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What Happens To Data After Death?

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Francie and Me

I miss my grandmother. She brings tears to my eyes when I think back on our time together. She would’ve turned 98 last weekend. And while she lived a good, long life, she’s been dead for about eight years.

Sometimes I wonder what she’d say to me — what she’d think of my academic endeavors, writing, friends, and loves.

Would she be proud of her grandson? Would I be living up to her expectations? Would she understand how much I miss her?

There are times when I stare at an old photo of the two of us. There she is, in her pearl earrings — a gem from another generation. She was a product of a time when women demanded civil liberties and spoke out bravely. Individually, she was highly educated, musically gifted, crafted an alarmingly kind, talented group of friends. She attracted her equals. I admired her.

But now, as I reflect on these eight years, I long for a video, text, or email between us. Something I can click play on.

There is nothing. I can’t find any artifact nor proof of our love and affection — our bond. We only have a handful of progressively fading photographs. Burned, stained from the sun, time is making us increasingly more sepia and prone to rosy retrospection.

Towards the latter years of her life, I grabbed whatever technology I had — at the time, a Motorola Razr — and pointed the “camera” her way. She didn’t mind my intrusion. She didn’t “get” that there was a video camera on the phone. I held it up as she talked to one of her dear friends.

She was talking about me and said into the phone, “Yes, Sam’s going to Colorado University.” I chimed in, like I always had to as her memory waned, “No Francie, Colorado State University.” She quickly relayed that correction.

A few more seconds passed and I turned off the camera. Somehow I knew this would be one of the most important, last moments with her. Her hospice treatments had accelerated. She was becoming weaker, but her hands gripped firm with mine until the end. She’d pass away shortly after this call.

To have that file meant the video was mine. I’d have it as long as I’d like it. A rare glimpse, however distorted and pixelated that would take me back.

Her voice. Her demeanor. Her playfulness. For a few seconds.

It’d have to do. There wasn’t much else to cling and hold.

Maybe it was her birthday, or maybe it was my addiction to nostalgia; whatever it was, I looked for the clip the other day. I desperately wanted to relive it. To touch through time. To bridge the gap between life and death. To see the pixels dance before my eyes and make me feel… there.

Amidst gigabytes of photos and videos on my computer, the little clip was gone. I rummaged through flash drives, hard drives, cloud storage — nothing. There was no file to be found.

It was a foreign feeling — loss — amidst this digital era. We live in a time of Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, iMessage, WhatsApp, Facebook Messenger, Gmail, Google Drive, iCloud, and Dropbox. Data costs little to nothing. And the world seems settled on one major goal: saving and storing your life for eternity.

Today, it’s not uncommon for me to send hundreds of texts, emails, and tweets in a day between friends and family — many of which include photos and videos.

I’m curious what Francie would think of these advancements. As I get older, the data seems to have a redundancy and staying power — beyond anything we could’ve imagined 10 years ago. She died before we started speaking to our phones, searching for rashes on WebMD, and sharing our meals over Facebook.

A file created today may well live beyond my lifetime, and maybe even my children’s (if I’m lucky enough to have them some day). What of these things would be passed onto future generations?

There’s that photo of me crossing the marathon finish line in Houston. There’s that kiss with my love in Colombia. There’s that random photo of my cousin and I when we were four years old — grinning from ear to ear. There’s that video tour of my old, Siberian-prison inspired apartment.

They’ll outlive me.

Storage is becoming cheaper every day. Companies are propositioning themselves to be the keeper of all your photos and videos, forever — just look at Google Photos. They’re saying they have the ultimate solution. Unlike my missing video of Francie, photos and videos are now saved and backed up; then, replicated across data centers across the globe. No flood, tornado, earthquake, hurricane, or mudslide can touch these memories. No user or device error can stop us now.

Maybe she belongs in the past, but she’d be here so much more amidst this technology. I could share a video of Francie to my partner. And I could connect with the memories that my mind slowly lets drift. Nothing would pass the intense scrutiny and analysis of today’s servers. The computers might serve the memories to me when I needed them most.

But what happens now? What will happen to our memories as they pass from generation to generation in this increasingly connected and backed up society? What will companies keep of us? What will our loved ones hold on to? What will they look to for connection with their pasts?

