It Started Somewhere

Written by: Eric Hultgren

It started somewhere in the Midwest. A school millage failed, and a district couldn’t afford the things it needed. Nothing particularly surprising about that.

Then another one failed. And another.

Eventually, districts stopped putting them on the ballot. Taxpayers had made themselves clear. They wanted lower taxes, better schools, and a state championship. They were willing to pay for approximately none of those things.

They did, however, vote to have a portion of their tax refunds deposited directly into their Kalshi accounts.

The schools got desperate. Someone called it innovation.

They started producing Trapper Keepers. Yes, those Trapper Keepers. Except now Hollywood studios and other brands paid to put their characters on the covers. Every kid got one, starting in kindergarten.

Inside were little digital screens playing ads like the ones we used to tolerate at gas pumps. Except you couldn’t drive away from these. You had to take yours to algebra.

At first, it was breakfast cereal, chips, Nerds Gummy Clusters. The kinds of things kids already asked their parents to buy.

The district called it a partnership. Parents called it better than another tax increase. The company selling the ads called it access to an otherwise difficult-to-reach audience.

Everybody got something.

Except the money wasn’t enough to support the football team.

It took us a long time to admit this, but the football team was the part of the school we were most determined to save. We could share an art teacher with another district. The librarian could come on Tuesdays. Nobody suggested sharing a quarterback.

So the schools upped the ante.

As the kids got older, the ads grew up with them.

Vapes. Condoms. Plan B. ADHD medications. GLP-1s.

Whatever you were going through, somebody had bought the space next to your homework to sell you something for it.

It turns out that getting in front of a customer before they’ve figured out who they are is worth a lot of money. Companies had spent decades trying to get that kind of access to kids.

Now the school charged the device overnight.

Looking back, it seems obvious that this was a terrible idea. Surely there was a point when somebody should have said something.

There were plenty.

When reading scores fell and the district’s annual report led with the team’s playoff run.

When the guidance counselor position went unfilled, but the school hired someone to manage its brand partnerships.

When parents could pay to turn off the ads, and we all agreed that counted as a choice.

When the credit card companies disappeared because we were buying groceries with our Kalshi accounts.

But each of those things arrived with an explanation. A budget shortfall. A convenience. A temporary solution. Something we could revisit next year.

And instead of noticing where it was all going, we argued.

We argued over who you voted for. We argued over which football team you cheered for. We argued over what books belonged in the library while the library’s hours got cut again.

Everything had become a choice between two sides. You either were or you weren’t. You were with us or against us.

The human condition has never fit particularly well into those choices, but it was easy to turn into a national pasttime.

Ten years later, your child is carrying around an advertisement disguised as a study guide, and you finally look at it long enough to wonder:

“How did we get here?”

Then the crowd gets loud.

You look up.

Touchdown.