Educational Technology and Change Journal

By Jim Shimabukuro (assisted by Claude)
Editor

Introduction: This short story was written by Claude (Sonnet 4) in response to a prompt I created, which appears at the end of the story. The purpose is to provide an example of Chatbot reach at this point in time. Equally important purposes are to highlight the richness that Filipino-American culture adds to the nationʻs fabric and to spotlight the use of AI in the lives of teens. I’ll be publishing other short stories from time to time.

Maya Reyes-Santos woke up at 6:47 AM to the gentle chime of her phone’s alarm, three minutes before her actual wake-up time—a buffer she’d programmed to ease herself into consciousness. Her room was a careful curation of her dual identity: a wooden bahay kubo replica her Lola had sent from Cebu sat on her bookshelf next to her collection of Studio Ghibli figurines, while polaroids of her friends at last month’s homecoming dance were tucked into the frame of her vanity mirror alongside a small Santo Niño statue her mother insisted she keep for protection.

She stretched, her long black hair fanning across her pillow like spilled ink, and reached for her phone. The screen illuminated her face—high cheekbones inherited from her father’s Spanish-Filipino lineage, warm brown eyes that crinkled when she smiled, and the kind of naturally full lips that her friends always said they were jealous of. At five-foot-four, she was perfectly average height, but she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was, even when the world sometimes seemed confused about where she fit.

“Good morning, Maya,” chirped her AI assistant as she opened the app. She’d named it Kaia—a Filipino name meaning “earth”—and had spent hours customizing its personality to be encouraging but never pushy.

“Morning, Kaia,” she whispered, not wanting to wake her younger brother Carlo in the next room. “What’s my day looking like?”

“You have AP Chemistry first period—don’t forget you have that lab report due. Your calc study group is meeting at lunch, and you told me to remind you to ask Josh about homecoming photos. Oh, and your mom left you a note about picking up pan de sal on your way home.”

Maya smiled. She’d programmed Kaia to remind her about both her academic responsibilities and the small cultural details that kept her connected to her family’s traditions. It was these little bridges between her worlds that made everything feel more manageable.

She padded to the bathroom she shared with Carlo, her bare feet silent on the cool tile. In the mirror, she examined her face with the critical eye of a sixteen-year-old. A small pimple was forming on her chin—not ideal for picture day next week. She opened another AI app, this one specialized in skincare advice.

“I’m getting a breakout on my chin area,” she typed. “I have combination skin and I’m Filipino-American—my skin tends to get darker spots after blemishes. What should I do?”

The chatbot responded with gentle, culturally-informed advice about ingredients that worked well for her skin tone and type, reminding her to use sunscreen to prevent post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation. It was like having a knowledgeable older sister who understood the specific concerns of her heritage.

After her skincare routine, Maya selected her outfit with care. Today she chose high-waisted vintage Levi’s that she’d thrifted and tailored herself, paired with a cropped cardigan in sage green—a color that made her skin glow—and her worn-in white Converse high-tops. She layered delicate gold jewelry: a dainty chain with a small cross from her confirmation, thin hoop earrings, and a ring her Tita Rosa had brought back from the Philippines. The look was effortlessly put-together, the kind of style that looked casual but required careful curation.

Downstairs, the kitchen was alive with the familiar chaos of a Filipino household preparing for the day. Her mother, Dr. Carmen Reyes-Santos, stood at the stove in her scrubs, flipping longsilog—Filipino garlic fried rice with a fried egg and sweet sausage. Her father, Miguel Santos, was already dressed in his business casual attire, reading news on his tablet while sipping coffee that was equal parts kapeng barako and French roast.

“Anak, you’re up early,” her mother said, using the Tagalog term of endearment that meant “child.” Carmen was a pediatric nurse at Cedars-Sinai, and even at home, she moved with the efficient grace of someone accustomed to caring for others.

“Lab report,” Maya replied, accepting the plate her mother handed her. She took a photo of her breakfast—the golden egg yolk bleeding into the garlic rice was particularly photogenic—and opened her social media app.

“Should I post this? I want to show people Filipino breakfast but I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard to be cultural,” she typed to her AI companion.

