Around that time, “there was another thing I had to deal with,” Evan told me. We were sitting in a study room in the library at Loyola Marymount. Long, wide windows overlooked a colonnade of palm trees. Evan has the same deep dimples and unwavering eye contact as his younger self, but he wears his hair long and shaggy and his clothes slouchy and oversize, like a character in a skater comic. He recalled that in middle school, haters in the comments called him “spoiled,” and people told him things he had never considered before. His parents were “taking advantage” of him, they said, or “using you for money,” Evan told me. “That definitely made me feel sad. Like, sad-angry.” He started telling his parents he didn’t want to review toys anymore and withdrew to his room.
Children as ‘Commodities’
Evan Lee is coming of age when all parents, it seems, post videos of their children online, an untold number in the hopes of making money. The current titan of the kid influencers, inspired by EvanTube, is a 13-year-old named Ryan Kaji who started unboxing toys when he was 3. His Ryan’s World brand has had advertising deals with Lunchables and Legoland, a line of merch — pajamas and backpacks emblazoned with Ryan’s image — and a Nickelodeon television show. Conservative estimates put Ryan’s family earnings at $25 million annually. And though posters on Reddit rally around Ryan, saying he’s being exploited by his parents and deserves a shot at a normal life, his business associates disagree.
In an influencer economy — which McKinsey values at more than $21 billion worldwide — a breakthrough kid or family brand can be life-changing. In the cases of the most successful child influencers, “their great-grandkids are set for life,” said Chris Williams, the chief executive of PocketWatch, which partners with both Ryan’s World and EvanTube to make content and licensing deals.
Ryan is an outlier, of course. Wannabe child influencers far outnumber successes; even the most charismatic children and enterprising parents have no idea how hard it is to make money online, talent agents say. On my own social media feeds, children I’ve never met dance and sing and drop wisdom like mini-philosophers. Their parents manage their pages, which also sell hair bows and plug Donkey Kong video games. I am mesmerized by them, but also recoil at the implicit exchange of cuteness for cash, possibly because the basis of the transaction feels muddled: Are these children being authentically themselves? Or are they acting out an uncanny version of authenticity?
New documentaries highlight horrific abuses: parents who starved and bound their children, forced children to kiss onscreen, adopted a child and then gave him away. The prevalence of child predators who track kids online is well documented, as is the collusion of parents who sell pornographic images of their children, and even their used leotards, online. Train wrecks draw attention, so parents post videos of their young children throwing tantrums, potty training and being disciplined or punished.
