CARPE MEDIA

by Emily W. Sussman

Yes, that's him.

Here’s the scene: a dingy church basement. Stale coffee in styrofoam cups. Florescent lights humming overhead. I shuffle up to the folding table that faces the audience and clear my throat.

My name is Emily, and I am Facebook friends with my father. This is my story.

This particular on-the-Book “friendship” didn’t start as all my others had—that is, it wasn’t one of those reflexive “Accept Friend Request” split-click decisions. My dad “friended” me about a month ago, and it took me until exactly yesterday to say yes.

Why the hesitation?

Back in the spring of ‘03, when Friendster Beta was the deal, I had no qualms about welcoming “Dad” (yes, that was his official Friendster name) into the folds of my nascent social network. As I recall, the concept of an “old person” joining the site was fairly hilarious; my then-boyfriend Michael and best friend Alissa clamored to befriend him. The novelty was roughly equivalent to a pet having its own page. (As a matter of fact, I think I created my dad’s Friendster profile shortly after I did one for my black cat Viva.)

So why was I reluctant to have the same sort of connection with him on Facebook?

For one, there were the pictures. When I started graduate school last year, I attended my fair share of late-night debaucheries that were photographed, posted and tagged on the Book. By contrast, I don’t recall that incriminating photos were an integral part of Friendster. (I do, however, remember agonizing over what I would include in my “Favorite Music” and “Favorite Movies” categories, as well as competing with said then-boyfriend about who could accumulate more Friendster friends. For my 23-year-old self, the site functioned as little more than an official who-do-you-know-and-what-scene-are-you-into barometer of cool.)

Not that photos really mattered anyway; I had already un-tagged the worst of them last spring in a fit of Facebook-is-ruining-my-life angst. So I turned my attention to my “Groups.” Keeping my dad in mind (this is still the pre-”Accept Friend Request” phase, of course) the first one that would have to go was “I Smoke Pot But At Least I’m Not Addicted to Adderall.” And “Ted Bundy Was a Good Looking Man,” for obvious reasons. So they went. I’m a little less ironic now, I suppose, but I lived.

(Warning: here’s the part where I blow my street cred.)

What ultimately made me say yes to Dad was that I was, in a way, already prepared for it. When my twin 14-year-old cousins requested my Facebook friendship this past summer, I accepted because… well, because they’re my friends. In doing so, I was well aware that the decision to give them access to my profile would mean taking on a greater sense of responsibility: I wouldn’t be putting up anything on my page that I didn’t want them to emulate. Wait, let me clarify that. Not that they haven’t seen plenty already thanks to The Sopranos, and not that they would want to emulate an old-timer (circa 1979) like me. But, you know.

So the decision to accept Dad into my online fold—this time, as more than an inside joke— was more of a policy question. Oh, and a bona fide privacy issue. As in, did I really want my parents to know who I was friends with? What my current relationship status was? What shows and parties I was attending on a given Friday night? What I thought of Brandon Murphy’s latest guerrilla art project? 

And it came down to this: If I’m not doing anything online that I’d want to hide… then… well… why not? 

Welcome back, Dad.