“Based on your previous posts, your followers genuinely engage with cultural content when you share it authentically. Your adobo post last month got great responses. Maybe add a story about why this breakfast is special to you?” the AI suggested.

Maya smiled and crafted a caption about Saturday morning breakfasts with her family, tagging it with both #FilipinoBrunch and #HomeCooking. The response was immediate—heart-eyes emojis from her friend Zoe, a “recipe please!” comment from her lab partner Emma, and a fire emoji from Josh, which made her cheeks warm slightly.

“Kuya Carlo, let’s go!” she called to her brother, using the respectful term for older male relatives that she’d extended to him despite being the older sibling—a family joke that had stuck. Carlo was fourteen, all knees and elbows and the kind of confidence that only came from being the baby of the family. He bounded down the stairs in his uniform for St. Augustine’s, the Catholic school he attended.

“Can you drop me off today? Mom, I need twenty dollars for the science fair registration,” Carlo said, sliding into his chair with the liquid grace of a natural athlete.

“Ask your AI buddy,” Miguel joked, gesturing toward Maya’s phone. “She probably has a chatbot for managing little brothers too.”

Maya rolled her eyes, but she was used to her family’s gentle teasing about her relationship with technology. They didn’t quite understand how integral AI had become to her generation’s daily life, but they weren’t dismissive either. Her parents had immigrated from the Philippines when Maya was three, and they understood the value of tools that helped navigate complex systems.

During the drive to school in her mother’s Honda CR-V, Maya opened her study app. She had fifteen minutes to review for her AP Chemistry quiz, and she’d learned that short, frequent sessions worked better for her than cramming.

“Quiz me on molecular geometry,” she requested.

The AI generated questions tailored to her learning style—visual representations paired with conceptual explanations. Maya had spent time training the system to understand that she learned better with real-world examples and that she sometimes mixed up concepts when they were presented too abstractly.

“You’ve got this, ate,” Carlo said, using the Tagalog term for older sister. Despite their banter, he was genuinely proud of his sister’s academic achievements. “You’re literally the smartest person I know.”

Maya felt a familiar flutter of anxiety. Everyone always said she was smart—her parents, her teachers, her friends. But lately, that felt more like pressure than praise. She was taking four AP classes, serving as vice president of the Filipino Cultural Club, volunteering at the local community center, and trying to maintain the kind of extracurricular profile that would get her into a top-tier university. Sometimes she felt like she was performing her own life rather than living it.

At Westfield High, Maya navigated the familiar hallways with practiced ease. The school was a study in California diversity—a mix of cultures, languages, and economic backgrounds that reflected the broader Los Angeles area. She spotted her friend group by their usual morning meeting spot near the library.

“Maya! Did you see what happened on TikTok last night?” Zoe Kim, her best friend since freshman year, grabbed her arm with characteristic enthusiasm. Zoe was Korean-American, a dancer with an infectious laugh and the kind of energy that could power small appliances.

“I was studying,” Maya replied, though she felt a small pang of FOMO. She’d been so focused on her chemistry lab report that she’d missed whatever social media moment had captivated her friends.

“Show me?” she asked, and Zoe pulled up the video on her phone. It was some viral dance trend that Maya knew she’d probably never have time to learn.

Emma Rodriguez, her lab partner and the only other student in her friend group taking as many AP classes, gave her a knowing look. Emma was Latina, with curly hair she was always pushing out of her face and the kind of quick wit that made even their most boring classes entertaining.

“You missed nothing important,” Emma murmured. “But you look stressed. Late night?”

Maya nodded. She’d stayed up until midnight working on college application essays, trying to craft the perfect narrative about her cultural identity and academic ambitions. Every draft felt either too generic or too personal, and she was starting to panic about deadlines.

“I’m having essay problems,” she admitted. “Like, how do you write about being Filipino-American without making it sound like trauma porn or cultural tourism?”

Emma laughed. “Girl, you’re overthinking it. Just be yourself.”

But that was exactly the problem—Maya wasn’t sure which version of herself admissions officers wanted to see.

During lunch, she found herself in the computer lab, not because she had work to do, but because she needed a quiet space to think. She opened her essay-help chatbot, one specifically designed for college applications.

