Letters in time & space
During Covid I traced my maternal line back as far as I could. I got all the way back to my grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother. Her name was Eliza, probably short for Elizabeth, and she was born in 1842. She lived until she was 72 years old, which was quite remarkable considering the times.
I have a photocopy of Eliza’s death certificate, the birth certificate of her daughter, Mary, and a photograph of Mary’s daughter, Ellen, holding my great grandmother Florence as a baby. I have photos of my grandmother as a child, and at her wedding. In the last 15 years I have a lot more photos of my mum, on my phone, in our drawers, in frames.
I wonder what my grandchildren will have of me? What my great, great, great, great grandchildren will be able to see? I fear for whatever the conditions of the climate will be in 200 years. But I wonder, if they exist, on whatever devices there may be, what of me will be archived?
I probably put my first photo online when I was 11. And probably with a little effort you can find it. My accounts have always been private but I’m sure there’s ways things have slipped through. Others uploading, tagging me, sharing publicly. As an adult I’ve made myself public, shared my name, my jobs, my skills. I’ve penned pieces, been tagged at events, interviewed by outlets. There are clips of my voice. Videos of my movements. I am by no means completely absence from online spaces. But beyond what is normalised to millennials- private social media accounts and public LinkedIns- I have never pursued any type of online presence. And I don’t know if I am helping or hindering myself in this regard.
On one hand I feel like a life shared online cannot truly be a happy a life lived. That it cheapens your understanding of what it means to be genuine if your life is a calculated aesthetic. That if you are truly content then that content-ness doesn’t need a platform, and that if you begin searching for likes and approval you will never find it.
On another hand I feel like I have things I would like to say. That I read so much, listen to so much, and that I would like to add my voice. I wonder if I am doing myself a disservice by removing myself from where these discussions are taking place. I can write, and I can think, and I can critically assess. And I want to share that.
I have a push and pull relationship with online spaces. I see people, I know people, who blatantly lie, who make out their life is one thing when it is another. I have met people who online preach women supporting women and in person are, frankly, not very nice. Yet I also take a lot from online resources. Youtube has taught me so much, about so many things. The life I lead has been influenced by things I’ve seen, pieces I’ve read, people I’ve listened to.
A part of me is jealous of Gen Z’s ease at slipping into the online world, believing it is a place they are entitled to.I do not feel this. I often feel like if I want to speak my mind about something I must have a magnitude of experience and expertise to back it up. I’ve read that this is a female thing, believing you must be ridiculously overqualified before you attempt the most basic task so that no one can discredit you. I know that this also maybe isn’t the norm on the internet. The idea that you should really really know the ins and outs of a topic before you talk about it.
Maybe it’s conditioning, maybe it’s middle child syndrome or eldest daughter syndrome, or maybe it’s just personality, but sometimes I feel like I’m waiting for someone to give me permission. To pursue silly things, to take up space. Recently I’ve realised that whoever that person is- the person who I think knows everything and knows it rightly- they don’t really exist. And that artists aren’t artists because they are inarguably the most talented in their field, they are artists because they realised early on that they could give themselves permission to be whatever they wanted.
In my case I’m not really sure what that is, and I’m not really sure how it will look to my children’s children’s children when they flick through everything I once put on Web 2.0 or whatever, but I guess it doesn’t really matter does it? Another voice amongst millions.
I like to read the letters my grandparents and parents wrote. The diary entries that to me are so quaint but to them were so real. I like finding out more about people I know through the different mediums they chose to express themselves. I am finding out how to express myself.