What will happen to our data after death?

A Eulogy For My Grandfather & Financial Role Model

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Pop and me at Le Pain Quotidien

My grandfather, Pop, passed away on Christmas Eve. Over the last couple years, he had steadily declined. His short-term memory had completely disintegrated. Pop couldn’t remember the last time we had talked, but his intelligence and spirit remained till the end.

I last spoke with him a couple weeks ago. We talked about who he’d be voting for — Bernie Sanders — and how his favorite stocks were performing. After I asked these questions, I silently cried on the phone. I realized he’d likely not make another election cycle. He was all out of votes after 92 years of life.

Pop and I spent most times talking about politics, economics, and relationships. I shared countless moments across from him in his reading nook. He sat on a donut pillow for hemorrhoids; although, he didn’t have them anymore. His mug sat on a hot plate and was covered with a small plate. He savoured and sipped every ounce of tea or coffee. It was here that learning was done.

He was the single largest impact on my economic and social beliefs. I read Marx after he extolled the virtues of communism. I didn’t necessarily agree with it all, but that wasn’t what was important. In discourse, he gave me the tools to debate politely and disagree adamantly. And he opened my eyes to prejudice, social justice, and financial inequities.

At 17, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps (precursor to the Air Force) and flew some 30+ missions over France and Germany. As a Jew, he received maltreatment from those he served and fought. It wasn’t easy service. He shared experiences talking with broken Yiddish (an old, Germanic language) to German prisoners of war. Pop wanted to learn about them. This was a perfect example of his social respect for others — no matter how “bad” they were.

Later in life, he made a friend who worked for a biopharmaceutical company who recommended Biogen Idec. After contemplating the scientific merits of the company and their products, he made an investment. It paid many times over for the last couple decades. Pop wasn’t a financial genius, but he consistently made smart decisions that put his family and future first. It allowed him to retire to a small apartment complex and enjoy the smell of fresh Santa Monica air.

Years and years of conversations with him cemented an emphasis for economic and social justice in me. As a child of the Great Depression, his perspective was forever changed. In current society, Pop didn’t like that vast amounts of wealth were being siphoned from the majority of people. He disliked that politicians weren’t doing enough to protect the average, everyday American. Taxes were a social good — it prevented a select group from pillaging from others in need.

I silently said goodbye to him in summer 2015, when I visited. But he would live a few more months before passing. Frankly, it’s hard to capture him in a list of “10 financial lessons from my grandfather,” but as one of the biggest influences on my life, I couldn’t help but say a few words to honor him.

Pop, thank you for editing my first journalistic endeavors, hugging me so tightly, brilliant financial lessons, giving the best stock-picking advice, tutoring me on Jewish culture and the Yiddish language, always having Manischewitz matzos, providing a near-endless list of dessert options after dinner, sharing the joy of Bangaleri birds, educating me on Freud and Marx, encouraging my academic endeavors when I struggled to see the light, and being proud of me. I knew you meant it, and I’ll miss your excitement on the phone after I’d say, “Hey Pop! It’s Sam.”

You’ve given me a debt of gratitude that I’ll forever try to pay forward.

As we always said, it’s time to say “chachalakas.” I hate that it’s time, but we must.

So, with tear-filled eyes, chachalakas, Pop.

Your grandson and friend, Sam

Drained: A Fictional Tale of Reality

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Homelessness Cart Outside
Photo: Roberto Lajolo/Flickr

Personal finance vs. social justice

The personal finance world is inundated by articles and advice that focus on individual empowerment and responsibility for wealth generation. Essentially, the messages emphasize an individual’s ability to overcome debt through some tried and tested methods: hard work, side hustles, penny pinching, and highly restrictive lifestyles.

At times, I feel frustrated because it doesn’t properly account for countless variables that affect another’s ability to overcome financial hardship. Simply put, this advice places the burden and responsibility for financial success on the individual — and solely that person.

The reality is murkier, with various responsible parties and reasons for financial insolvency. Sudden job loss can leave families homeless. Medical bankruptcies can lead to awful credit scores and drained savings. Corruption in the banking system might prevent home owners from reducing their mortgage rates (despite receiving government funding to do just that). When persons blame or support the idea that personal finance solely rests on the individual, an injustice is committed.