“I’m struggling with my personal statement,” she typed. “I want to write about my Filipino-American identity, but I’m worried it’s either too cliché or not authentic enough. I feel like I’m caught between being ‘diverse enough’ for admissions and being true to my actual experience.”

The AI’s response was thoughtful and nuanced. “Many students from multicultural backgrounds face this tension. Consider focusing on specific moments or experiences that shaped your understanding of your identity, rather than trying to represent your entire cultural experience. What’s a story only you can tell?”

Maya stared at the screen, thinking. What was her story? She thought about the way her grandmother’s voice sounded different when she spoke Tagalog versus English over FaceTime calls. The way she automatically translated for her parents at parent-teacher conferences, not because they couldn’t speak English, but because she understood the cultural subtext of what teachers were really saying. The way she felt most herself when she was explaining Filipino traditions to her friends—proud but also protective, wanting to share but afraid of being misunderstood.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Josh Chen, her friend since sophomore year who had recently become something more complicated than friendship, though neither of them had officially acknowledged it.

“Study group still happening? I need help with calc derivatives before the test tomorrow 😭”

Maya smiled despite herself. Josh was half-Chinese, half-Mexican, which made him the only other person in their friend group who understood the complexity of navigating multiple cultural identities. He was also funny, kind, and had the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen—something she’d noticed during their many study sessions but would never admit aloud.

“Library, 12:30. Bring snacks,” she replied.

“Your wish is my command 🫡”

The study group was Maya’s brainchild—a rotating cast of students from her AP classes who met to work through difficult concepts together. It had started as purely academic, but it had evolved into something more social, a space where the high-achieving students could admit their struggles without judgment.

When she arrived at the library, Josh was already there with a bag of takis and a container of homemade lumpia that his mom had sent for the group. Emma was spread across a table with calc textbooks, looking frazzled, and their friend David Kim (no relation to Zoe) was organizing his perfectly color-coded notes.

“Maya, thank god,” Emma said dramatically. “I don’t understand anything about related rates, and if I fail this test, I’m going to have to drop out of school and become a professional disappointment.”

Maya laughed and slid into the chair next to Josh, hyperaware of the way his arm brushed against hers as he reached for his calculator. She opened her AI tutoring app—not because she needed help with calculus, but because she’d found that explaining concepts to others helped her understand them better.

“Okay, let’s start with the basics,” she said, pulling up practice problems. “David, what’s confusing you about related rates?”

As they worked through problems together, Maya felt herself relax for the first time all day. This was her element—helping others learn, making complex ideas accessible, creating connections between concepts. She used her AI tools not as a crutch, but as a way to generate different explanations until she found one that clicked for each person.

Josh caught her eye over a particularly tricky problem and grinned. “You’re like a math wizard,” he said quietly.

“Just good at pattern recognition,” she replied, but she felt herself blushing.

After school, Maya had rehearsal for the Filipino Cultural Club’s performance at the upcoming International Night. As vice president, she was responsible for coordinating everything from costumes to choreography to the cultural education component of their presentation.

The club met in the drama room, a space that always smelled faintly of old curtains and teenage anxiety. Their sponsor, Ms. Martinez, was a second-generation Mexican-American teacher who understood the particular pressures faced by students navigating multiple cultural identities.

“Okay, mga kaibigan,” Maya addressed the group, mixing English with Tagalog in the natural way of her generation. “Friends” felt too formal, but “guys” felt too American for this space. “We have three weeks to perfect our tinikling routine and finish our presentation about Filipino American history.”

She pulled up her event-planning AI app, which helped her coordinate schedules, track RSVPs, and manage the hundred small details that went into a successful cultural performance.

“Sarah, how are the bamboo poles coming along?” she asked Sarah Delgado, a sophomore who was half-Filipino, half-Mexican and who brought the same intensity to cultural preservation that she brought to varsity track.

“My dad’s friend who does construction said he can cut them to the right length this weekend,” Sarah reported. “But I’m still nervous about the timing. What if we mess up in front of everyone?”

