Tags

, , , ,

Why are we so fascinated with the lives of others, especially those long gone?

Entire television programs have been devoted to some individual trawling through old records and archives, visiting locations and interviewing obscure relatives and acquaintances, only to discover uncle John was a convict; grandpa Giuseppe illegitimate; aunt Olga a countess with three stepsisters; grandma Mai a Minister for Finance and great-grandpa Maurice a crook!

People have rejoiced or shed tears as a result. Some have been ever so disappointed to find they are indeed of humble stock; others have been thrilled that there was a convict or criminal in a family of seemingly boring relatives; and some have puffed out their chests with pride to find a trace of intelligence in their stock!

Once the discoveries have been made a context is often woven around the individuals and their behaviours. Their conduct is justified because of their social status, the area in which they have lived or other information gained simply through conjecture.

I am as guilty as many others digging about in my family tree. I am sure my aunt and grandmother imparted facts and secrets to me whilst I was growing up, but I recall very little since I was too busy living to accumulate details about some distant, past uncle or cousin in a far off country across the sea.

However some information must have settled into my memory bank nevertheless because as I have aged there has suddenly become an urgency to fill the gaps around family members.

Some great things have come from my snooping. I have found a photograph of my mother from her student days, buried deep in the university student archives in Riga, in Latvia. Inaccessible during the Soviet Occupation years. Now treasured as it is the only one of her aged 19.

While the journey of discovery has been interesting it has come to a point where i am questioning what information belongs to others’ lives and whether by digging away  I am in fact respecting their privacy.

I find I am stitching fiction into relatives’ life stories as I allocate them personalities and qualities and imagine how their lives might have been.

I am wondering where the boundaries are in my quest to understand the dead. How would I feel if after my death relatives pried into my life? My reaction would be one of horror. What would they know of the real me through such an exercise?

I have decided I have done enough and have put a chronology aside for my children to read if it interests them.

I will give the past due respect and put my energies into understanding the living.