链接：http://www.bostonglobe.com/magazine/2015/02/22/teaching-dad-facebook-teaching/IJaFIM4IyBNM84WDPRvOqM/story.html?p1=Article_InThisSection_Bottom
字数：700字
（1）Teaching dad Facebook, or is he teaching me?
Maybe playing by the site’s conventions isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
There comes a time in many a millennial’s life when a parent asks the question: “Will you help me make a Facebook?”
（2）Some deny the request, fearing an invasion of digital privacy. Others, like me, find it endearing. Social media was as much a part of growing up for us as high school crushes; we easily navigate a world unknown to our parents—one filled with status updates, news feeds, and friend requests. We’re happy to take our elders by the hand and guide them through the process—or at least to take control of the keyboard, because boy is it painful watching someone type with just two index fingers.
（3）When my dad asks me, I quickly oblige. We walk outside to capture his profile picture and Dad is satisfied after a single snap—no favored angles, filters, or retakes. We then head to his Mac desktop in the basement. Dad stands behind me with arms crossed as I register his account, upload the photo, and fill out his basic information. “Relationship Status” proves difficult—for some reason, maybe a glitch, we can’t enter a date earlier than the current one as his wedding anniversary, reducing 25 years of marriage to one day. That, coupled with the fact that my mom remains Facebook-less, worries me: Will people think my parents got divorced? But Dad remains unfazed, so I finish up, save his settings, and with a click of the mouse, his profile is born.
（4）Dad’s debut post is a photo of a rock he spotted on the beach. “What does this look like?” he captions it. I squint at the rock’s surface and can barely make out the likeness of a monkey face in its smattering of barnacles. Back in my apartment, I smile at my laptop screen and text some friends: “My dad thinks Facebook is an interactive game.” They respond with “awww”s and “LOL’’s.
（5）A few weeks later, Dad uploads a video he’s titled “Mrs. Slowski Pays a Visit.” The name isn’t familiar to me, and I scan my memory for any family friends from Eastern Europe while I wait for the video to load. When I press play, a turtle appears, nudging its way through blades of grass, my childhood sandbox visible in the background. “Mrs. Slowski”—clever.
（6）Dad’s Facebook presence quickly grows: He reconnects with old friends, keeps tabs on our extended family, and becomes a passionate spectator of dog-related YouTube videos. I monitor his progress with fondness until one fateful afternoon.
（7）I log on to my account and see a tasteless political meme emblazoned across my news feed. Before I can scroll away, my eyes catch the image’s tally of likes and, heart dipping, I read it the way I’m sure others will: “38,789 ignorant people and your father like this.”
（8）I call him as soon as I can. “Dad, you have to be careful about your Facebook activity,” I lecture. “That meme you liked—people will think you support its message. People will judge you.”
Dad cuts me off: “What’s a meme?”
I explain. “Oh, that,” he says. “Well, I don’t agree with the politics, but sometimes you just have to laugh.”
（9）If only social media were so simple, I think. But Dad’s response sticks with me, and over the next few weeks I begin to reconsider. Maybe we shouldn’t worry so much about having the perfect profile picture or how a relationship status will be perceived or whether a mere “like” will generate scorn.
（10）Maybe no matter your age, it’s still worth taking a moment to marvel at the ordinary, like the cool rock you found or a turtle crawling through your backyard. Maybe we social media natives can miss the best of what the digital world has to offer. And maybe, even if you’re an adult, living on your own and paying your own bills, you can still learn a thing or two from your dad.
字数：700字
（1）Teaching dad Facebook, or is he teaching me?
Maybe playing by the site’s conventions isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
There comes a time in many a millennial’s life when a parent asks the question: “Will you help me make a Facebook?”
（2）Some deny the request, fearing an invasion of digital privacy. Others, like me, find it endearing. Social media was as much a part of growing up for us as high school crushes; we easily navigate a world unknown to our parents—one filled with status updates, news feeds, and friend requests. We’re happy to take our elders by the hand and guide them through the process—or at least to take control of the keyboard, because boy is it painful watching someone type with just two index fingers.
（3）When my dad asks me, I quickly oblige. We walk outside to capture his profile picture and Dad is satisfied after a single snap—no favored angles, filters, or retakes. We then head to his Mac desktop in the basement. Dad stands behind me with arms crossed as I register his account, upload the photo, and fill out his basic information. “Relationship Status” proves difficult—for some reason, maybe a glitch, we can’t enter a date earlier than the current one as his wedding anniversary, reducing 25 years of marriage to one day. That, coupled with the fact that my mom remains Facebook-less, worries me: Will people think my parents got divorced? But Dad remains unfazed, so I finish up, save his settings, and with a click of the mouse, his profile is born.
（4）Dad’s debut post is a photo of a rock he spotted on the beach. “What does this look like?” he captions it. I squint at the rock’s surface and can barely make out the likeness of a monkey face in its smattering of barnacles. Back in my apartment, I smile at my laptop screen and text some friends: “My dad thinks Facebook is an interactive game.” They respond with “awww”s and “LOL’’s.
（5）A few weeks later, Dad uploads a video he’s titled “Mrs. Slowski Pays a Visit.” The name isn’t familiar to me, and I scan my memory for any family friends from Eastern Europe while I wait for the video to load. When I press play, a turtle appears, nudging its way through blades of grass, my childhood sandbox visible in the background. “Mrs. Slowski”—clever.
（6）Dad’s Facebook presence quickly grows: He reconnects with old friends, keeps tabs on our extended family, and becomes a passionate spectator of dog-related YouTube videos. I monitor his progress with fondness until one fateful afternoon.
（7）I log on to my account and see a tasteless political meme emblazoned across my news feed. Before I can scroll away, my eyes catch the image’s tally of likes and, heart dipping, I read it the way I’m sure others will: “38,789 ignorant people and your father like this.”
（8）I call him as soon as I can. “Dad, you have to be careful about your Facebook activity,” I lecture. “That meme you liked—people will think you support its message. People will judge you.”
Dad cuts me off: “What’s a meme?”
I explain. “Oh, that,” he says. “Well, I don’t agree with the politics, but sometimes you just have to laugh.”
（9）If only social media were so simple, I think. But Dad’s response sticks with me, and over the next few weeks I begin to reconsider. Maybe we shouldn’t worry so much about having the perfect profile picture or how a relationship status will be perceived or whether a mere “like” will generate scorn.
（10）Maybe no matter your age, it’s still worth taking a moment to marvel at the ordinary, like the cool rock you found or a turtle crawling through your backyard. Maybe we social media natives can miss the best of what the digital world has to offer. And maybe, even if you’re an adult, living on your own and paying your own bills, you can still learn a thing or two from your dad.