Maya understood the anxiety. Performing their culture felt different from just living it—there was pressure to represent their entire heritage accurately, to educate without exoticizing, to honor tradition while making it accessible to their diverse audience.

“Let’s practice the story we’re telling,” Maya suggested. She’d been working with an AI writing assistant to craft a narrative that explained the historical context of tinikling—the traditional Filipino dance that mimicked birds moving between bamboo grass—without turning it into a simplistic fable.

“The dance tells the story of resilience,” she began, and the room quieted. Maya had a gift for storytelling, for making their shared heritage feel both ancient and immediate. “Our ancestors created beauty and joy even under colonial oppression. When we dance tinikling, we’re not just performing steps—we’re embodying the grace and strength of people who refused to let their spirit be broken.”

The room was silent for a moment, and Maya felt the familiar weight of representation. She was always the one explaining, always the one translating between cultures. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to just be a teenager without carrying the educational burden of her entire heritage.

After practice, she drove to 85°C Bakery to pick up pan de sal for her mother, as requested. The Asian bakery chain was one of her family’s regular stops—a place where she could get both the Filipino bread her mother craved and the trendy drinks her friends posted about on social media.

While waiting in line, she opened her language-learning app. She’d been trying to improve her Tagalog for months, motivated by a mixture of cultural pride and guilt about how much of her parents’ native language she’d lost. The AI tutor was patient in a way that human teachers sometimes weren’t, never making her feel ashamed of her American accent or her gaps in vocabulary.

“How do you say ‘I’m proud of my heritage’ in Tagalog?” she typed.

“Ipinagmamalaki ko ang aming lahi,” the app responded, along with audio pronunciation and cultural context about when and how the phrase might be used.

Maya repeated the words under her breath, trying to get the tones right. Language felt like another bridge she was trying to build—between the Filipino she was born to be and the American she had become.

At home that evening, the family gathered for dinner around their dining table, which was perpetually set for six people even though they were only four—a Filipino tradition of hospitality that her mother maintained religiously. Tonight’s meal was adobo chicken with rice, green beans, and fresh pan de sal still warm from the bakery.

“How was school, anak?” her father asked, switching seamlessly between English and Tagalog in the way that felt like home to Maya.

“Good. Busy. I had that college counselor meeting today,” Maya said, and immediately felt the familiar tightening in her chest.

Her parents exchanged a look—the kind of wordless communication that came from nearly twenty years of marriage and shared immigration experience.

“What did she say?” her mother asked gently.

Maya took a deep breath. This was the conversation she’d been dreading. “She said my test scores and grades are competitive for top schools, but I need to make my application more ‘distinctive.’ She suggested I write about overcoming challenges or cultural barriers, but I don’t know… I don’t feel like my life has been that hard? Like, compared to what you guys went through coming here, my problems seem pretty small.”

The silence stretched for a moment. Carlo, who was usually the family clown, looked serious.

“Anak,” her father said finally, “your challenges don’t have to be the same as ours to be real. You’re growing up between worlds in a way we never had to. That has its own difficulties.”

“But what if I write about being Filipino-American and they think I’m just trying to play the diversity card? What if I don’t write about it and they think I’m not proud of who I am? What if I’m not interesting enough? What if—”

“Maya,” her mother interrupted gently. “You’re spiraling.”

Maya laughed despite herself. Her mother was right—she was catastrophizing in the way that had become habitual when she thought about college applications.

“I just want to get into a good school,” she admitted. “And I want to make you guys proud. And I want to prove that all the sacrifices you made were worth it. And I want to be successful enough to take care of you when you’re older. And I want to stay connected to our culture but also fit into American society. And I want—”

“You want to carry the whole world,” Carlo interrupted. “Like Atlas, but smaller and more stressed.”

Maya threw a green bean at him, but she was smiling.

That night, after her parents had gone to bed and Carlo was gaming with his headphones on, Maya sat at her desk working on her college essays. She had opened three different AI writing assistants, each one promising to help her craft the perfect personal statement.

But as she stared at the blank document, she realized that her problem wasn’t technological—it was emotional. She was trying to write the version of herself that she thought admissions officers wanted to see, rather than the version that actually existed.

She closed the AI apps and opened a new document. This time, she just started writing.

