/An election of historic proportions is taking place right now. As early polling and mail ins have been opened to record turnouts, the political scene is as active as ever. However, I am not old enough to vote yet, and this time around I am feeling somewhat relieved that it is not my duty to pick between what will ultimately be the lesser of two evils. However, the time will eventually come when I am called upon to fulfill my responsibility as an American citizen and decide what is right for the country, in my own eyes. Therefore I have been examining the issue thoroughly, and one thing I have found disturbing is such widespread misinformation, misinterpretation of information, and unwavering revolution of identity around a certain political party to the point of blatant disregard for the rights of fellow human beings. People blindly follow, and are therefore blindly influenced. This unfortunate affirmation also applies to the gravely important internet cults of celebrity so commonplace today. Desperate to abide by the status quo of their respective communities, people en masse willingly sacrifice individuality in order to thoroughly align themselves with standards of certain factions. In some of these cult-like followings, leaders (often recklessly) wield the influence to dictate mainstream popularity in all sectors- fashion, music, other people, even science and politics. Considering the incredulous followings some of these leaders possess, millions of theoretical votes are potentially a single check away. The platforms they use to entertain their fanbases- Twitter, TikTok, Instagram- all grant the ability to convey any message at any instant. It’s truly frightening how much instant sway over their fans these “influencers” have. The exigence of the matter is that there is an election taking place as I write this piece, and “influencers” have the power to determine the outcome of the election. An alarming implication indeed, but due to America’s own ppolicy supporting the basic human right of free speech, there is no way to intervenestand in the way of their objectives.

In Nazi Germany, Hitler developed an extensive department of propaganda during his rise to power and under his rule. Films, posters, books, comics, and countless other forms of media employed by the Nazi regime are the reason an entire country with a population of millions was able to despicably unite against observers of the Jewish religion. The vast majority of Nazi propaganda served the purpose of vilifying Jewish citizens, as well as glorifying Hitler. The volume of his repugnant, nauseating crimes was only matched by that of his celebrity. When pop culture is invariably dominated by certain ideals, be it in the realm of beauty or racial politics, the majority of consumers tend to accept those ideals as simple truths or standards. In some ways, this change can be beneficial, for example–take the evolution of female beauty standards. Today, we live in a world in which a more body positive approach to appearance is becoming the norm in trending media, which can truly significantly improve mental health, body image and eating habits for those who struggle with them. However, evidenced by one of the worst genocides in human history, domination of mainstream culture by a certain common belief can also prove catastrophic. 

In 2020, as aforementioned, “influencers” who entertain hundreds of millions of fans possesshold undisputed governance of the media industry. In 1939, the population of Nazi Germany was 79 million. Ariana Grande has 204 million Instagram followers. Unsurprisingly, Grande’s style has become the blueprint for many aspiring pop musicians, and the industry has experienced multiple paradigm shifts in accordance with her varying approach to music. David Beckham (241 million Instagram followers), Kylie Jenner (198 million), and The Rock (201 million) have all had similar influences on their respective sectors, football, beauty, and cinema. Billion-dollar industries bend and fluctuate to best satisfy the overwhelming buying power of these social media moguls’ gargantuan fanbases, so evidently their sheer volume must be enough to make a mark on the political landscape? It would appear so.

