Words: Isaac Quirke (he/him)
CW: child abuse
Think about the most embarrassing thing that happened to you as a kid. Think about how it makes your stomach twist, your heart race, and your eyes scrunch up. Got it? Now, imagine that it had been filmed and posted to YouTube for millions to see. And then, imagine your own parents had made thousands of dollars from it. And then, imagine you didn’t see a penny of that money. Apocalyptically horrible, right? Well, you won’t have to look further than your For You Page to find children living that unthinkable reality.
Since YouTube’s inception, filming your life and posting it for an anonymous audience has been a keystone of internet culture. Family vlogging is merely a branch of that, where the life of a nuclear family is captured, cut, and circulated; the cross between sitcom and documentary. The school run, mealtimes, Disneyland trips, playdates, and first dates are all broadcast to your neighbour and complete strangers alike, in return for lucrative sponsorships and ad revenue. However, things get dicey when tantrums, first periods, and bath time come into the mix. And isn’t it weird that unconsenting children are becoming professionals, homes are becoming studios, and a family’s inner workings are becoming some random guy’s favourite show?
Make no mistake: family vlogging is simply child stardom repackaged, and the consequences of that are well-documented. Amanda Bynes, Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears – the lineage goes on, where an adorable, precocious child is wheeled out to the masses so that the patriarch doesn’t have to be a dentist anymore. Family vloggers have merely reframed this industry under the guise that parents are in control and that their children’s best interests are at heart, so that the cameras can get closer and the stars begin work younger.
Growing up as a Zoella stan with an embarrassingly-high screen time, vlogging quickly became run-of-the-mill entertainment for me. Creators made pains to portray it as minimally-disruptive in their childrens’ lives. However, watching Stacey Dooley’s BBC documentary about famous UK vlogging family the Saccone Joly’s, I was taken aback by how awkward it actually is. The silence is palpable as the father, Jonathan, whips out his Canon G7X to film their baby eating some mushed-up vegetable, prodding the child to say ‘dada’, while his wife, Anna, sits in stony silence. Things only get worse when Stacey asks another child if they like being in the videos, who repeats an effusive ‘no’. Later, when confronted with the possibility that their videos could be titillating to child sexual predators, Jonathan’s response is alarmingly flustered. By being unprepared for the question, bafflingly, it seems like he hasn’t considered the prospect at all.
An embarrassing digital footprint and predatory viewership are not the end for possible repercussions. A popular Mormon family who posted under the moniker “8 Passengers”, recently went viral for very different reasons. In December 2023, mother Ruby Franke pleaded guilty to 4 counts of aggravated child abuse, with a maximum prison sentence of 30 years. The facade she had constructed crumbled when their son escaped through the window of their home and knocked on their neighbour’s front door, his wrists and ankles wrapped in bloodstained duct tape. Police later found Franke’s 9-year-old daughter sitting cross-legged in a wardrobe, her head shaved. Their eldest daughter, Shari, speaks of her mother’s endless physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, where intimate moments, such as bra shopping, were filmed as they earned the most attention and revenue. Despite new legislation in certain states requiring a percentage of earnings to be set aside for children of vlogging families, Shari believes it cannot be done ethically. She now advocates for family vlogging to be banned.
Considering the dissolution of the “8 Passengers”, I would be reluctant to say that family vlogging is ever justified. It is clear that the bloodthirsty maw of capitalism makes people do crazy things all the time. In a world where fame and fortune are paramount, parasocial probing is encouraged, and the barrier to entry is an iPhone camera, it’s sadly no surprise that people have chosen pushing child stars over drugs as their shortcut to affluence. One can’t forget that some children are provided a cushier lifestyle through this: private schooling, mini mansions with gigantic playrooms, and guaranteed financial security.
So why does it still feel like an unworthy trade-off? Would I be happy if my parents had used me for a better life, conveniently involving them as well, that I hadn’t asked for and couldn’t consent to? Vlogging parents rhapsodise about how they’d stop at the first sign of child reluctance, but don’t consider that these kids are filmed from birth, profit from it, and don’t know any different. While the role of parent involves being a provider, would you want the exploitation of your children to be the source of your income?
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