We're too young to be losing so many.

Someone I went to high school with died last week in a car accident. I found out on Twitter, and got a little more information on Facebook, and since we were never really friends, I pieced together the rest of the news online, too. Death in the age of social networking is still in its unprecedented phase. No one really knows what to do. I'm reminded of the article my professor and advisor, Dr. Elizabeth Stone, wrote for the Chronicle of Higher Education not long after the death of my friend and editor, Casey Feldman. I remember vividly the conversation many of the other editors had, where I pondered at what point it would be appropriate to take down my profile picture of Casey and me at our end-of-the-year party. Does taking it down mean I'm over it? Is it callous to go back to "normal," even if it's only on Facebook?

Now, with the death of a high school classmate, I'm again reminded of our makeshift memorials. Three students in my high school class alone died before graduation. My senior year, the large rock outside our school became a memorial rock, painted over each time another student's life was taken. We never knew when it was okay to paint over the rock again unless someone else passed away. In a generation of "kids with stuff," making tangible (or techno-tangible) memorials in the only way we know how, it can be even tougher to let go.

In the age of social networking, bad news travels even more quickly--I may never have known about the death of someone whose locker was always just two away from mine were it not for the superficial Facebook friendships I've maintained with people I haven't actually spoken to in years. I was never really friends with Elliot, but the proximity of our last names in the alphabet often put us in the same place when homeroom rolled around. When I heard he had passed away, I took a quick look at my cell phone. Sure enough, Elliot became the third person whose number remains in my contact list even after death. I never deleted my grandmother's home number from my cell phone after she passed away in 2007, nor could I bring myself to delete Casey's number, email address, and speed dial information when she died last summer. Now, it's as though a precedent has been set: even though the only reason Elliot's number was saved in my phone was because he sometimes prank called me, it feels more like a rejection of someone's memory than practicality to delete the deceased from an address book.

When I Googled his name, I came up with prayer requests from the church I once attended, asking members of the parish to keep deployed members of the military in their prayers as they fought for our freedom. I can't even wrap my head around how awful it is to survive two tours of duty and come home, only to die in a car accident. I was further devastated to hear that he is survived by a young wife and son. My thoughts are with his family and friends in this difficult time. Rest in peace, Elliot Teisler.