Saving Curiosity makes the case that in the age of artificial intelligence, curiosity is not a soft skill. It is the foundation of creativity, innovation, and meaningful problem-solving.
Written for parents, educators, and community leaders, this nonfiction guide offers a practical framework for helping children thrive in a rapidly changing world. Blending personal narrative with research-informed educational insight, Saving Curiosity presents a modernized approach to science fairs and curiosity-driven learning.
Rather than treating AI as a distraction or a replacement for learning, the book shows how it can support deeper exploration, stronger questions, and greater confidence through hands-on projects. It outlines strategies families, schools, and communities can use to nurture scientific thinking, resilience, and self-directed learning while connecting classroom learning to real-world challenges.
Saving Curiosity makes the case that in the age of artificial intelligence, curiosity is not a soft skill. It is the foundation of creativity, innovation, and meaningful problem-solving.
Written for parents, educators, and community leaders, this nonfiction guide offers a practical framework for helping children thrive in a rapidly changing world. Blending personal narrative with research-informed educational insight, Saving Curiosity presents a modernized approach to science fairs and curiosity-driven learning.
Rather than treating AI as a distraction or a replacement for learning, the book shows how it can support deeper exploration, stronger questions, and greater confidence through hands-on projects. It outlines strategies families, schools, and communities can use to nurture scientific thinking, resilience, and self-directed learning while connecting classroom learning to real-world challenges.
âHe who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.â
âAlbert Einstein
I remember fifth grade as the moment I fell in love with science. At a small Catholic school in rural South Texas, guided by a passionate young Volunteers for Educational and Social Services (VESS) teacher from Boston and our principal, a fun-loving, spirited nun whose kindness and contagious enthusiasm shaped every school day, we transformed the science fair into a celebration of discovery. Excitement buzzed through the air, and every student, from kindergarten to sixth grade, felt like a scientist.
Each year, VESS volunteers from across the United States came to teach at our private school. Many of these volunteers were recent college graduates dedicating their first postgrad year to improving educational opportunities in underserved communities. Before I was born, my mother had made a choice that would forever influence the course of both our lives: she became a VESS volunteer, a milestone that took her from New York to South Texas.
She grew up in Iloilo, Philippines, earned a bachelorâs in education in the Philippines, completed a masterâs at SUNY Cortland, and then chose service over comfort, joining VESS and landing in a rural Texas classroom.
When Service Becomes Family
My connection to VESS ran deeper than just having one of their volunteers as my fifth-grade science teacher. It began when my mother invited the local nurse, my future grandmother, to help with a sixth-grade health lesson. As my grandmother explained the âbirds and bees,â she was struck by the young teacherâs poise and quietly thought of her son, who had just finished a political science degree at the University of Houston and was nursing a broken heart after a broken engagement.
Moved by what she saw in that classroom, my grandmother resolved to arrange a blind date, setting in motion a story that would eventually become part of my own. As family lore recounts, the story took a humorous turn when my grandmother accidentally gave my father the address of the parish convent instead of the home of the young, single VESS teachers.
My father arrived at the convent, confusing and amusing the nuns who wondered why someone would court a nun, before directing him to where the VESS volunteers lived. That encounter marked the start of my parentsâ relationship, a union that would keep our family rooted in South Texas and connected to the very school where they met.
A Seed of Curiosity
Iâll never forget the day my fifth-grade VESS science teacher introduced the science fair. She admitted it would take time and effort but encouraged us to pick topics we enjoyedâeven silly ones, as long as they werenât offensive. That simple framing transformed the project from tedious homework into a chance to explore what I was truly curious about. My first project compared strawberries grown in soil to those grown in a hydroponic setup, where plants absorb nutrients from a water solution rather than soil.
To my surprise, the hydroponic strawberries grew faster, and I couldnât wait to explain why. At our hometown civic center, facing judges who were local doctors, retirees, and church members, I proudly shared my reasoning: plants could take in nutrients more efficiently in water than in soil. For the first time, I was presenting my own ideas.
Watching those tiny seeds sprout into flowering strawberry plants (even if they hadnât fruited yet) was exhilarating. The freedom to design, test, and explain something on my own was empowering. I had tried gymnastics, soccer, and plenty of other activities, but none lit that spark. Science fairs were different: They gave me the chance to explore on my own terms.