I learned to code-switch before I knew there was a term for it. At home, I am Maya Reyes-Santos, daughter of immigrants, keeper of traditions, translator of dreams. At school, I am Maya, the smart kid who always has her homework done and explains calculus concepts during lunch. Online, I am @mayareyes_xo, curator of my own carefully crafted identity. None of these versions is fake, but none is complete either.

The complexity of my identity isn’t a burden I need to overcome—it’s a superpower I’m still learning to use. I speak three languages: English, Tagalog, and the hybrid dialect of my generation that mixes cultural references with internet slang. I can explain the historical significance of lumpia and the calculus behind compound interest with equal fluency. I use AI not as a replacement for human connection, but as a tool to enhance my ability to learn, create, and communicate across the multiple worlds I inhabit.

My challenges aren’t dramatic—no one will make a movie about my life. But they are real. The pressure to represent an entire culture in every interaction. The exhaustion of constantly translating—not just languages, but entire worldviews. The imposter syndrome that comes from feeling too American for my Filipino relatives and too Filipino for some of my American peers.

But these challenges have also given me gifts. I understand nuance in a way that comes from living in the spaces between categories. I can build bridges between different communities because I’ve spent my life traveling between them. I can use technology to amplify human connections rather than replace them because I’ve learned that tools are only as powerful as the relationships they serve.

Maya paused, reading what she’d written. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. It was her story, not the story she thought someone else wanted to hear.

She saved the document and closed her laptop. Tomorrow she would revise it, maybe run it through her AI editing tools to polish the grammar and structure. But tonight, she had found her voice.

As she got ready for bed, Maya reflected on her day. She’d used AI dozens of times—for study help, social media advice, language learning, event planning, essay assistance. But the technology hadn’t lived her life for her; it had simply helped her navigate it more effectively.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Josh: “Thanks for helping with calc today. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had 💙”

Maya smiled and typed back: “Thanks for bringing lumpia. Your mom’s recipe is amazing.”

“She said to tell you that you’re welcome for dinner anytime. Fair warning: she’ll probably try to feed you until you explode.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Maya replied.

As she settled into bed, Maya felt something she hadn’t experienced in months: optimism about the future. She was still stressed about college applications, still worried about living up to everyone’s expectations, still figuring out how to balance all the different parts of her identity. But she was also beginning to understand that these challenges were shaping her into someone unique and capable.

Her AI assistant chimed softly with a reminder about tomorrow’s chemistry test, but Maya ignored it. Some things could wait until morning. Tonight, she wanted to fall asleep thinking about Josh’s smile, her mother’s adobo, Carlo’s terrible jokes, and the way her father’s face lit up when she spoke Tagalog without prompting.

She was Maya Reyes-Santos: daughter, sister, student, Filipino-American, digital native, bridge-builder, future college student, and so much more than any single category could contain. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like more than enough.

The last thing she saw before closing her eyes was the soft glow of her phone screen, displaying a photo from today’s lunch study group—five teenagers from different backgrounds, united by calculus problems and shared determination, laughing at something Emma had said. It was a perfect snapshot of her generation: diverse, connected, optimistic despite everything, and fluently bilingual in human and digital languages.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to use technology in service of her goals, new chances to navigate the beautiful complexity of her multicultural identity. But tonight, Maya Santos-Reyes was exactly where she belonged: at home in all her worlds. –END

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Prompt: Write a 3,000- to 5,000-word short story about a 16-year-old Filipino-American female junior in high school who lives in a middle-class suburb in Los Angeles. Show us what a typical weekday in her life is like, focusing on how she uses chatbots in different parts of her life, including home, family, school, and social life. Paint a vivid picture of what she looks like, how she dresses, how she speaks, what she eats and snacks on, etc. Provide enough information about her parents and sibling(s) to give us a feeling for her family and cultural life. Give us a sense of her rich social life, too. To make the story interesting, give her a problem that seems overwhelming to a person her age but not very serious from the perspective of caring and knowledgeable adults. Develop her in such a way that readers are drawn to her as a person, care about what happens to her now and in the future, and would like to follow her development as she grows into adulthood.

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