Encouraging support, dialogue

Today, I wanted to write in a different voice. I guess you could say I’m feeling… creative.

Whether you call it a piece of “fiction” or “creative writing,” my hope is that you can better empathize with those from diverse backgrounds. More importantly, my dream is to respectfully tell a fictional tale that’s all too close to reality.

While reading this piece, I encourage you to think about how you can best provide support and advice to a family suffering in similar circumstances.

Let the story begin…

We’re broke.

I know we’re broke, but the kids can’t know. They’re too young to understand, and I’m ashamed. I’m not supposed to be here financially or geographically. We live out of suitcases with broken zippers. We duct tape the lid whenever we move again. I wish we had closets and dressers.

There are five us. My eldest is 12 and the youngest is 2, with two others aged 4 and 6. Together we make a handful.

They call me “Mah.” I call them my “Brats,” but I love them dearly. They’re the reason I’m still alive and kicking — fighting to get out of here and better my life. But every time I try, I’m sucked back down. Perhaps this is what the dinosaurs felt, as they got trapped in the La Brea Tar Pits.

My eldest is smart. I know she is. I can see it when she blasts through math assignments from school. I hear it when teachers remark about her rapid and accurate in-class participation. She could go to Harvard, if we had the money.

She whispers into my ear at night, when the lights are out and the other kids are fast asleep. She asks me if a woman will ever be president. She asks me why the stars seem so much brighter here, as opposed to the inner city.

My youngest is curious about the walls around him. He runs all around the shelter and tugs on the coattails of other residents. He draws pictures of a man, brings it to my face. I can’t avoid it. He calls the unknowable figure, “Daddy.”

His hair matches his father’s — unruly and brilliantly soft. Two-years-old and I can already see his father’s face on him. That button nose makes me grimace, because that man was horrible. I hide it from my youngest; at least, I try to.

He never met that man. No, he never met that asshole. He beat me to a near-coma, and then left me and my kids to fend for ourselves. Sometimes I have flashbacks of him coming for me. I fear that he’ll find me — even here in another state.

Could he find me, us?

As soon as I get a place of our own, I’m buying a gun. I’m sick of this shit. Sick of feeling defensive — like he could get us at any time, anywhere. Trust me, I’ve known quite a few assholes over the years.

I had my first child at 16. That was my first boyfriend. He was 22 and worked at the liquor store. Hell, he held a job and paid for our daughter’s clothing. My mother liked him. I liked him. But he couldn’t help making a few bucks here and there; you know, “on the streets.”

Eventually, he left us. Suddenly, I couldn’t afford not to work, nor could I afford our current place. I was alone and lonely. The kids were devastated.

In a rush, I buried the thoughts of that man and found work at a donut shop. If you knew what goes into those disgusting circles… Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be chowing down on that next dozen. It paid the bills — sort of. It’s not like we didn’t get extra help. We were on food stamps and Medicaid. It never seemed like enough, though.

I was able to hold down that job for a while, but I struggled to sleep at night. The background hum was the din of people yelling, and the occasional crack of a pistol’s chamber. The streets were alive, while I “slept.” Every night was the same.

Men have been in and out of my life — out my kids’ lives. I must’ve been ignorant — stupid — because each time I thought this was the one. The one who would give me and my family the security we need. That never came.

Soon, work fired me. I was late to too many shifts — tired from taking care of my kids and sleepless nights.

I had a hundred dollars, bills to pay, and rent that was overdue. I used my credit card and filled up my tank all the way. Then, I drove as far as I could to safety — from my past, haunts, creditors, and landlord.

I hit the reset button.

But, I never expected to be here. I never expected to be away from home. I never wanted to put my kids through this mess. But now I’m here, without any money, over-drafted and maxed out.

I don’t know what to do.


Putting the person in personal finance

Sometimes, people that need the most financial help are coming from poverty, discrimination, and poor socio-economic backgrounds. Their way out is obscure and unclear. Providing a blanket list of “5 tips to reduce debt” can help, but too frequently, it downplays the history and subtly provides judgment for those who cannot meet the prescribed solutions.

Problems come from somewhere — they don’t magically appear. By acknowledging an individual’s entire story, we can begin to provide help and systemic support. Advice and feedback must be provided through a lens that helps to incorporate how an individual got there in the first place.