Independent Streak
My mom and grandmother often said I was fiercely independent from the startâstubborn, opinionated, and determined to do things my way (âbossy,â in their words). In my early forties, my grandmother laughed while recalling our summers together in Houston. âYour mom didnât know what to do with you,â she confessed. âI told her, âSend her to Houston before you drive yourself crazy!ââ It was her blunt but loving way of saying I was a handfulâalways questioning, debating, and offering unsolicited opinions.
That explains why I spent so many summers in Houston and, when I couldnât, why my mom enrolled me in nearly every vacation Bible school in our hometown. They were affordable, gave her a break, and gave me a new church playground to explore each weekâLutheran, Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, nondenominational. By the end of elementary school, Iâd attended them all. But in science fairs, my independenceâand yes, my bossinessâfinally became an asset.
By sixth grade, I placed at a Catholic schools regional science fair and discovered how much I loved competing with students from outside my school. Iâll never forget the thrill of winning first place in my division with a project on the effects of acid rain on plants. Walking on stage, I couldnât resist turning my summary into a mini-lecture on why society needed to address acid rain. The science fair emcee eventually leaned in and stage-whispered, âWrap it up.â I grinned, clutching my trophy, and kept talking anyway.
The First Yes That Mattered
My Catholic school only went through sixth grade, so by seventh I transitioned into the local public school. The junior high was close to my home, which quickly became the hangout spot for tennis teammates. But there was one problem: no science fair. I had a project idea burning in my mind, so my parents encouraged me to approach the head of the science department to see if I could enter independently. She wasnât my teacher then, but she would become one of my most important mentors.
I still remember our first meeting. Nervous but determined, I walked into her classroom after school and explained my background, my passion for science fairs, and my new idea. I promised to make the process easy: Iâd gather the information, handle the paperwork, and cover the costs with help from my parents. All she needed to do was say yes.
My pitch came straight from the heart. I described how news footage of the Exxon Valdez oil spill had left me wondering about its long-term effects on marine life, especially diatoms, the photosynthetic microorganisms that form the base of the food chain. It was one of the worst environmental disasters in U.S. history, spilling nearly eleven million gallons of crude oil into Prince William Sound. Yet little research had examined how spills affect these tiny but essential organisms.
I admitted my project wasnât flashy or commercially profitable like most winning science fair entries. But it mattered. Oceans cover three-quarters of the planet, and fisheries depend on healthy food webs. When I finished, she smiled and agreed without hesitation. I was beyond excitedâher simple yes would shape everything that followed.
The MacGyver Mindset
That year, my subject was diatoms: the invisible architects of Earthâs aquatic ecosystems. These microscopic organisms live in oceans, rivers, lakes, and even damp soil. Their hallmark is a glass-like silica shell, called a frustule, decorated with patterns as intricate as stained glass. Beyond their beauty, diatoms are vital. As primary producers, they convert sunlight into energy and quietly generate a significant share of Earthâs oxygen through marine photosynthesis. Their golden-brown shimmer comes from pigments like chlorophyll and fucoxanthin, which I loved admiring under the microscope.
My teacher supported my idea but questioned the logistics since we lived three hours from the nearest coastline and had no marine biology lab. Still, I wasnât deterred. I had a secret weaponâthe spirit of MacGyver. The TV hero from the 1980s and 90s could escape anything with duct tape, paperclips, and a Swiss Army knife. He made science cool and resourcefulness legendary. If he could disarm bombs with chocolate bars, I could figure out how to study diatoms in a small, rural Texas town far from the coast.
What I didnât know then was how pivotal that first âyesâ from my mentor would become. As we talked more, she casually mentioned that her husband worked at a local agricultural extension research center. Then came the twist that would change everything: âMaybe I can ask if their labs could be of use to you.â
Where Persistence Meets Support
Marine biology wasnât exactly on the menu at the local agricultural extension research center. This was farm country: research, crops, soil, water, and agricultural economics, not saltwater tanks and oceanographers in wetsuits. But doors sometimes open in unexpected places. Thanks to my mentorâs willingness to connect the dots, my long-shot idea about plankton in the middle of ranch land suddenly had a home.
