Most of us have a complicated relationship with death. And the same goes — more and more these days — for social media. With that in mind, it might come as no surprise that KJZZ contributor Robrt Pela has something to say about Facebook posts and the afterlife.
So, this is nothing to be proud of. But every time I see someone post a message to a dead person on Facebook, I have to resist the urge to throw my phone into traffic.
I don’t mean the gentle, reflective posts — “Thinking of Mom today” — which are perfectly sane and, frankly, something I’ve done myself from time to time. I mean the posts that are directly addressed to dead people. The “Happy heavenly birthday, Uncle Stan! I hope you’re eating cake with the angels!” posts, written as though Uncle Stan is up there refreshing his feed between harp lessons.
I read these and think: Do the authors of these posts imagine the dead are on social media? Are there push notifications in the afterlife? “Your granddaughter tagged you in a memory from 2014.” Is there a ghostly version of Instant Messenger where Grandma can “heart” your tribute from beyond the veil? And if so, what’s the Wi-Fi situation up there? Is it better than mine?
If so, I’m going to be annoyed.
And if the dead really are reading social media posts, can they also see the rest of what we’re posting? The political rants? The vacation photos? The memes about cute kittens? Is that really what we want for them in eternity? My Aunt Lucille, a paralegal who spent her entire life policing impropriety, would be horrified to discover what her descendants are up to on Instagram. She’d be filing celestial complaints.
What gets me most is the tone of these posts. They’re always so earnest, as if the deceased are just temporarily offline. “Dad, I miss you every day. I know you’re watching over me.” Watching over you? This man couldn’t figure out how to use the television remote when he was alive. Now he’s monitoring your digital footprint from the astral plane?
And then there are the comments. “She’s smiling down at you.” Or “They’re reading every word.” Are they? Because if the dead are reading every word, then half the people I’ve buried have seen some things I’d prefer they hadn’t. I don’t need my late grandmother scrolling past my snarky posts about the neighbors or the photo of me in a tank top I should never have worn.
I know. It’s grief. It’s ritual. It’s the modern version of talking to a headstone. But at least the headstone doesn’t pretend to be interactive. No one leaves a bouquet and waits for the tombstone to comment, “Thanks, sweetie. Love you more.”
What really bothers me is that these messages are written to the dead but very clearly meant for the living. It’s grief as public content, optimized for engagement. A kind of emotional SEO. And I’m supposed to scroll past without wondering whether we’ve all quietly agreed to pretend that heaven has a data plan.
Because every birthday, every death anniversary, every holiday offers another post addressed to the deceased, as though they’re saying, “Oh good, it’s March 12. I hope someone posts a blurry photo of me from 1978 with a caption about how heaven gained an angel.”
Yeah, I got it. I’m a crank — someone who doesn’t understand how we mourn now, in this era where everything — joy, outrage, breakfast — is meant to be shared. Maybe this is just what grief looks like in the age of algorithms. But I can’t help thinking that if the dead really could read Facebook, they’d tell us to knock it off. They’d say, “Sweetheart, I’m fine. I don’t need a post. Call your sister. Log off and go read a book.”
I just can’t believe that dead people are sitting on clouds, scrolling their social media feeds. But clearly the living are. Which I suppose is the point. Maybe these posts aren’t for the dead at all. Maybe they’re for us—folks trying to make sense of loss in a world where even grief has to be public, polished, and posted.
Still, I can’t help imagining some celestial tech support line. “Thank you for calling Heaven Help Desk. If you’re trying to access your earthly Facebook account, press 1. If you’re having trouble logging in because you’re dead, press 2.”
In which case, I suppose, Aunt Lucille is on hold, listening to harp music, wondering why people keep tagging her in things.
-
Blaise Lantana, who has been KJZZ’s music director these past 32 years, is leaving the airwaves. -
KJZZ contributor Robrt Pela headed to Space 55 Theatre last weekend, to look at a play about, among other things, the gentrification of downtown Phoenix. He’s got some thoughts. -
As usual, KJZZ contributor Robrt Pela has something on his mind. This time, it’s about the growing trend in what Pela calls “cyber begging.” He’s not a fan of the GoFundMe posts he’s seeing more and more of these days. -
The Valley has a well-earned reputation as a place that doesn't always honor its past. But Robrt Pela has a different story about one beloved spot. -
KJZZ contributor Robrt Pela has been going to Durant’s for decades. About a year ago, he joined us in studio in the wake of news that the restaurant would be closing temporarily. After 75 years, it had been sold to new owners — the Mastro family, who own a couple other steakhouses in Phoenix.
