support, the mentorship, or the creative guidance that a real teacher could. In theory, I agreed with her. But in practice, I felt like I was constantly battling Vivarium. The way students interacted with their lessons was both fascinating and demoralizing. Aaron, a student I had been observing, plugged into the Vivarium, immersing himself in a virtual blizzard. There, he struggled, facing obstacles and making choices that tested his ability to endure. But the most telling part of the experience wasn’t the lesson itself; it was watching Aaron interact with his peers afterward. Despite his isolation in the virtual world, when the class debriefed the lesson, Aaron engaged with the others, discussing how he overcame the challenges and what he had learned about resilience. It wasn’t the AI or the virtual world that made the lesson meaningful; it was the human connections that followed.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the growing sense of unease. The Vivarium was too easy. It was too perfect. Students could immerse themselves in any period of history, dissect molecules, or even interact with virtual versions of famous scientists and philosophers. They could re-live their lessons, adjusting the parameters to suit their preferences, but in the process, I feared they were losing something. They weren’t engaging with reality — they were engaging with a version of reality designed by an algorithm, a sanitized version of learning that didn’t require them to face the messiness of human interaction or real-world challenges.

The most shocking moment for me came when I was asked to help grade the students’ assignments. In the old days, grading was a deeply human process. I would read their essays, mark their mistakes, and understand their thoughts. But now, everything is automated. AI graded the assignments, analyzing every word, every argument, every nuance. I watched as the system assigned a near-perfect score to Claire’s essay on environmentalism. The answer was correct, but the ideas felt hollow. There was no real creativity nor depth in it. She had merely fed her thoughts into the AI, which then wrote the essay for her. She had done nothing wrong, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that something vital was missing. What happened to intellectual autonomy? What happened to the ability to think critically, to struggle with a problem and come up with your own answer?

When I raised this concern with Ms. Harper, she nodded in understanding. “It’s a challenge,” she said. “AI has made things so efficient, but it has also made the students dependent on it. We’ve seen a decline in critical thinking, in creativity. And worse, when the AI fails — like when the system glitches, or when students can’t access their tools — they panic. They forget how to learn for themselves.”

That was my fear. In this world of perfect systems and AI tutors, what was happening to the students’ ability to think for themselves? The more I saw, the more I realized that the AI was a crutch, one that provided ease but undermined independence. I began to wonder if my role as a teacher was to merely facilitate the students' journey through the Vivarium, or if it was to remind them of the beauty and difficulty of struggling, of failing, and of growing through the messiness of real life.

As I continued my placement, I realized that the human element of teaching — empathy, creativity, mentorship — could never be replaced by a machine. The Vivarium was an incredible tool, but it was just that: a tool. It was my job to guide the students through the complexities of their education, to make sure they didn’t lose their sense of wonder and curiosity, even in a world where the answers were always just a click away.

In New Toronto, technology has revolutionized education. But it was up to us — the teachers — to make sure it didn’t replace the one thing that truly mattered: the human connection.