By Jim Shimabukuro (assisted by Claude)
Editor

Introduction: Claude and I collaborated on this short story. See the prompt at the end. -js

The Writing Path

Min-jun stared at the bus schedule on his phone, calculating arrival times for the third time that morning. The September heat still clung to Chicago’s suburbs, but inside his chest, everything felt cold. Today was the first day of English 100, and despite acing calculus and physics placement exams, this single three-credit course terrified him more than organic chemistry ever could.

The number 42 bus wheezed to a stop, and Min-jun climbed aboard with his overstuffed backpack. As suburban strip malls gave way to the sprawling campus of University of Illinois Chicago, he practiced introducing himself under his breath. “Hi, I’m Min-jun. I’m an engineering major.” Simple words, but they still felt clumsy on his tongue after all these years.

His family had arrived in America when he was nine, old enough to remember the weight of Korean syllables but young enough to absorb English like a sponge—or so everyone assumed. The truth was messier. At home, Korean flowed naturally with his parents as they discussed inventory for their small produce market in Koreatown. At school, English came in technical bursts during math and science classes. But the nuanced, flowing English of essays and literature? That remained as foreign as the day he’d first heard it.

Paper One: Personal Narrative

Professor Martinez’s classroom buzzed with nervous energy as she explained the recursive writing process. “Think of it as a spiral staircase,” she said, sketching loops on the whiteboard. “You’ll move forward, then back, then forward again. Each paper goes through brainstorming, drafting, peer review, revision, and final submission. But you might return to brainstorming after peer review, or revise before you think you’re ready.”

Min-jun’s notes were meticulous, but his stomach churned. Five papers. Each worth twenty percent of his grade.

That evening, hunched over his desk in his childhood bedroom—still decorated with Korean pop stars and NASA posters—Min-jun opened his laptop and accessed the course’s AI tutor for the first time.

ChatBot: Hello! I’m here to help you with English 100. What’s your name, and how are you feeling about the course?

Min-jun hesitated, then typed in Korean: 안녕하세요. 저는 민준이에요. 영어 수업이 걱정돼요. [Hello. My name is Minjun. I’m worried about English class.]

ChatBot: 안녕하세요, 민준! [Hello, Minjun!] It’s completely normal to feel worried about English class. Many students do, especially when it’s not their first language. Would you like to talk about what specifically concerns you? We can chat in Korean, English, or both—whatever feels most comfortable.

Something loosened in Min-jun’s chest. I’m scared I won’t be able to write well enough. In Korea, I was good at writing. But here… English feels like wearing shoes that don’t fit.

ChatBot: That’s such a beautiful way to describe it! Language learning is like that—sometimes we need time to find the right fit. Let’s start with your first assignment, the personal narrative. What experiences have shaped who you are?

Over the next hour, switching fluidly between languages, Min-jun found himself telling the chatbot about the day his family opened their store, how his father’s hands shook while counting the first day’s register, how his mother practiced English pronunciation while arranging bok choy. The chatbot listened, asked questions, and gradually helped him see these moments as potential essay material.

ChatBot: Your story about translating for your parents at the bank—that could be powerful. It shows responsibility, cultural bridging, and growth. Want to try a rough draft?

Min-jun’s first draft was stilted, full of awkward phrases and uncertain grammar. But the chatbot guided him through revision after revision, explaining why “I felt proud and scared both” became “I felt both proud and terrified,” helping him see how English rhythm worked differently than Korean sentence structure.

When peer review day arrived, Min-jun sat in a circle with Maria (Mexican-American), Jamal (second-generation Somali-American), and Priya (Indian-American). As they exchanged papers, Min-jun braced for judgment.

“Dude,” Jamal said after reading Min-jun’s draft, “this part about your mom practicing English with vegetables? That’s amazing. My mom does the same thing with Somali words.”

Maria nodded enthusiastically. “And when you wrote about feeling like a bridge between worlds—I totally get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m translating more than just words, you know?”

