Editor’s note: This essay is an entry in Fordham’s 2026 Wonkathon, which asked contributors to answer this question: “What rules should govern the uses of digital technology in schools—and who should set them?” Learn more.
When Chromebooks first made their way into my kindergarten classroom, there’s no other word to describe how I felt other than relieved. Coming out of a Covid lockdown, I had just survived an entire school year educating kindergarteners fully online. Every student having consistent devices where I could give the same directions, troubleshoot identical programs, and deliver consistent instruction felt luxurious.
Somehow, that relief morphed into something entirely different. My kindergarteners were spending approximately 40 minutes a day on Chromebooks, and I was exchanging unreasonable amounts of instructional time teaching them how to access technology instead of actually teaching—blocking off two to three entire afternoons teaching login usernames filled with letters, numbers, and symbols that held absolutely no meaning to them. Once logged in, I was monitoring GoGuardian to ensure students weren’t attempting YouTube, clicking around aimlessly, or drawing on their screens instead of completing their assignments.
I had the technology, so I used the technology. But using technology and actually learning from technology were two different things. When I explained once what technology in education has morphed into, all I could compare it to is walking down the grocery store aisle. There are now an overwhelming amount of options. Overconsumption is incredibly easy when everything is available. However, just because it is available doesn’t mean it should all be in our cart. Educational technology has reached a similar point. Districts have invested millions in devices, subscriptions, and digital programs. But purchasing something shouldn’t become the justification for continuing to use it.
In 2024, I made the decision not to pull those login cards out in October. What did my students gain? Well, more targeted intervention time with a teacher who is explicitly trained to identify their individual needs, someone who can tell the difference between a child pushing the wrong button and a child who doesn’t understand the content. Regardless of what a program can tell you, it cannot replace a teacher’s professional judgment. My students had the time I just “couldn’t find” to focus on fine motor development, play skills, and most importantly, speaking and learning through interaction.
My decision to remove routine Chromebook use from my kindergarten classroom is often met with a silent eyeroll and the assumption that I’m anti-technology. I’m not. I use technology every day. It helps me organize instruction, communicate with families, and work more efficiently. For students with disabilities, advancements in communication and accessibility technology can be life changing. I’m grateful for those tools. As an adult, I have the experience to recognize when technology is beneficial and when it’s a distraction, a time eater, or unnecessary. Children don’t have that same ability, which is why intentionality is critical.
Some hard questions have to be asked and answered. Is this technology actually improving a child’s education? Is it teaching something more effectively? Or, to ask a more uncomfortable question, has it become one of the few times during a teacher’s day when they can breathe? I understand that temptation because I’m a teacher. But if technology is primarily solving a problem with staffing, behavior, or the demands placed on teachers, we need to address that problem rather than pretending we’re improving instruction.
Who makes these decisions? What should the policies be? Everyone—states, districts, school leaders, teachers, and even parents—needs to have a meaningful voice.
State leaders can initiate this by providing clear definitions around technology and screen time. Based on these definitions, districts can then set their own grade-level policies around usage. Personally, I would advocate for zero independent device use in kindergarten with opportunities increasing as students begin using it for writing, researching, coding, and other meaningful learning.
Expectations must remain for students with disabilities, English learners, and courses where technology is the subject learned. Teachers must be granted discretion to make instructional decisions within those exceptions.
Districts should provide families with a weekly screen time report. As a parent, I am updated on attendance, and even their school lunch balance. However, I have no idea how much time my child spends on their Chromebooks each day. Why shouldn’t parents know how much time their children spend on school-issued devices?
I would like districts to provide it in a simple report every Friday showing device time usage on which programs. This should not come through the teachers as an added responsibility and should be fairly simple to populate and likely at no extra cost considering most school districts already use device management software like GoGuardian or Lightspeed.
I think this information could potentially lead to necessary yet uncomfortable conversations about our own practices. Teachers are often quick to point fingers at parents regarding lax boundaries around YouTube and video games and blame students’ constant dopamine hits at home for their apathy in schools. But a lot of educators are just as culpable for the time children spend on education games at school. If we want parents to be intentional about their screen time, then we need to be just as transparent about our own.
My third policy suggestion is simple: Every program should be evaluated against one question. What does this provide that students couldn’t learn just as well through another method?
Sometimes the answer will strongly favor technology. Other times, the same learning could happen with a book, manipulatives, conversation, or pencil and paper. Even if those alternatives take longer, perhaps that additional time is part of the learning experience students actually need.
Districts should review instructional evidence, cost, accessibility, teacher feedback, and the time a program takes away from other activities. Those reviews should happen before purchasing and again before renewal. This also should happen annually. Schools should establish a process for teachers to recommend discontinuing programs that aren’t working or don’t promote transferable skills.
What do I mean by transferable skills? My sister, much younger than me, was in high school when the pandemic hit. Her educational world became one big Google Workspace. This was impressive until she hit college where professors were using Microsoft applications. Suddenly, she struggled with something as simple as saving a document as a PDF and emailing it.
Archaic? Maybe. But it made me question whether we’re teaching technological literacy or simply teaching students how to use whichever platform their district happens to purchase. Are we creating a generation of task completers or students who really know how to navigate technology meaningfully? And are we sometimes replacing intimate, raw, and yes maybe a little messy educational experiences that would be more valuable to students in the long run simply because a digital alternative is available?
These questions should be part of every district’s evaluation process. Technology committees composed of teachers representing different grades could help review programs, gather teacher feedback, and determine whether the skills being taught extend beyond the screen for an additional stipend for their work. When something isn’t worth the time or money, districts need to be bold enough to stop using it.
This conversation and the policies we need will continue to evolve. I think back to how relieved I was when those Chromebooks first arrived. They solved a real problem during a time when our country was struggling. But is technology still solving a problem or creating one? We are no longer teaching through computer screens from our living rooms. It is okay to acknowledge that we needed something then that we may not need in the same way now. We can return to books, pencils, paper, and conversation, while keeping the technology that genuinely improves education.
