When my dad was in his twenties, he made a website. It was 1998, six years before Facebook, and a website was apparently a pretty novel idea. Thirteen years later, the site is still up (and isn't difficult to find). The guestbook has dozens of entries. Included are relatives, friends we've since lost touch with, and a few Jews who stumble across the site in ancestry forays. A few gems from the guestbook:
I enjoy how my father's personality shines through his idiosyncratic posts. He writes a blog post about the new computer he bought for my mum. He gives a scathing review of The Truman Show.It seems he and my mum alternated with their blogging, although my father's directness generally makes it clear when he's behind the keyboard. "Took Greg to the pub. Went to Barcelona. Had fun." He also marvels at the 100+ hits the website has received, mostly from the travel posts they wrote when in Russia.
I also enjoy learning about my mum. In a blog post about wedding planning, she writes, "I feel that I am going against the rest of the world by trying to do the unthinkable and rejecting or modify several modern bridal traditions. Fortunately, both my parents and Morrie's parents are very supportive of my plans. I think that the advertisers in 'Brides', and the stockholders of the 1.5 billion pound industry that earns its living from every little girl's fairy princess bridal fantasy may not be so empathetic."
In 2000, HTML 4.0 allows a style sheet to make the website easier to maintain. Technology progresses!
These days I look at the website to learn more about who my parents are - were, perhaps - as people. I see it as a progress marker: how do I compare to them? I am partly envious of their strong network of friends, the bustle of London, and the security of each other. It feels like an injust comparison sometimes, given that I am trans and asexual and there's a climate crisis and it's impossible to own a house and the world often seems on the brink of ending. But maybe the world always seemed on the brink of ending. I think about the person I want to be, and the digital traces I leave behind. I come to no conclusions.