On September 28, Kylie Jenner posted a picture imploring her followers to vote, linking a registration tool in her profile. A spokesperson for the website reported a 1500% increase in usage of the tool to register. Following Jenner’s post, a wave of other influencers followed suit. In previous elections, Oprah (arguably the first true celebrity “influencer”)’s endorsement of Obama’s presidential campaign was the closest thing comparable to the amount of political activism in the mainstream today. However, as apps like TikTok and Instagram have become the mainstream over daytime talk shows, a younger, larger, more politically involved generation has become the primary consumer of culture. Make no mistake, the incredible power these “influencer= incredible clout “influencers” possess has already influenced affected the election, as all-time record early voting turnouts have occurred nationwide. already broken the total for all early voting in 2016 nationwide by several million. The fact that this this year, voting is occurring during a global pandemic where going out for anything period is at an all-time low, only makes those numbers even more of an anomaly. Now as the obvious effect of “influencer culture” can be observed on politics, American “influencers” have a responsibility to make sure they exercise their rights in an accountable manner. On the more reckless side of the spectrum, some “influencers”, such as Tana Mongeau, who boasts a whopping 5 million Instagram followers, have participated in illegal vote-buying, such as her one-day #bootyforbiden event. During this questionable venture, Mongeau promised to send followers a “booty pic” through her OnlyFans (paid-subscription content site) in exchange for a picture of their ballot indicating a vote for Joe Biden, the 2020 Democratic Candidate. She later remarked that she had received “tens of thousands” of OnlyFans messages indicating a ballot vote for Biden in a single day. The closest state vote margin in the 2016 election took place in the “swing state” of Michigan, where the difference was 13,080 votes. 8 of the 10 closest state margins were less than 100,000.

While Mongeau’s stunt may have had significant enough of an impact to win over several states, she will be facing zero repercussions. Due to the sheer volume and inherent anonymity of the activity taking place in her scheme, her effect on the election is practically untraceable. While 5M followers is an impressive number, it pales in comparison to the 200 million of the top 5 most followed celebrities on Instagram. When multiplied to relative scale, the average potential votes drawn in by the top 10 most followed “influencers” on Instagram would be a minimum of ~370,000 each and a maximum of ~3,650,000 each in a single day, in the case of a similar campaign to Mongeau’s. Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 election by around 2,800,000 votes. The maximum combined average potential votes from the top 10 “influencers” aforementioned would be around 40,000,000 in a single day. The total number of votes counted in the 2016 election nationwide was 60,000,000. 

Needless to say, the power of democracy truly lies in the hands of these “influencers”.

Americans are and have been facing dire times

 in the past few years, from reckless national leadership, to extensive wildfires caused by climate change, to a police brutality epidemic, to a viral global pandemic. We must seek to replace leadership how we see fit in the tumultuous present, and stand with those we trust in unity for what we believe in. However, we also need to keep in mind the cautionary tale of Nazi Germany’s elections in the wake of their own troubles, and be wary of wicked men with who disguise themselves as saints. We must stay informed by reliable sources on our own accord before making decisions, and not choose our leaders solely based on a pop culture craze.

November 8, 2019. The Section XI State Qualifier meet. The Suffolk County championship race. My last cross country race wearing a Miller Place uniform. The team arrives at Sunken Meadow State Park, ready for the race. This could be our last race together, ever. Me and my teammates, my friends, my second family. Our thoughts fixate on the racechampionship. The usual, tensely effervescent atmosphere before any important racebattle draws us all into the present while permitting just enough collective anxiety for us to remember our purpose for the day, the hour, and now the nineteen minutes ahead of us. As I approach the starting line one last time, nervous and determined, I take everything in. One last breath. I cling to the moment like a splinter on a sweater. I love this team and I love this sport, but most importantly, I love this place. Sunken Meadow has always been there, constant every fall, through changing teammates and girlfriends and PRs and weight and life lessons. This is the place that has raised me for the past four years, the past four seasons, and there I stand in athletic stance; nostalgic, reminiscing, and ready to traverse its winding, awesome, beautiful path one last time. Without the path ahead of me, without the park surrounding me, I would not be the person I am today.

