Tucked away in the United Center during the Democratic National Convention, on the first and third levels of the concourse, hidden behind thin curtains and shielded from interlopers by security guards and guest lists, were two sizable lounge areas that welcomed the future. And only the future, please. You’ve probably seen the stats: The DNC had 50,000 credentialed participants, including 15,000 credentialed media. But behind those curtains were a subset of credentialed guests named Creators. There were only 200 of them. At the ends of their lanyards hung passes that read: “Creator.”
Some had only found their voice in politics in the past couple of years or so. Some had only graduated from high school in the past couple of years or so. Most didn’t see themselves as journalists per se, yet they do offer information. So they’re … Creators, though you know them better as “social-media influencers,” the newest class of media.
The DNC will leave Chicago soon.
But the influence from these influencers — that will go on.
For the first time, the DNC invited influencers to be credentialed alongside those from traditional media, such as newspapers, TV and other species of Jurassic-era influence. It’s part of Democrat efforts to reach young voters where they are — in front of TikTok, Instagram and YouTube. Also, it’s a lot easier to spread a consistent message when your messengers are unabashedly supportive. Cayana Mackey-Nance, director of digital strategy for the DNC, wrote in a statement: “Bringing creators to our convention will multiply our reach and ensure that everyone can witness democracy in action.” Or as one creator told CNN succinctly: “(Voters) trust us more than mainstream media.”
Probably.
But what exactly does this look like?
It looks like, on the second night of the DNC, Chris Mowrey, 22, of Atlanta, wearing an ice-blue suit and a black button-down shirt open at the collar, mingling in the Creator Lounge with peers, many of whom, to different stylish degrees, know they belong here. Most were Gen Z or millennials. Scrawled across one of the walls of the lounge was a kind of mission statement, a reminder of their purpose here: “Creators for Kamala.” Mowrey pointed around the room to several internet stars, some finally meeting each other IRL, and some catching up, and some fanboy and fangirling over favorite follows.
That woman there — one million followers.
That guy there — 10 million followers.
Collectively, the audience for the Creators in this lounge alone outstripped most legacy media groups. Mowrey himself has a comparatively meager 500,000 followers across social media platforms and only discovered his political voice in 2022. He explained:
“Really, the way this started was one day, randomly, I put down my phone in my car and started screaming passionately about politics. Friends have always known me as a raging liberal so I would post private stories on Instagram just for friends. One day I’m bored, I decided I going to post on TikTok and it kind of went viral. In 2022, during the midterms in Georgia, one of those first videos was me ranting about the Republican that Trump endorsed: Herschel Walker, a terrible guy, a mess. I was just ranting how (expletive) he was. Every day I posted something different, whatever was on my mind. But my main passion has really been just hating Donald Trump. I hate him so much.
“My main focus now is making sure Kamala Harris gets elected, and (the DNC) are very receptive to what we need, giving us access, interviews — just treating us like media.”
Nearby, at the Creator Lounge’s (open) bar, Olivia Julianna waited for her drink. She wore a purple suit, and around her neck hung another symbol of her status, even among fellow Creators, a badge reading: “Suite Level Access.” She’s 21, has more than one million social media followers, and as she once told TeenVogue, she’s a “plus-size queer Latina from rural Southeast Texas enrolled in community college classes.” She was also one of five Creators picked to give a speech on the floor. Many politicians and activists spend entire careers trying to secure that kind of A-list platform.
Asked if she thought of herself as a kind of journalist, she laughed and said, “I think of myself as a kind of Democratic Party operative,” then she added, “No, the ability to see the process here, and to comment on it as you watch the process? That means I get to open the process up to people who have no idea about it. Creators have very special connections that can make something like this so personal to people who follow them.”
Hence, being treated remarkably well.
Creators had these two lounges inside the United Center that offered open bars, free shaved prime rib sandwiches, free soft pretzels, free cookies, and lots of room to stretch. They had a dedicated perch on the convention floor for making fresh content. They had a snazzy “blue carpet” area set against a large curved video screen to shoot interviews. They got exclusive parties, but mainly: They got the kind of access to the United Center that many working journalists did not.
