Navigating Trust and Authenticity in the Age of Participatory Social Media
Dealing With My Zombie Facebook Account
A notification appeared on my phone: "You have a new friend request," the email from Facebook read. The name attached to the request belonged to someone who had once been a part of my daily life—a presence that had faded abruptly. Our last interaction had been charged with an energy I couldn't quite define, the air thick with things left unsaid. Without trying to sound too melodramatic, it hurt when this person was no longer in my life. Now, this digital ghost interrupted my carefully constructed present, challenging the precarious balance I’ve created for myself.
My Facebook account had lain dormant for years, a digital relic of a past self. I had stepped away from the platform, abandoning a curated online persona that no longer aligned with who I'd become. This digital time capsule existed in limbo—neither active nor deleted. The unexpected friend request had suddenly reanimated it, prompting me to confront not just my digital past but also the personal history I'd left unresolved.
Digital lives are complex. In many ways, my situation seemed at odds with Henry Jenkins' concept of participatory culture1, which emphasizes active engagement in digital spaces. Jenkins describes participatory culture as having low barriers to artistic expression and civic engagement, strong support for creating and sharing, and informal mentorship. Yet here I was, a dormant user suddenly thrust back into this digital ecosystem.
My prolonged absence had left me out of touch with the platform's evolving norms and features, illustrating what Jenkins calls the "participation gap"—the unequal access to opportunities, experiences, skills, and knowledge that prepare one for full participation in the digital world. I found myself wondering: How would I navigate this space after being away for so long? What unspoken rules, cultural norms, or new features had I missed?
My situation seemed to exist in a liminal space between presence and absence, participation and withdrawal.
This situation also brought to mind Bonnie Nardi and Vicki O'Day's concept of technological ecologies2. They describe digital platforms as complex environments shaped by both technological design and user behavior. In this context, Facebook wasn't just a website, but a dynamic ecosystem that had continued to evolve in my absence. Andrew Feenberg's theory of the social shaping of technology further illuminates this idea, suggesting that while technologies like Facebook shape our behavior, we as users also play a role in shaping these technologies through our use (or non-use) of them.
What happens if I bring my dormant account back to life? Katherine Hayles' work on digital embodiment3 took on new meaning as I realized that my digital self—frozen in time—was about to potentially re-enter this ecosystem. This static representation challenged Don Ihde's notion of human-technology relations, which typically assumes ongoing interaction. My situation seemed to exist in a liminal space between presence and absence, participation and withdrawal.
Sherry Turkle's research on online identity provided another lens through which to view my dilemma. Turkle argues that digital spaces allow for identity experimentation, but what happens when that experimentation is abruptly halted? The dissonance between my outdated digital presence and my current self highlighted the complex relationship between our physical and digital identities. I found myself grappling with questions of authenticity: Would accepting this request be an honest representation of who I am now, or would it perpetuate a version of myself that no longer exists?
These questions led me to consider Shannon Vallor's virtue ethics4 approach to technology. I found myself wrestling with virtues like courage, honesty, and authenticity. Would accepting this request be an act of bravery, facing a past I'd left behind? Or would it be more authentic to delete the account entirely? The digital version of my old self is not me. She is no longer real.
The ethics of care5, as developed by Nel Noddings, also came into play as I considered the impact of my decision on others. How might the persistence of my outdated digital information affect ongoing relationships and perceptions? If I were to reactivate my account, would I have an obligation to update it, to confront the past it represents? These questions challenged me to consider how we can foster genuine care and connection in digital spaces that are often characterized by superficial interactions.
Helen Nissenbaum's concept of contextual integrity provided yet another framework for understanding my situation. Nissenbaum argues that privacy is not about secrecy, but about the appropriate flow of information in a given context. By suddenly reintroducing myself into this digital narrative, was I disrupting the contextual integrity of my online presence? This scenario illustrated how social media platforms can force us to navigate complex social situations with limited control over our personal information.
It involved engaging with my past, addressing unresolved moments, and navigating the intersection of memory and technology.
As I weighed my options, I realized that the decision to reactivate or delete my account extended far beyond my digital presence. It involved engaging with my past, addressing unresolved moments, and navigating the intersection of memory and technology. The fact that Facebook's algorithms had surfaced this friend request after years of inactivity raised critical questions about the role of technology in shaping our social connections. How much of our online social lives is driven by our choices, and how much by algorithmic suggestions of what—or who—we've left behind?
I recognized that my dormant account represented more than just outdated information. It was a time capsule of relationships, experiences, and a version of myself that no longer existed. The friend request served as a bridge between past and present, inviting me to reconcile who I was with who I've become.
Maybe the most authentic response I could take wasn't a grand gesture or a definitive action, but a moment of acknowledgment. Acknowledgment of the time that's passed, the changes we've undergone, and the complexities of maintaining connections in a digital age.
This experience has reminded me that our online lives, like our offline ones, are a continual process of evolution and reflection. Whatever I choose—to accept, to delete, or to simply let the request linger—it will be a step towards aligning my digital presence with my current self. It's an ongoing journey of authenticity in an ever-changing digital landscape, one that challenges us to constantly reevaluate our relationship with technology and with each other.
Jenkins, H. (1992). Textual poachers: Television fans and participatory culture. Routledge.