Personal finance requires social justice. It takes a village. It takes understanding. It takes resources, because everyone starts with a different amount. Debasing and downgrading a struggling family for being “financially irresponsible” is intended to shame — plain and simple. Psychologically, this method is flawed and does not tend to lead to positive outcomes. Instead, we must come to the aid — without judgment.

When we realize these values, people can better accomplish personal finance dreams and follow goals.

What’s Your Most Prized Possession?

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Colorado State University Oval

Hello, roomie!

The windows were open, and I could smell the grass outside. It was green and sunny — not a cloud in the sky. A prototypical Colorado day followed me around, as I moved what little I owned into a small cubby, under a lofted mattress, and into a petite wooden desk.

It was move-in day for college — fall 2007.

I rolled out a single-bed mattress sheet, chintzy comforter, and single pillow cover. The mattress was an ocean blue, and perpetually felt uncomfortable. But it was my new home.

Somewhere in this process, I learned to live with less. I didn’t call it minimalism back then. It didn’t feel like minimalism.

Forced space? Mandated minimalism

I wasn’t given the option to live any other way in college. My closet only accepted a few shirts, shoes, pants, etc. My bedroom didn’t allow for larger mattresses. And my desk only had room for the basic necessities: pens, paper, and laptop.

After my first year of college, I moved into another residence hall to become an “RA” or resident assistant. I loved my position. It was and still is my favorite job. But even then, with a little more room, I was forced to stay minimal.

Now, minimalism doesn’t always mean being frugal. Despite my enclosures, I cycled through lots of things. There was a $1200 road bike (kept outside and then sold), a mini fridge (under the bed and then sold), electronics (a desktop computer and then sold), and more. For everything I bought, I sold something else — both to afford the new item and make space.

I was hardly frugal. I was mad with the need to consume away my problems, concerns, and stresses of school. No matter how much I purchased, the feelings remained.

Where I failed budgetarily, I seemed to succeed in minimalism. My room was still neat and tidy, and presentable to residents and their parents. I didn’t have a need for lots of stuff — nor could I put it anywhere.

While I wasn’t ready to change my spending habits until years later, an inclination towards minimalism was cemented. All it took was a forced restriction from many years of residence hall rooms to prevent the purchase of more than I needed. I developed an affinity for a clean, organized room. I didn’t need or want to have tons of things.

The losses hurt immensely

Another component pushed me towards minimalism: loss. In college I was exposed directly and indirectly to losses in life. Three of my grandparents passed away, three people died by suicide on campus that I knew, and I went through some pretty nasty breakups.

These losses encouraged me to look beyond the petty grievances and consumer comforts of society. What was important was the life of those around me, and spending time with those I cared about. Again, things weren’t as important as people.

During this period of tragedy, I realized how loss of material possessions didn’t matter. Suddenly, I stopped worrying about people stealing my stuff, things failing, and/or leaving my home unattended. Renters insurance seemed irrelevant and unnecessary. I had nothing “priceless.”

What’s going to fit in the trunk?

After college and the losses, I moved for graduate school. Again, it was a time of forced minimalism. I could only take what would fit in my Honda Civic coupe. And there was an added caveat, as my brother would be occupying the passenger seat.

To lighten the load, I listed items on Craigslist and asked friends if they needed odds and ends. Then, my brother and I filled the car with deconstructed IKEA furniture, clothing, and other household items. Our seats were forced upright — unable to recline — by the tightly packed vehicle.

Everything I owned fit into one tiny little car. It felt freeing, but frankly, all I could think about was the truly precious cargo: my brother. If everything else disappeared, let it not be him. That’s all that mattered/matters.

What really matters in life is…

I never sought to be a minimalist in my younger years, it found me. When I entered a small space and shared it with a roommate, I was forced to have less. When I lost loved ones, I was forced to reflect on what was most important. When my brother helped me move, I pictured what I would really need.

Stuff never came first.

Recently, I was grabbing a drink with someone and this question came up: “What would you grab if your apartment/house were on fire (excluding pets and humans)?”

I thought briefly about this question and almost cried. I couldn’t come up with anything. Nothing mattered beyond the human and pet connections in my life. Nothing. I feared the loss of… nothing.

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