Rowan DuBois | staff writer

During the winter break, while sitting on the couch at my family’s house, I felt a familiar pull. It was the impatient tug of my younger cousin, who was pleading with me to come play with him, but I was troubled.

My other family members were sitting in the living room passing photographs around, and I wanted to be part of that, too.

“Ooh look at this one,” someone said, passing a photo.

“Doesn’t dad look handsome in this one?”

Many of the photographs featured my grandmother and grandfather, both of whom had passed away in the last year-and-a-half. One of the photos was of my grandfather receiving a Christmas present: a brand new New York Giants jersey. He looked so vibrant and young. He looked so different from the man I saw whither away in a hospital bed over the summer.

Eventually, I gave in to the requests of my cousin, and I tossed a football to him while he jumped on the trampoline trying to catch it. My mind, though, was elsewhere. It was on death. Earlier in the week, I had received other death-related news. One of my high school classmates had been shot dead in what detectives claimed was likely a drug deal “gone wrong.”

We weren’t close, and I wouldn’t have even called him my friend, but I went to a small school where everyone was close-knit. Thus, I still had memories of him.

I could distinctly recall what his laugh sounded like. I also remembered what his smile looked like, and what kind of clothes he liked to wear to school. I had known him, but now, there was no longer someone for me to know.

In the aftermath of his death, former classmates of mine were posting photos of him. They either posted photos that they had taken with him, or they simply reposted something from his Instagram profile.

The comments under his posts were flooded with messages. As I read them, I realized I was experiencing a relatively new phenomenon. This was the first time I had lost someone my age, someone with a digital footprint.

It was bizarre, really, and I didn’t know what to think of it at first. But, after looking at his page for a few minutes, I decided I was glad it was there. I had no pictures of him, but I was thankful to look through these.

A few days later, my classmates started sharing a GoFundMe raising money for his funeral service. The funds helped give people a chance to celebrate his life, a chance they might not have had without the help of distant friends online.

The phrase digital footprint is usually used negatively. Perhaps it reminds people of the cringe dance-videos they posted in seventh grade, the embarrassing songs on their Spotify Wrapped or the corny love poems hidden in their notes app.

Too rarely, though, is a digital footprint considered to be a gift.

Think of a voicemail from your grandma, her sweet voice telling you to be safe and that she misses you.

Think of a photo of your older sibling cradling you the day you were born, both of you too young to remember. Think of an email you wrote to your childhood friend who moved away, or think of your prom photos, the ones you will show to your kids when they want to know what you looked like at their age.

What about the digital photo album your family compiled for your grandfather’s memorial service? What about the home movies you made with your cousins, the ones you naively thought would be shown on the big screen someday? Intangible, maybe, but aren’t these some of our most valuable possessions?

A digital footprint, after all, is a footprint. It is proof of the places you have been and the mark you have left on those places. Right now, we are privileged to document the exact way we are feeling at any moment.

This privilege is unique to us. Our parents didn’t have nearly the same access, and our grandparents before them certainly didn’t. So, perhaps we should take advantage of it.

In our digital world, where the sentiment from our elders is often to put our phones away, scarcely do we look at a 15 year-old photo and say, “Man, I wish I had just put the camera down and enjoyed the moment.”

I am not saying that everyone must document every moment of their life like they are part of some kind of self-imposed, modern-day “Truman Show.” Instead, I ask that nobody delete their corny love poems, or their outdated Tik Toks. Because one day, you might want to look back at who you used to be, and whether or not it embarrasses you now, you might be grateful for it later.

Rowan DuBois can be reached at duboisr1@duq.edu