My project focused on whether oil could block sunlight and threaten diatomsâ ability to photosynthesize. With my mentorâs help, I gained access to a stereo microscope at the research center to conduct population counts. While she graded papers, I hunched over the lenses, counting the tiny organisms Iâd been growing in tanks in my parentsâ garage. It wasnât glamorous, but it felt like real science. ⨠Under the scope, diatoms came alive, sometimes linked in delicate chains that made them easier to count. Their geometric beauty fascinated me. Researchers passing through the lab often paused, surprised to see a teenager studying marine life in an agricultural setting. Many were people I knew from church, family gatherings, or neighborhood BBQs.
At one BBQ, frustrated with messy data, I grumbled over a graph that refused to form a straight line. A family friend, also a scientist, overheard. He sketched on a napkin: âEven a roller coaster has a direction. What matters is the trend.â His words shifted my perspective. What looked like chaos was actually a pattern waiting to be understood.
More Than a Ribbon
Fueled by my MacGyver-inspired determination, my first year in the public school system became one of the most rewarding chapters of my five-year journey with diatoms. That year, my project earned second grand prize in the life-sciences division at the regional fair. I eventually advanced to the state science fair, where I received an honorable mention in microbiology. Even without first place, I stood alongside winners from Texasâs elite schools. It was a proud moment for me and for everyone in my hometown who had helped me get there.
None of it would have been possible without the support of my parents, my mentor, and the scientists at the local agricultural extension center. With their encouragement and access to professional tools, I captured breathtaking, vividly colored images of diatoms. That work earned a Kodak Photography Award, a moment when science and art finally seemed to meet. The American Society for Microbiology also recognized my project with a framed certificate, which my parents hung in our dining room, where it remains to this day, more than thirty years later.
For a student still learning to trust her ideas, those affirmations mattered deeply. Later that spring, I mailed a thank-you note to the Society, along with a front-page clipping from my hometown newspaper. I expected nothing. To my amazement, the head of the organization wrote back personally, in a handwritten note that congratulated me on my work and wished me well on my scientific journey.
Year after year, I stayed devoted to diatoms, resisting flashier projects that might have won more easily but never captured my imagination. That loyalty had roots in my earliest schooling, where South Texas nuns and VESS teachers modeled quiet devotion and respect for Godâs creatures. From them I absorbed the value of commitment and the confidence to walk my own path.
Winning on My Own Terms
Alongside the regional fair, I also competed annually in a regional showcase where students stood before panels of judges to present and defend their scientific investigations. This event required confident, persuasive speaking and the ability to field incisive questions from judges. It felt like defending a dissertation before a panelâthe questions cutting sharp, leaving me scrambling but sharper each time I answered.
Since seventh grade, I had consistently placed in microbiology or environmental science at the regional showcase. However, I still aimed for the Life Sciences Grand Prize. During practice, classmates jokingly called me âDiatomâ because they knew how deeply I had immersed myself in those tiny, overlooked organisms.
I never expected that one of the most pivotal contributors to my scientific path, and dramatic improvement in presenting, would be my free-spirited, Estee Lauder-loving New England grandmother. Raised in Acton, Massachusetts, she had served as a Navy nurse during World War II. At some point, she crossed paths with a charming Texan Air Force pilot, my grandfather, and they built a family in South Texas that eventually led to me.
The Unexpected Mentor
Each fall, my grandmother would visit Cape Cod, renting a cozy cottage for a month or two as a base to see friends and family scattered around the Cape. While at the Cape one fall, when I was in junior high, she decided to take a trip to the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. My grandmother, known for her outgoing nature, spoke with someone at WHOI about my strong interest in marine biology, and she likely mentioned the diatoms as well. That conversation led to an unexpected book recommendationâWonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History by Stephen Jay Gould.
I didnât take the gifted book too seriously because, after all, the title was entirely unrelated to the subject matter of my project. I finally read the book by the summer of my junior year without any particular expectations. And, oh my goodness, I was truly frustrated with myself for not having read this book sooner. A brief passage about upheaval and the contingencies of life changed the way I looked at my data. My yearly results had been inconsistent. Sometimes the diatoms rebounded after an oil spill; other times, they crashed, even when I monitored nutrients and light.
Gouldâs ideas, reinforced by work on ecological selectivity during environmental disturbance, including studies that discuss diatoms among affected taxa, pushed me to reinterpret my results: sharp declines during the oil event followed by rebounds once conditions stabilized. In my final year, I tested that possibility by tracking chlorophyll along with counts. After a dip during an oil event, I saw a rebound that fit the dormancy and recovery pattern.
