Towards the end of eighth grade, when I was 14, I started my own YouTube channel for one reason: money. I saw what YouTube had done for Ruby. If this could pay for college and save me from working at the grocery store after school, I was all in. Although I’d have to get Ruby’s permission first, of course. Ruby’s eyebrow arched. “Your own channel? Better be serious about it.” “I promise I will!”
“You’re not old enough for an AdSense account, so I’ll have to manage your earnings.” “Oh, OK…” I said, disappointed. I’d forgotten I wouldn’t be legally allowed to have my own AdSense account until I was 18.
“Don’t worry – if your channel is successful, we’ll let the earnings build up,” she continued. “A little nest egg for the future.”
“All you need to do is give me a shout-out on 8 Passengers to get me started, and I’ll get a ton of subscribers that way,” I said, excited.
Ruby laughed. “No way, Shari. No shortcuts, no shout-outs. You need to get to 100,000 subscribers on your own, just like I did. And then I’ll give you a shout-out on 8 Passengers.”
“Seriously? I have to earn a shout-out from my own mum?”
“Shari, I don’t shout-out anyone with less than 100,000, you know that. Consider it an incentive for you to treat it like a real business. I’ll shout you out once you’ve built a channel worth promoting.”
Challenge accepted, Mum.
But make no mistake, I hated every second of filming. “I’m done!” I’d shout with relief after each video, the camera finally off. It was torture, but it was a job.
Then came the editing, writing the captions, figuring out when to post and uploading. Anyone who says posting online isn’t real work clearly hasn’t done it themselves. I posted twice a week. And like my mum, I exploited my own siblings, doing shaving videos with my sisters and talking about periods, because I knew it would get views.
The guilt eats at me now, but back then, I was just following the blueprint Ruby had laid out: this is what people like; this is what makes money. The personal stuff.
One day, Ruby brought her laptop into my room, wanting to show me something.
“Look at this,” she said, excited. “In case you’ve ever wondered why YouTube is the most important thing that ever happened to this family.”
On her screen, a direct message from an 8 Passengers subscriber. A woman who said she had grown up in a troubled home. Her parents fought constantly, and she often felt lost and alone – until she stumbled upon 8 Passengers.
“‘Watching your family, it’s like I finally found a place where I belong,’” Ruby read out loud. “‘You guys are so happy and loving and above all honest, it gives me hope that maybe one day, I can have that, too. I’ve even started going to church because of you, and I’m thinking about getting baptised in the LDS church. Thank you for showing me the light.’”
Ruby’s face glowed as she closed the laptop. “Isn’t that amazing, Shari? God gave us this platform. And now look at the difference we’re making in people’s lives! Showing them the way!”
When viewers praised her for her “honesty”, for showing the unvarnished truth of family life, I saw the pride in her eyes. It made her even more sure that she was doing something noble, something meaningful.
But reading the comments, I had a different take.
“My parents are divorced and they fight a lot. When I watch your videos, I feel like I’m part of your family. I feel like I’ve grown up with you guys. You’re like my siblings. I know everything about you.”
These comments always left me with an uneasy feeling. To me, it felt like a weird attachment, people latching on to families that weren’t their own, while inflating Ruby’s ego to mythic proportions.
“Wow, thank you for showing the tough side of parenting! I wish my parents had been like you, Ruby. Maybe then I wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble as a teenager.”
As much as our fans might have appreciated the story Ruby was selling, they had no idea what they were doing. Enabling her. Fuelling her sense of righteousness and power as a mother who could do no wrong, and cheerleading her as she drifted further and further away from reality.
This is an edited extract from The House of my Mother by Shari Franke.
