I joined the group because I was lonely.
There. I said it.
I told myself it was for research. For “connections.” For tips on deciphering 19th-century death records written in the kind of cursive that looks like a spider gave up halfway through a poem. But the truth is, I wanted to feel less insane. Less like a man who’d moved to Spain and decided that the best use of his remaining years was arguing with ghosts and hunting baptism certificates like they were Pokémon.
It started innocently. A post about an Irish birth record. I commented, gently — I thought — that the mother’s maiden name was almost certainly O’Shaughnessy, not Shaw, and someone named “DebbieG51” responded with:
“Maybe learn to read before you give advice, JOHN.”
With caps.
I hadn’t even uploaded a profile picture. Just a default grey silhouette and a bio that said “Retired. Researching Travers family. Based in Madrid. Please be kind.” Fat lot of good that did me.
I tried again the next week. Posted a photo of a 1921 wedding record with a plea for help on the second witness’s name. Eight people replied. Seven of them said it was “illegible.” The eighth wrote, and I quote:
“Why are you wasting our time with documents you clearly don’t understand?”
I sat there staring at the screen for ten whole minutes, drinking lukewarm tea and seriously considering revenge.
Digital revenge.
The kind where you quietly correct their grammar under an unrelated comment weeks later, and feel smug for exactly four seconds before the arthritis in your pinky reminds you that life is short.
Here’s the thing. Genealogists — amateur or otherwise — are vicious. They’ve seen things. They’ve stared into the void of missing census pages, mistranslations, and war-damaged parish ledgers. They don’t care about your feelings. They care about accuracy. And also, apparently, they hate fun.
One woman told me my theory about Uncle Clarence and the flamenco dancer was “not genealogically rigorous” and “borderline disrespectful.”
I told her it was borderline true and also none of her business.
She reported me.
I’m now on “comment moderation” for 30 days. I didn’t even know Facebook still did that. I feel like a child who’s been sent to the corner, but the corner is digital and full of smug Midwestern retirees with ancestry spreadsheets longer than their mortgages.
The worst part? I miss them.
I miss the arguing. The pointless debates about name spellings and the endless threads about whether “Jno.” is John or Jonathan or a printer’s sneeze. I miss feeling like someone might just know something — about a Travers, or a Toledo bakery, or a sailor named Clarence who vanished in 1953 after an incident with a Portuguese woman and a goat.
I miss being part of the madness. Even if they hated me.
So yes, I’ll go back. Eventually. Maybe with a fake name this time. Something sturdy. Harold, maybe. Or Elwood.
In the meantime, I’ve found an even better group. A forum, actually. All in Spanish.
They’re nicer.
Probably because I don’t understand half of what they’re saying.
But the emojis are encouraging.
And one of them — I swear — just mentioned a woman named Estrella Travers.
God help me, I think this is getting good.