This morning while drinking my coffee I absently scrolled through some TikTok videos. One caught my interest, which is why I am writing this post now.
In the video the woman is talking about a hateful homophobic comment someone left on one of her prior videos. She made a video response to the hateful comment—the type of video response that puts a screenshot of the comment she’s responding to at the top of her video. By doing this, even if the hateful commentor decides to delete what he wrote, it doesn’t remove the comment from the internet, because it is now on the top of someone else’s video, along with the hateful commentor’s profile information and picture.
There are countless internet vigilantes capable of finding real life personal information about someone by just a snippet of a public profile, even when that user doesn’t use a real name or photo. I’ve seen it happen countless times. It can be awkward when the hateful commentor’s employer or mother receives a copy of the inappropriate comment, along with information showing the identity of its creator.
In the video I watched this morning, the woman said the commentor had sent her a private message, asking her to please remove her video. He had removed the comment, and he really didn’t want it out there on the internet. I think it was too late for him, she—and other vigilantes—had already identified not just him, but his family members.
So, how does any of this have anything to do with what my mother taught me 57 years ago? Did she tell me, if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all? Advice that would saved the commentor all this trouble?
No. Although my grandma did often say that. However, one definition to nice is agreeable, and I obviously do not aspire to always be agreeable on the internet. If you’ve read many of my posts, you will know that.
So, what advice did Mom give me?
I was in eighth grade at the time, thirteen years old. That age when a girl can be rather dramatic and in her soap opera stage of life, if you know, you know.
We had recently moved from our suburban home in Covina, California, to a remote location on the shores of Lake Havasu. The nearest community was Parker Dam, twelve miles away from Havasu Palms, where I lived. Most of those twelve miles was over a dirt road. There were no phones at Havasu Palms, except for my father’s mobile phone in his truck, that had a party line, with those sharing the party line primarily being farmers in the Parker, Arizona area.
I had left behind the friends I had known my entire life in the middle of my eighth grade. Going from a junior high school to an elementary school where our teacher was also the school’s principal was a cultural shock.
Not only didn’t I have a phone, there was no internet in those days, so I couldn’t text message or email friends back in Covina. There would be no video chats. But I wrote letters—many letters.
The school I attended was in the community of Parker Dam. In essence, Parker Dam was a company town, housing the employees from Metropolitan Water Department. It included the school, company owned houses, a baseball park, small market, and a tiny post office, where we received our mail.
During that year my sister, Lynn, who had graduated mid-term from high school to join our family on our new adventure and would be returning to Covina in the fall to start college, was the one to drive me over that dirt road each day so I could attend school. Mom always drove with us.
The highlight of every school day was picking up the mail at the post office. My friends were great about writing—and I always wrote them.
On this one day, when Mom and Lynn picked me up, Mom had an odd expression. When I got into the truck with them, I soon discovered the cause of her expression.
I had recently sent one of my friends a letter that was intended for her eyes only. I assumed she would be the only one to read it. It was not a letter a 13 year old would want parents to read. However, for some reason my friend’s mother got ahold of the letter, and she was not happy. She immediately wrote to my mother, including the letter I had written.
Did I get in trouble with Mom?
No. I didn’t. Mom understood how a 13 year old might write what I had written. She also understood that some things we think—or write about—are not things we want the world to know.
Mom used it as a teaching moment. Her lesson to me that day was basically, never write something down you would not want everyone to read. There is never a guarantee your words will only reach their intended target.
Mom was right. And it applies to what we write on the Internet.
Another way to look at this, be prepared to own your words.