For the first time since starting college, Min-jun felt less alone.

Paper Two: Analysis Essay

The second assignment—analyzing a short story—proved more challenging. Literary analysis required a different kind of thinking, one that felt foreign even in Korean. Min-jun spent hours with his chatbot, unpacking symbolism and theme.

내가 이해하지 못하겠어요, [I don’t understand,] he typed in frustration. The story is just about a man walking. How do I write three pages about walking?

ChatBot: Let’s look at it differently. In Korean literature, what makes a simple action meaningful? Think about Han—that deep, complex emotion. How might an American author use a simple walk to explore complex feelings?

Slowly, with the chatbot’s patient guidance, Min-jun learned to read between lines. His analysis wasn’t the most sophisticated in class, but it was thoughtful and personal. Maria, who had become his regular peer review partner, helped him clarify his thesis statement, while he helped her understand a complex scientific concept she’d referenced.

Paper Three: Research Essay

The research paper on renewable energy felt more comfortable—until Min-jun had to synthesize sources and construct arguments. Technical knowledge was one thing; academic argumentation in English was another.

ChatBot: You have excellent research skills, Min-jun. Now we need to help your voice come through. In Korean academic writing, how do you typically structure an argument?

It’s more… circular? We give context, then slowly approach the main point.

ChatBot: English academic writing tends to be more direct—thesis up front, then support. But we can blend approaches. Your cultural perspective actually adds richness to your argument about solar energy adoption in immigrant communities.

His research paper earned a B+, but more importantly, Min-jun began to see his bilingual brain as an asset rather than a limitation. The chatbot helped him recognize that his unique perspective—understanding both Korean and American approaches to environmental issues—made his writing stronger, not weaker.

Paper Four: Argumentative Essay

By November, Min-jun’s friend group had solidified. Maria, Jamal, Priya, and two other students—Ahmed (Pakistani-American) and Lin (Vietnamese-American)—often met in the library’s group study rooms. Their argumentative essay assignment on immigration policy sparked heated but respectful debates.

“You should write about the model minority myth,” Priya suggested during one of their sessions. “You have such a unique perspective.”

Min-jun had never considered his experience as essay-worthy before, but with his friends’ encouragement and his chatbot’s guidance, he crafted an argument about the complexity of Asian-American immigrant experiences. His parents’ struggles didn’t fit neat narratives about academic success, and their small business ownership came with sacrifices his classmates rarely understood.

ChatBot: Your argument is getting stronger with each draft. Notice how you’re using specific examples from your family’s experience to support broader points? That’s sophisticated rhetorical strategy.

The day before the essay was due, his friends came to his family’s store to pick up some ingredients for Maria’s abuela’s birthday dinner. Min-jun watched nervously as his mother, in her careful English, showed Jamal how to select the ripest persimmons.

“Your mom’s so sweet,” Maria said later. “And your dad’s stories about Korea are fascinating.”

“They like you too,” Min-jun replied, surprised by how natural English felt in this moment.

Min-jun’s mom spoke to him in Korean.

“What did she say?” Ahmed asked.

“She said you’re good friends,” Min-jun translated, then paused. “Actually, she said more than that. She said you make me happy, and she’s grateful.”

Paper Five: Reflection Essay

The final paper asked students to reflect on their growth as writers. Min-jun sat in his room, looking at his first draft from September—hesitant, apologetic, full of crossed-out words. His December drafts flowed differently, still carrying traces of Korean sentence patterns but wielding English with growing confidence.

ChatBot: What’s changed most for you this semester?

I think… I used to try to write like everyone else. Like “real” American students. But now I see that my way of thinking, even in English, is different. And that’s okay.

ChatBot: More than okay—it’s valuable. Your final reflection captures that beautifully. You’ve learned to navigate between languages and cultures in your writing, not just your daily life.