What surprised me most was that the breakthrough did not come from a professor, a mentor, a judge, or a lab scientist. It came from a book my carefree, delightfully unpredictable grandmother put in my hands. Her gift shifted my thinking and gave me the insight I needed to pull five years of experiments into a coherent conclusion for my orals.
Breakthroughs and Setbacks
Presenting my senior year felt like the culmination of everything I had poured into this project. One judge remains vivid in my memory. She examined each presentation with laser focus, intent on discovering whether the work truly belonged to the student or had been shaped too heavily by adult hands.
When it was my turn, I explained how my project had been sparked years earlier by the Exxon Valdez oil spill and how, over five years, I had built, refined, and expanded it, supported but never overshadowed by mentors, teachers, and family. The curiosity, the questions, and the perseverance had always been my own. No other judge had ever pressed so deeply on the originality of my work, and proving that it was genuinely mine became one of the most affirming moments of my science fair journey.
As the awards ceremony reached the grand prize level that evening, I finally heard my name called. I had, at long last, clinched the coveted First Grand Prize. Additionally, I was advancing to the state competition, which offered another opportunity to pitch my diatom project.
Standing My Ground
I had long recognized that my project might not resonate with every judge. At the final competition of my high school career, I encountered my harshest critic yet. Throughout my presentation, she glanced repeatedly at her watch, her disinterest obvious. Her questions circled the same theme about money: âWhat industry benefits financially from this research?â I pointed out the potential losses to the fishing industry, but my answers did nothing to shift her focus. Still, I stood firm, presenting with the same conviction I had carried from the beginning, determined to show that not all science needs a price tag to matter.
I tried not to let it bother me, knowing this was a vulnerable spot for my project. I remained composed and confidently emphasized the significance of my research. To conclude, I drove home a powerful truth: every breath we take carries the imprint of diatoms, the tiny glass-walled microalgae of the sea that quietly supply a significant share of Earthâs oxygen. These microscopic life forms, so easily dismissed, are sustaining our existence. I locked eyes with the judge, held her gaze for a moment of deliberate silence and, with measured intensity, delivered my final words: âThank you for taking the time to listen to my presentation.â The room was so still I could hear my own heartbeat.
Full Circle
Although I didnât win at the state competition, I left feeling deeply satisfied. The five-year journey had been worth every challenge, not just for the recognition but for the people I met along the wayâmentors, scientists, and family who believed in me. Most of all, I was proud that my research echoed insights discussed by a renowned Harvard professor, a connection I never would have made without my grandmother, my Mimi, whose unexpected gift had helped bring my science fair story full circle.
Looking back now, I realize my journey with diatoms was beyond science fairs or ribbons. It was about learning to pause, to wonder, and to recognize meaning in even the smallest details of creation. From the spark that first lit my imagination in fifth grade to the unexpected wisdom of a book my grandmother placed in my hands, my path was shaped by wonder. In the end, the real prize wasnât a ribbon; it was learning to notice, then follow wonder.
As a teacher, I have seen the effect of technology in classrooms for better and for worse. Sometimes technology is an amazing tool, helping us connect to places around the world that we couldn't on our own, creating simulated environments when we don't have the tools, and allowing for differentiation in education. However, when improperly used, it can turn students into little robots, regurgitating whatever they happen to find online, and taking away a sense of curiosity and creativity.
This book is for anyone who wants to preserve the spark of curiosity in the education world, especially in the area of science fairs. Parents, educators, administrators, and even non-school-affiliated adults all should have an interest in bolstering curiosity, because without it, there are far fewer new discoveries being made. And even though the book is primarily about science fairs, the ideas in the book can have spillover into other areas of curriculum and education as well.
The book starts with laying the foundation of why science fairs are important anyway. It then explains how AI and technology affect science fairs, and moves on to a roadmap for reimagined science fairs. The roadmap explains how key figures - schools, teachers, parents, and communities - can contribute to science fairs reinvented for the modern era that still encourage curiosity.
I really enjoyed the book. It was practical and useful. It clearly explained some of the drawbacks of technology without being overly doomsday about AI. It also made the case for why events like science fairs are still even needed at all. As a teacher and as a parent, the book provides context and ideas to support education. Curiosity is an extremely powerful trait for kids to have, and books like this will help the education system adapt and encourage this trait in the kids of the future.