“We’re live in three minutes? OK.” He quickly slicks his hair back, checking for flaws in the reflection of the news van. He practices his introduction, “Hello everyone! It’s your favorite Channel Five reporter, coming to you live at the entrance of the much-discussed Happy Beginnings school.” The news crew approaches from multiple angles: cameramen move smoothly, focusing the cameras’ views on the reporter; the reporter peers over his shoulder as he backtracks to dodge hazards. Children scatter as they are antagonized by the crew, although one child is isolated from the pack, crouching sheepishly as if accepting his fate. The reporter snaps commands while he approaches his prey, “Move that cable over there—yes, there, goddamnit!” The man flirts a flaccid smile at the child before insisting, “Make sure that you’re on my left—other left! Yes, there we are. You understand English, right?” The boy begrudgingly allows the man to steer his body into position, staring longingly at the other children who crowd against the playground fence, observing the commotion. “Have you ever been on TV before? It’s all right. Come here. I have a secret.” He beckons and crouches low enough for his knees to pop so that they are eye level. The reporter straightens his hair while he explains, “Be honest with yourself. Your friends out there… They’re not here for you. They’re here for me!” He guffaws, then grows jokingly stern, “That means I need to put on my serious face. You?” He painfully pinches the boy’s nose, but in an overtly exaggerated manner to portray playfulness. “You’re free to make whatever fucking, sorry, pretty face you want! Cuteness is my only criterion. My god, look at that, though; your face fits the part naturally!” He flicks the boy’s nose. “At my age, it’s more effort for me to light up that camera.” After ruffling the boy’s hair vigorously, he concludes, “But, there’s nothing for you to worry about!” The boy looks slowly up at the sky and closes his eyes, feeling the breeze gently blow his hair. The man responds by pulling the boy towards him, wrapping his arms around his neck like a wrestler about to pull their opponent into submission. “S’alright, son. It’ll be over soon.” The cameras descend from all angles with blinking lights. The camera closest to the pair flashes between yellow and green. “We’re live in T-minus five, four, three…” The cameraman’s fingers descend, one by one, until they point at the pair. The interview begins.
A strange, foreboding jingle begins. The man shouts, “Welcome back to Channel Five! America’s favorite channel. Today, we’re chatting with a student about the events at his school, Happy Beginnings. Can you tell us more?” The boy stares forward with a firm expression. To build anticipation, the sound crew intensifies the music, which, at this point, burps and chirps like demonic frogs during mating season. The reporter holds his ground—his grin growing more forced; his lips stretching further away from his teeth, exposing his gums. “Come on, son! Don’t be shy! We want to hear your story!” The boy’s eyes move slowly until they stare straight into the camera. After a moment of consideration, he begins to speak—although in perfect Spanish. The reporter takes a step back and laughs, his eyes flickering quickly between the interviewee and the camera; the camera continues consuming the moment—its large, unblinking eye sending the pair into space, where they are surrounded by advertisements and headlines from billions of benefactors. The boy’s tone changes as he continues sharing his story. His words sound strange and foreign, but oddly tonal—it’s now Mandarin Chinese. The reporter’s eyes rest on the child; they are unblinking, glassy, and dry. The crew is also transfixed by the child’s speech. There is no guidance from corporate about how to navigate the situation. The child continues with his strange musings, now in German, now French. Soon, multiple languages are jumbled within the same sentence as he urgently proceeds with his message. But the boy knows exactly what he’s saying, still staring straight into the camera’s cold, metallic eye. The backing track changes into darker melodies echoing the boy’s foreboding tone. Meanwhile, the other children are silent as they watch him speak; some nod in agreement; others cry quietly. Others even smile: their story, in at least some capacity, is available for others to spend many sleepless nights attempting to crack; their hands bleeding, tools blunted, prying tirelessly against its hard shell. If only they had been awake to see how the shell sealed itself.
The music grows more wondrous and celebratory as the boy shifts his explanation into a combination of many African dialects: Swahili, Amharic, Amari—too many to name. He points from child to child as he resolutely explains their position. At this point, the reporter’s mind is whirling and almost too muggy to comprehend much of anything. The camera continues gazing unflinchingly at the pair. On television, the longer audiences stare, the more each person appears misshapen—an effect where the familiar appears uncanny if watched closely for too long. The boy is now larger than the reporter, speaking his message into the digital realm as the music transforms into a beautiful, crystalline wall of sound. His words wash over his audience’s collective consciousness, reverberating against their eardrums until they lose their shape, forming a glistening, sparkling soundscape that echoes into oblivion.
The children listening to his message begin to cheer and shout encouragement. “Tell them! Tell them how it is here for us! What it’s like! How we feel! How they can make it better! Tell them!”
The boy continues, but with an element of finality. His language no longer resembles any known language. It’s a new rhetoric, forged over years of experiences much like the current one: A watchful eye continues recording their moment, which never seems to end. That is, until it does.
The reporter climbs back into his van with his crew. Everyone is dazed, unsure about the situation or what they need to do. Corporate still hasn’t confirmed whether their broadcast ever went live. The reporter takes a short, ragged breath and stares out the open back doors. Outside, a brilliant, blinding light shines into the van; despite that, things are beginning to take form, materializing into coherent shapes: children running towards the van, their hands outstretched. Some have their hands and feet alternate positions as they do somersaults. The reporter shouts, “Close the doors! Close ‘em now!” So they do. The van’s sterile interior lights flicker on as the vehicle’s engine revs up. Children thump their hands against the sides of the van as they pass, causing a momentous crescendo: a herd of wildebeest jumbling against each other and the van as they carry forward into the unknown.