His reflection essay earned an A-, but the grade mattered less than what he’d discovered about himself. He wrote about code-switching, about the way Korean rhythms influenced his English sentences, about learning to see his immigrant experience as a source of strength rather than limitation.

December: Looking Forward

Finals week arrived with unexpected confidence. Min-jun’s final portfolio—revised versions of all five essays—told the story of a semester’s growth. Professor Martinez’s comments were encouraging: “Your unique voice and perspective shine through in every piece. You’ve learned to use your multilingual abilities as a writer’s tool.”

His final grade was a B+, but more importantly, Min-jun no longer dreaded writing assignments. His chatbot had become not just a tutor but a thinking partner, helping him navigate not just grammar and structure but identity and voice.

The last day of class, his friend group exchanged numbers and made plans for spring semester study sessions. As they walked toward the bus stop together, Maria asked, “Hey, Min-jun, what’s your major again?”

“Engineering,” he replied automatically, then paused. “But I’m thinking about adding a minor in technical writing. I think I might be good at it.”

Jamal grinned. “Dude, you’re good at a lot of things. We’ve been telling you that all semester.”

On the bus ride home, Min-jun texted his chatbot one final time:

Thank you for everything this semester. I know you’re just a program, but you helped me find my voice.

ChatBot: Min-jun, it’s been a privilege to work with you. Remember—you always had the voice. I just helped you learn to trust it. Good luck in all your future writing!

That evening, Min-jun helped his parents close the store, switching easily between Korean and English as they discussed inventory and weekend plans. For the first time since starting college, both languages felt like home.

Spring semester registration was next week, and Min-jun had already signed up for Technical Communications and Introduction to Korean Literature—taught in English. He was curious to see how his two worlds might continue to inform each other.

His phone buzzed with a group text from Maria: “Study group tomorrow for calculus? Min-jun’s family store has the best snacks!”

Min-jun smiled, typing back quickly: “See you there. I’ll ask 엄마 [Mom] to make her famous kimchi pancakes.”

The recursive writing process, he realized, wasn’t just about essays. It was about life—moving forward, circling back, revising and improving, always with the support of patient teachers and faithful friends.

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Prompt: Claude, write a short story about an 18-year-old Korean-American male student entering a large state university in the Midwest in fall 2025. He lives at home and commutes to classes on the bus. He’s planning on an engineering major and is strong in STEM courses but weak in English, especially writing. He’s enrolled in English 100, Freshman Composition, a core requirement, and he’s worried about passing it. The course stresses the writing process, where each of the five required papers passes through a series of steps that are described as “recursive” because each requires review before moving on to the next step or returning to an earlier one if necessary. Students are required to work with a chatbot, who functions as a personal tutor who’s available 24/7 and infinitely patient and friendly. The best part is the tutor can converse with him in English, Korean, or a mix of both, and he finds his English improving as a result of chats with his chatbot. This tutor can answer nearly any question about the course and assignments and provides accurate and useful feedback on completed discussions, activities, drafts, and peer reviews students are required to write for classmates. In your narrative, show how he collaborates with his chatbot and classmates to complete the five papers, which are typical of freshman comp assignments in most colleges. Unlike other Asian students who were born in the US and spoke standard English, his family immigrated here when he was in grade school. Thus, English has never been easy for him. Also, his parents weren’t college graduates, barely spoke English, and ran a small store that specialized in Asian vegetables and fruits. Unlike many of the other Asian students, he’s fluent in his mother tongue and works part-time in his family’s store. Take us through his struggles in gradually mastering the writing process and completing the the course with a strong B. More important than the grade, however, is his growing confidence in his ability to move on to other courses and successfully write, with the help of his chatbot tutor, required papers. Finally, working with classmates, he grew close to a few of them and began to hang out with them outside of class. They were from different hyphenated nationalities. This group of friends made college much more enjoyable, and they didn’t look down on his immigrant background. In fact, they’ve visited him at work and at this home and gotten to know and like his family. -js

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