On the spread of news, and saying goodbye
It gets a little strange sometimes, living in the future.
My news — that is to say real news, about the world I actually live in, the news that comes by word-of-mouth, concerning people and places I care about, rather than political arguments in countries where I have never lived — my news comes most often from social networking these days. Friends say things online, for most usually on Twitter or Facebook.
In the past, this information would have travelled verbally, for the most part — face-to-face, or by telephone. “Have you heard?”, a friend would say. Perhaps they would write a letter.
Today, that news travels by Twitter, at what sometimes seems like light speed. An engagement, illness or death would once have been published in a newspaper, allowing time for the news to spread in a more organic fashion. Social networking has flipped the new spreading on its head, outpacing the more personal word-of-mouth.
I learned yesterday that a friend from high school, Mark Purvis, died on December 28th. I learned this through Facebook — the first time a non-celebrity death had come to my attention through social media, rather than old-fashioned word of mouth.
It’s strange, on many levels. The means by which the news comes to me just adds to the strangeness of the whole thing. But it’s also strange to imagine somebody like Mark to be lifeless — a person who was as full of life as one could possibly be. As I understand is often the case these days, Mark’s Facebook page has become a memorial, with people sharing thoughts and memories there.
I’m not good at sharing my thoughts at times like these — which might seem strange, given that I am publishing them here, right now. I focus them inwards, or focus my attention away from the emotions involved, towards esoteric, intellectual questions which are raised by the situation at hand, and most often tangential to it. It does not seem right to but them into Mark’s space, on his Facebook wall. I do not imagine that they would give comfort there.
The tangential question resonating in my mind at present: Is this strangeness of delivery a good thing? Or a bad thing?
As a society — perhaps as a species — we often resist change. We are tempted to label things that are unfamiliar or different as being “bad”. In this situation, it is quite tempting to do so — it feels strange to receive such an emotionally heavy message in this fashion, and the message itself induces a strong negative reaction. It is only natural to associate the emotion with the medium. To shoot the messenger.
But the medium allows an immediate and widespread delivery of the message, perhaps reducing the amount of awkwardness and unpleasantness associated with the spread of bad news.
The sender of the message does not need to repeat it until they are numb. They do not have to try to hold themselves together. They do not have to deal — directly — with hordes of people they barely know (if they know them at all) offering their condolences. They can skim over these.
Perhaps this is bad — perhaps this is part of coping with loss. Perhaps it is good. Perhaps it offers increased privacy, space and time for reflection.
Or perhaps virtual condolences can be dwelled in for a longer period of time than can verbal ones. Perhaps that is good. Or perhaps that encourages dwelling beyond what is healthy.
As somebody who received the message, I wonder how I would react right now if I had to speak to somebody who had remained close with Mark since school, or to a member of his family. Certainly, it removes a social awkwardness from my end, of not knowing what to say. I believe that the sadness I feel remains the same, either way, and cannot imagine that my condolences would be of much impact.
Finally, how much of the strangeness of a delivery via Facebook is due to the simple fact that somebody I know has died at such a young age? Much, I think.
Rest in peace, Mark. I wish I had known you better.
