Where our children are

I don’t have Tiktok. A failure as a mother: I should be there to see where my children are going. On the other hand, I know no one would follow me and I wouldn’t know who to follow. I don’t care about the names, I don’t know how to comment or even how to publish. Much less what to say that. I’ve been visiting, with the same spirit and the curious look of those who travel to another civilization, and, as expected, I felt an intruder in a space that is not mine, let alone for me. It may be of age, language, content, dynamics or everything together. Being a network where any video is worth a thousand images, it scared me. Film What and for what? It seems strange to me. So I ran away. This is an anarchy in social network mode.

It should also be said that I do not realize the concept of influencer and say that this is where they are born, the influencers. It seems to me, without knowledge that supports what it seems to me, that they are normal people who, for reasons that themselves are unaware of, have become known for thousands and thousands of people who interrupt Scrall to watch the mini-vines they do. These people, an anonymous multitude of which our children are part, are the faithful followers of a sect. In my lexicon (old say), influencers are no more than old tribes gurus, leaders who are not spiritual-or in some cases they may-drag multitudes because they hit the tone, color, message, rhythm. These are normal and not normal people who get the effect that only disasters or the Roman circus could: who looks, does not defies, fixed with perplexity in an irrational attraction. What is sunset on Mount Evereste comparing with the drama of the third floor couple of my building? I was asked for more than a century this genius of human nature that was Eça de Queiroz. A banality of beauty that compares to worldly and human miseries or tragedies, I answer rhetoric. Tiktok, or what goes on, is that: a tragedy. There is no art or spectacle. It’s just nothing about anything.

Choreography created, danced and sung by children 8 years or less, masked women, and animated by digital ornaments; bizarre videos; inflamed, cut and manipulated speeches to make it look like what is not; Tutorials of right and uncertain things; Lies or untruths, as they are now called lies. All things that delight audiences long before the Roman circus, the burned witch in bonfires, or the dwarves fired by cannons in the circus.

Worse than seeing is to do. And here comes the parents. For every child who publishes a video on Tiktok, the CPCJ should receive an alert and open an inquiry. This or anything like that. Children, when they open tiktok accounts denounce where they live, who they are, launch their image to the world in search of likes and sharing. How many times should not be the parents themselves to proudly applaud this sharing of the beauty, grace and talent of their children? Too much, it seems to me. I’m from the time when girls wanted to be actresses and the boys wanted to play football like Ronaldo; I am now at the time when girls and boys just want to have as many followers as a unnamed or nickname youtuber. It seems to me that we fail throughout the line.