I’ve always loved history and, in particular, have always been fascinated with genealogy — the study of family lineages and history. I love learning about the everyday lives of my ancestors, and trying to figure out what they were like.
Did I get my weird sense of humor from some long-lost aunt or uncle? Where does my overwhelming — some say intimidating — beauty and humility come from? Certainly not my ugly-as-hell parents. Sometimes I wish Facebook had been around back in the olden days so I could get a sense of what my forefathers and mothers were really like.
But the other day I realized — with more than a trace of panic — that I am somebody’s ancestor. And I have a Facebook. And Twitter. And Pinterest. And email. And a Youtube account. And a blog. And a year’s worth of these columns.
If, in a 100 years, the Internet is still around (and who knows if it will be? It’s only been in existence for fewer than 20 years) will our offspring and our offspring’s offspring have access to all our online identities? With Facebook’s new timeline feature, will they be able to track the path of our whole life, like some sort of digital diary? From birth (of Facebook, at least) to our death? Facebook allows family members of deceased to request that a member’s page be “memorialized,” where the Wall is opened up for friends and family to post comments, but the account can no longer be logged into. There’s also an application out there called “If I Die” that allows users to write a final status to be posted in the event of their death. Are our social media pages going to be the new headstones?
It got me thinking about the kind of digital archive I’m going to leave for my future offspring. I post some pretty stupid stuff on Twitter. And I don’t mean stupid like “wow, that’s going to keep you from getting a job,” but just plain stupid stuff. Take this gem, for example: “Trying to incorporate the term ‘ruffians’ more into everyday conversation.” Or this one: “‘The only butt we speak of tonight is the butt of the human ass.’” In my defense, that last one was a quote from “30 Rock,” but my progeny aren’t going to know that! They’re just going to think that great-great-grandma McKenna was a big, fat idiot!
And what if, pray tell, they can somehow trace my relationship with their great-great-grandfather? Whose identity, I might add, is still unknown. He could be a total loser. I’m not sure I want future generations to know everything about him. Facebook unveiled that “see friendship” feature a couple years ago; wall posts and messages are going to be our generation’s love letters, and they are going to be preserved for as long as Facebook decides to be around. Yikes! The generations after us are going to be able to have an unprecedented look into our relationships, tracking when we began dating and when we broke up, and with whom. Perfect. I’m so glad that my romantic misadventures will be around for all time.
We’re always told that, with all our social media profiles, we’ve lost any semblance of private lives. I had never, until a few days ago, thought about the fact that that loss of privacy is going to extend until long after we’re gone.
Some states, including Oregon, have begun the process of enacting laws that protect a person’s digital assets in the event of their death. Estate planners are in the practice of establishing a virtual assets instruction letter (VAIL) that dictates how a person’s digital property is to be handled after they die. Some people choose to have all accounts deleted, allowing no one access to any emails or other forms of online communication. Others decide that they want to pass along all their digital property, like they would with journals or record collections.
Right now I’m a bit too overwhelmed to decide what I want to do with my online identities. And who knows, Facebook may blow up tomorrow and I won’t have to worry about any of this. But in the event that it doesn’t, perhaps I should jazz up my profiles a little bit, so as to appear more interesting to future genealogists. Maybe I’ll fake a couple of marriages or something, just to mess with their heads. I might “accidentally” Photoshop my face onto Beyonce’s body, or someone else equally bootylicious.
Whatever happens, this revelation certainly has gotten me thinking about my online identity. And it’s made me more determined than ever that videos of a certain 21st birthday can never be allowed on the Internet. Ever.
And for the record, my parents are wonderful, beautiful people. I don’t want my great-great-great-great-grandkids to think I’m a bitch.