When it comes to the stories about missing children, I am a lapsed Catholic who needs to get in for confession, and quickly. That’s because I do not care. I shuddered when that realization came to me, and I shudder at the way it feels in its written form. But barely a year into my full-blown addiction to network television, I’ve watched enough of these parodies that I not only do not care about the current one, I find it insulting.
The saga began early this week. A young girl, Somer, disappeared while walking home from school with her brother and sister somewhere in Florida. A lot of these stories originate in Florida, I’ve noticed. I do not know why. In absolute adherence to the formula, Good Morning America and its battalion of cameras and microphones was on the scene almost immediately after the girl’s mother reported her missing. And they wasted no time: By morning the mother was on national television, sitting beside the cop, sobbing as George Stephanopoulos asked her to tell everyone about Somer. She did her best. Then the cop answered a few questions about the search effort. During the search discussion the mother managed to compose herself, so George wrapped the cop chat up quickly and asked the mother, again, to please tell everyone what a wonderful little girl Somer is.
I cannot say which aspect I find more disturbing: the television people doing their best to work as many tears as possible out of a woman whose child has been snatched, or a mother whose child has been snatched appearing on national television. It’s dead even for me. I’m not raising a child, but if my son were abducted on his way home from grade school I cannot fathom taking the time to go downtown to the local affiliate’s studio for an interview, if you can call it that, with the purveyors of the cheap, two-dimensional sentimentality for which this country’s appetite is apparently insatiable.
But enough about the hosts and the parents: the best part of these shows is almost always the neighbors. The Somer saga is no different in that regard: this week was strewn with images of a large group of co-mourners. They were holding hands and they were holding candles. There were close-up shots of tear-streaked faces as the crowd broke into song: You are my sunshine, they sang, my only sunshine … When I see crap like that I cannot help but imagine an outline the news crew scribbles onto a piece of paper prior to the broadcast. The songs and the candles probably fall under the section labeled COMMTY COMING TGTHR. Finally, a shrine: candles, flowers, stuffed animals, balloons, lots of ribbon. Hate me for writing this if you will, but when I see those shrines I think not of a terrified, missing child. Instead, I find myself wondering what’s on sale this week at WalMart.
For some reason, I feel compelled to state very clearly that I do not dislike children or the people who have them. What I object to is how willing the television people are to manipulate, and how willingly manipulated the audience is. To say that the sort of shit served up by the “news” people has anything to do with childhood, or parenthood, or communities, or love itself is like saying a scratch and sniff experience is as good as taking in the glorious aroma of rain – the real kind, the kind that’s wet and falls from the sky.
They believe they’ve found Somer’s body in a dump in Georgia. Yesterday an expert was interviewed briefly about the search. He lauded the cop’s instinct to go check out the dump as “insightful and very innovative.” George paused for a split second and said, “This is so devastating.” Robin Roberts, who must have been in a particularly truthful sort of mood, closed the segment by saying, “This story is far from over.”
The saga began early this week. A young girl, Somer, disappeared while walking home from school with her brother and sister somewhere in Florida. A lot of these stories originate in Florida, I’ve noticed. I do not know why. In absolute adherence to the formula, Good Morning America and its battalion of cameras and microphones was on the scene almost immediately after the girl’s mother reported her missing. And they wasted no time: By morning the mother was on national television, sitting beside the cop, sobbing as George Stephanopoulos asked her to tell everyone about Somer. She did her best. Then the cop answered a few questions about the search effort. During the search discussion the mother managed to compose herself, so George wrapped the cop chat up quickly and asked the mother, again, to please tell everyone what a wonderful little girl Somer is.
I cannot say which aspect I find more disturbing: the television people doing their best to work as many tears as possible out of a woman whose child has been snatched, or a mother whose child has been snatched appearing on national television. It’s dead even for me. I’m not raising a child, but if my son were abducted on his way home from grade school I cannot fathom taking the time to go downtown to the local affiliate’s studio for an interview, if you can call it that, with the purveyors of the cheap, two-dimensional sentimentality for which this country’s appetite is apparently insatiable.
But enough about the hosts and the parents: the best part of these shows is almost always the neighbors. The Somer saga is no different in that regard: this week was strewn with images of a large group of co-mourners. They were holding hands and they were holding candles. There were close-up shots of tear-streaked faces as the crowd broke into song: You are my sunshine, they sang, my only sunshine … When I see crap like that I cannot help but imagine an outline the news crew scribbles onto a piece of paper prior to the broadcast. The songs and the candles probably fall under the section labeled COMMTY COMING TGTHR. Finally, a shrine: candles, flowers, stuffed animals, balloons, lots of ribbon. Hate me for writing this if you will, but when I see those shrines I think not of a terrified, missing child. Instead, I find myself wondering what’s on sale this week at WalMart.
For some reason, I feel compelled to state very clearly that I do not dislike children or the people who have them. What I object to is how willing the television people are to manipulate, and how willingly manipulated the audience is. To say that the sort of shit served up by the “news” people has anything to do with childhood, or parenthood, or communities, or love itself is like saying a scratch and sniff experience is as good as taking in the glorious aroma of rain – the real kind, the kind that’s wet and falls from the sky.
They believe they’ve found Somer’s body in a dump in Georgia. Yesterday an expert was interviewed briefly about the search. He lauded the cop’s instinct to go check out the dump as “insightful and very innovative.” George paused for a split second and said, “This is so devastating.” Robin Roberts, who must have been in a particularly truthful sort of mood, closed the segment by saying, “This story is far from over.”
