![]() ![]() In the United States, parental authority supersedes a child’s right to privacy, and socially, we’ve normalized sharing information about and images of children that we never would of adults. ![]() “What we’ve seen is very mature 10-, 11-, 12-year-olds sitting down with their parents, going, ‘Mom, what were you thinking?’” he told me. Stephen Balkam, the CEO of the nonprofit Family Online Safety Institute, says that even younger children might experience a “digital coming-of-age” and the discomfort that comes with it. They joke on TikTok about the terror of their peers finding their parents’ Facebooks. Today’s teens are similarly wary of oversharing. Her internet friends started “reaching out to me, being like, ‘Hey, maybe you should take this down,’” she said. But before that, when Barrett was a teen and had just signed up for her first Twitter account, she followed her mom’s example, complaining about her siblings and talking candidly about her medical issues.īarrett’s audience of younger users are the ones who pointed out the problem, she told me. (Barrett’s mother did not respond to requests for comment.) The distress this caused eventually motivated Barrett to become a vocal advocate for children’s internet privacy, including testifying in front of the Washington State House earlier this year. Many are filling the shoes of a digital persona that’s already been created, and that they have no power to erase.Ĭaymi Barrett, now 24, grew up with a mom who posted Barrett’s personal moments-bath photos, her MRSA diagnosis, the fact that she was adopted, the time a drunk driver hit the car she was riding in-publicly on Facebook. The children of the Facebook era-which truly began in 2006, when the platform opened to everyone-are growing up, preparing to enter the workforce, and facing the consequences of their parents’ social-media use. But now, thoughtless choices made years ago-a keg stand photographed, a grocery-store argument taped-can define our digital footprints, and a generation of parents like Millie’s are knowingly burdening their children with an even bigger online dossier. Two decades ago, this tantrum would have been just another bit of family lore, or at worst, a home video trotted out for relatives every Christmas Eve. “This is a great ad for birth control,” one wrote. Nine million strangers watched her breakdown, and thousands of them commented on it. (Luggage, unsurprisingly, was not what she wanted from Santa.) Her parents scrambled to explain that the real presents-tickets to a four-day Disney cruise-were actually inside the suitcases, but Millie was too far gone. When the large boxes in front of them turned out to contain two suitcases, Millie, who appeared to be about 4 years old, burst into tears. In December, I watched a TikTok of two young sisters named Olivia and Millie opening Christmas presents. I feel relief whenever I’m reminded of those vanished artifacts, and even more so when I see pictures and videos of children on the internet today, who won’t be so lucky. Even my earliest digital activity-posting emotional MySpace photo captions and homemade music videos-took place in the new and unsophisticated internet of the early 2000s, and has, blissfully, been lost to time. But I’m old enough that the kompromat is safe in the confines of physical photo albums and VHS tapes in my parents’ attic. ![]() I was photographed waddling in nothing but a diaper, filmed smearing food all over my face instead of eating it. My baby pictures and videos are the standard compendium of embarrassment. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. ![]()
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