By 2065, it's estimated that Facebook profiles of the dead will outnumber profiles of the living. I can’t be the only one who finds that unsettling.
 
When my friend Brent died in his sleep in 2005, Facebook was still a yacht-measuring contest on Ivy League campuses, and My Space was peopled by your cousin’s garage band and that dude in high-school who still plays D&D. 
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The only way I could determine the truth of his passing was through word-of-mouth. Because I saw friends shaking in each other's arms, saw the cut-to-the-bone grief on the reddened faces of his family, because I baked cookies for his funeral, his death was made real.

​I had closure, if not healing. 

​But times have changed.
 
Last Saturday, my friend Jeff from high school died of a massive heart attack. We were in a comedy troupe together, and I’d seen him a handful of times since graduation. I followed him on Facebook as he became a talented visual artist. But my favorite memory of him was high school biology class.
 
There were four of us in this lab group. Three of them swirled about in the upper-echelons of popularity: a female soccer star; a male blonde-hair, blue-eyed, slightly tanned, dimpled paragon of Americana; and Jeff, a footballer, incredibly funny, and I believe voted part of the homecoming court.

And then there was me.

​Oh, I wasn’t dorky enough to be picked on, but I also wasn't part of their scene and thus generally not worth their time. Not in a malicious way, just in that way America (used to?) patronize Canada. Only noticed when pointed out. Or when they get cheaper epi-pens.
 
But Jeff would have none of this. Jeff treated me to the bear hug that was his personality, enfolding me in his graces without prejudice. And the rest of that lab group followed his lead – and maybe I did too. Maybe I had some assumptions about the “Heathers” of my high school that needed to be broken down by this jolly, kind, mass of teenager.
 
But, when Jeff died, unlike Brent, there was no closure, no reality of demise. And it's Facebook's fault.

​Because our adult relationship is mediated through digital means, and ultimately, being the Breakfast Clubby Gen-Xer that I am, digital is both real and unreal. And thus the fact of his death is both real and unreal as well.  

​Yes, a bunch of Jeff’s friends have posted heartfelt goodbyes on his FB page. Yes, many of us have changed our profile pictures to one of his art pieces. And yes, the stark post announcing the stopping of his heart and of his life is right there on his page. But the struggle to find closure, the struggle to truly believe he is gone, continues because his page continues.
 
Right there is a snarky political post from two days before he died - here he was tagged in a photo - over here, an ad for his upcoming art show…. He’s not gone, he’s just gone digital.
 
I hazard a guess Millennials feel differently – the whole “it’s not real until it’s Facebook real” would perhaps give them the closure I seek. And perhaps not. Perhaps there are swaths of we under 50's who are caught in the “denial” stage of grief, bouncing between it and depression, never able to reach acceptance, because our loved one’s are still staring us in the face…book. 

​There’s a fantastic episode of the show Black Mirror with Hayley Atwell where Atwell’s character encounters a new service that compiles all the digital data available on her dead loved one and is able, from that data, to produce a computerized voice version of that person, which the living person can then talk to on the phone. The “person” sounds just like the deceased, answers back with the same inflection, same inside jokes. I won’t spoil the ending, but on the surface, this seems like an appealing development. What I wouldn’t give to, say, hear my Nana laugh one more time.
 
And yet, what the episode explores, and what I’m puzzling with here, is whether, in the end, we are served by this immortalization or harmed by it. If we can’t ever move on from the space of denial and depression to acceptance, can we ever fully function in our every day lives again? And would our passed loved ones want us to remain in this purgatory?

​I still get random spam from Brent’s email address sometimes – his family either doesn’t know how, or doesn’t want, to shut down his account. I don’t know if I would have the strength to take one down of my husband or my child, either. It was bad enough deleting my Nana’s phone number – I wept openly, in public. But a page, a blog an Instagram? It would be like erasing them completely. Control-alt-deleting their existence.
 
And yet there can be a dignity in deletion. I know I wouldn’t want my social media preserved forever and ever amen. I’ve said and done some embarrassing, mundane, poorly executed and now all recorded, things in my life. I don’t want these cemented in the minds of my loved ones. Heck, I even cringe sometimes at the Facebook “memory” posts that pop up every day. Did I really say that? Did I really wear my hair like that? 

​Of course there’s the good stuff too, but just like having to go through a beloved’s belongings - their clothes, their trinkets - perhaps we should just save out the jewels of our social media lives too, like my grandpa’s old maroon sweater that after nearly thirty years I still wrap myself in on a rainy Sunday, or the charm bracelet of my Nana’s that I wear when I want to feel confident. Save out the very best, most special things, and let the rest, rest.

Every once in awhile I want to write back to those jarring emails from Brent. "How you doin' bud? We miss you down here." And I've been checking Jeff's page every day. Almost as if I'm checking to see if his death is still true, like watching Titanic and thinking this time the boat won't sink.



​But it always does, and they're both always still just as lost to me. 
 
I guess, in the end, I'll put my passwords in my will.

I was honored to be a part of Elizabeth Ogle's photography series Authors: Stories Behind the Books. Her blog captures her work as well as an interview with me about writing...and there just may be a little hidden reveal in there for all you Realm series fans...Enjoy! 

Do you hear that sound? It’s the sound of thousands of hipster parents grabbing their neck beards in horror, downing mason jars of locally distilled whiskey, unable to show their faces at the free-range parenting play date. “Why’d we name our son Atticus????”

Today, Go Set a Watchman, the much-anticipated pair to our beloved To Kill A Mockbird, hit the shelves. And the book, it turns out, well, it might make Boo Radley come out of hiding, simply to shake his head.

Apparently, in this new, but actually really old, book, Atticus Finch, the archetype of all that is good and holy for liberal-minded white people and first-year law students alike, turns out to be a racist. And not just any racist, blissfully unaware of his privilege to drive a car and not be pulled over or shot at, but a bitter, angry one. He's joined the KKK. He says things like, “Negroes down here are still in their childhood as a people.” He reads pamphlets titled, “The Black Plague.” It’s kind of like if Jean Valjean turned out to be a pedophile.

Thankfully, for all of us with white-guilt fueled outrage, Scout at least, basically equates her father’s ideas to Hitler. Phew!

But before our dearly held characters are decimated, let’s keep a couple things in mind.

My advice? Pretend in your mind that Harper Lee didn’t write this. Pretend the characters are wholly other than those you’ve come to name your children after. Sort of like how, if you pretend M. Night Shyamalan didn’t write and direct The Village, The Village is actually a pretty good movie, instead of you just wanting it to be The Sixth Sense all over again.

Take it on it's own merit, unclouded by the years of adulation heaped upon its predecessor. 

And try not to fixate on Atticus. These are Scout’s stories after all. And Scout, now Jean Louise, is a woman before her time, heart reaching for the not-yet second wave of feminism, that will still only pay her seventy cents on the dollar to a man, but where she’ll at least she be able to actually hold a job by her own merit. Until she wants to have a family. But let’s not go there right now.

Think of this story as an interesting exploration of the struggles with racism and sexism we still have today, now much more hidden, and perhaps because so, now much more insidious. Use it as a springboard for further change toward reconciliation, restitution, and justice. 

But do, please, stop naming your children Atticus.