Sunken Meadow is a moment in time, flash frozen in ethereal autumnal pulchritude. I have never seen it during any other season, and I hope I never have to. The chilly, 38 degree breezy weather accentuates the perpetual rustling and crunching of frosty, russet oak leaves on the way to the “secret bathrooms”. Rosy noses and fluttering stomachs make their way through all the usual motions, all the pre-race rituals and pertinent routines. Our team strolls in stride past the flat areas as runners from Smithtown and Harborfields begin their warm-ups, crossing paths with a bit of mostly passive yet intensely curious side-eye. Everything is in constant motion at Sunken Meadow, and as pebbles roll a few paces ahead of my team across the asphalt parking lot, the surrounding coliseum of red-tinted woodland is swayed by the breeze. Even the wind is itching to put on a show, swirling baby leaf tornadoes at our feet. Chain-link fence surrounds the area, the torn holes a tunnel to another world entirely. Through them we can see buses arriving, traversing a journey of their own over the river, racing to escort hopeful runners to a race of their own. As my team exits the parking lot and follows the still-asphalt path up the hill ahead of us, our world widens. Expansive meadows stretch for about a mile in each direction, peppered with trees stripped bare. The battered, sandy 5k course we all know so well lay in front of us in a rare semicircle, concealing the true nature of the course. Unruly, eccentric twists and turns taunt us behind our backs, yet we remain unfazed on our path towards the building, our “secret bathroom”, on the hill. As we approach it, momentsmemories flash by in my memoryhead. That tree to the left takes me back to Division Championships freshman year when I took a hilarious picture of my favorite seniors failing to climb it. Despite the best attempts of me and Riverhead’s entire JV team my sophomore year, that log on the right hasn’t been moved since the day I first saw it. These memoriesevocations, all so lucid and overwhelming, surround and encapsulate the building like an aura, a powerful aura of nostalgia and emotion that connects with my soul. 

On our way back, the path is crowded now. Amongst a fall festival of vibrant jerseys, our warmup begins. We trek across the wood bridge over the river, into the starting area. The 800 meter long, 200 runner wide zone to the left stands in stark contrast to the bus lot to the right. However, we see past both, and pass by to the boardwalk. Sunken Meadow holds such strong importance in the world of cross country that it is hard to believe it is actually a state park/beach sometimes, but on the boardwalk the two worlds collide. Elderly couples trudging at a painfully slow tempo bundled in scarves fluttering rapidly in rhythm with the howling, freezing wind juxtapose the young athletes in sleeveless tank uniforms racing down the mile long stretch. Beyond them lay rocky north shore sand spilling into the cool blue expanse of the Sound. We march in unison towards the little pocket on the edge of the boardwalk with a wood-carved map of the north shore. It is about halfway down, covered by a roof and has little benches. This spot is our spot. We finish the first half of our warmup there and begin to stretch. It dawns on me that without realizing it, I have stretched here for every single race I have ever ran. Other teams may have had faster runners than us, but we had a special way of making things our own, finding little ways to etch our niche into the park and sport as a whole. Ways that brought us closer to the nature around us, to becoming one with it. You forget that your race is in 40 minutes, and the sparsely dusted leaves around you, the foamy shore in front of you, the Ipe wood beneath your feet, and the naked trees, battered by the breeze behind your back, become your home. Instead of heading back to the bus, we stride towards the far end of the parking lot, where we leave the world of man behind and make our way up the creek, approaching the edge of state territory and almost to the edge of the sound. There, we say a prayer to “Neil Rickenbacker”. I like to think of Neil as the essence of Sunken Meadow, incarnate. It is a silly tradition implemented my freshman year, nonetheless onea tradition I have grown to love. When it is my turn to lead the discussion, I thank Neil for an incredible high school career, onea career that has taught me lots about running, but so much more about myself. I tell Neil and the friends in a circle around me that I couldn’t ever possibly stress enough how lucky I am to have had the best season of my life running alongside my little brother and a team I love so much. I thank Neil and I thank Sunken Meadow.
As the race begins, I feel the best I have ever felt. I am presently aware and feel at one withmyself become the picturesque course around me, an unspeakable feeling, an emotion, a sixth sense. As I pass the familiar landmarks of the course, Snake Hill, the moat along the creek, the open meadow past the secret bathrooms, nationally-dreaded, and ever-sandy Cardiac Hill, I recall so many of the memories so crucial to my identity and development made at those exact spots. The memoriesy fuel me to the fastest I have ever ran, and as I approach the final open stretch one last time, I leave enough of them behind so that the Meadow remembers me just as I remember it. I feel as much a part of Sunken Meadow as it is of me. I pass the finishing line to the pleasure of one last PR on the LCD display and give my coach a big hug. I look around and feel content in the moment of my final farewell to Sunken Meadow. It has raised me well, and now it is sending me off into the next chapter of my life.