Sitting in a leather chair, reading his phone, was Jamel Franklin, a Chicago native relocated to Los Angeles. He wore a tangerine cap with “God Bless the South Side” in white lettering across the front. The day before, he attended a Creator yacht party on Lake Michigan and chatted with Gwen Walz, first lady of Minnesota, and Meena Harris, vice presidential niece. He had a packed schedule. He was headed to caucus meetings. His audience, he said, is largely young, Black and educated, and his content is a mix of politics, pop culture and wellness.
“Jaime Harrison (chair of the Democratic Party) came to talk to some of us the other day, and he said they’re investing in Creators, and because of that, some of the older press might seem a little … annoyed. But the way he put it, they weren’t doing more for Creators, they’re just giving us our own space, too.”
No, no, he was told, they were definitely doing more.
Indeed, tell a traditional journalist here scrounging for a phone cord or even an open electric socket for their laptop about the free prime rib and the arena access and the yacht parties, and they look stricken, unbelieving, but then understanding, resigned. At first, it could be somewhat hard to tell Creators from journalists here — many of both had a tendency to rush through crowds carrying folded tripods topped with cellphones.
But there’s only one Knowa De Baraso of Georgia. He’s 12 and possesses the kind of confidence most adults don’t show in their dreams. He has 30,000 followers on Twitter alone; he came to Chicago with his parents, a security detail and press agents. He said that the first thing that he does when he wakes up is Google the name “Kamala Harris.”
Earlier in the day, he said, he stopped Mike Lindell, the My Pillow guy (and Trump supporter), in the United Center. For his camera, De Baraso got into it with Lindell about 2020 Georgia election misinformation. “He disrespected me,” De Baraso said. “That’s OK. He didn’t have his facts and it showed. On Monday, I interviewed Charlie Kirk and I exposed him, too.” Specifically, De Baraso got the conservative activist to admit on camera he thought the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was a “mistake.” De Baraso has also met with Harris and President Joe Biden, both of whom, he notes, “remembered my name.”
Talk to enough Creators, though, and you realize it’s not the size of their audiences that landed them credentials, but rather the demographics of those audiences. AustinShow, an online personality with around four million followers who posts about show business, said: “People by now understand I am openly queer and openly passionate about LBGTQ rights, typically aligned with the Democratic Party,” and so the night before he was invited to a Creators-only warehouse party named “Hotties For Harris.” Sam Schwartz, a Florida influencer whose accounts focus on gun control, said, “I like to post the news when a Democrat delivers on something because a lot of young people believe Democrats don’t do anything.”
They’re really bad at promotion, he said.
In the Creator Lounge on the third level of the United Center, Abbie McAdams, 21, of Colorado, whose 8,000-ish social media followers made her one of the smaller Creators at the DNC, prepared her next posting at a long tall bar table across from the free pretzels. She is a self-described “menstrual equity advocate, focused on reproductive freedom and normalizing period experience — the things we’re told not to talk about in public.” She said that her TikTok following has grown three-fold during the DNC alone.
“Really, I’m not used to this treatment,” she said. “But I also don’t need to be wined and dined to go to something like this. I have been passionate about electoral politics, so all this is bonus. There’s like a Creator here for every cause and industry. I met the creators of a lesbian podcast. I met a Creator who just runs a meme account. It makes so much sense. Someone (for the DNC) was very intentional with all this, making sure that Creators could create while they were here. As far as I have seen, it also working.”
Between all the parties and meet-and-greets.
Julianna said she had been running around so much during the convention, she hadn’t really had time to post. Just a few selfies of her posing with governors and other elected officials. “The way I see it, you bank a ton of content while you are here, then later you release it. Everyone is posting from the DNC right now, but if I wait with material, in a few weeks, leading up to November 5, it’s all new again. You keep the momentum going.”
cborrelli@chicagotribune.com
