Skip to main content

Privacy

Meriam-Webster defines privacy as:

1 a: the quality or state of being apart from company or observation : seclusion
b: freedom from unauthorized intrusion
2 archaic: a place of seclusion
3 a: secrecy
b: a private matter : secret

Makes sense, right? We all like our privacy, right?

More interesting are the words considered to be synonyms of 'privacy':

Synonyms: aloneness, insulation, isolation, secludedness, seclusion, segregation, separateness, sequestration, solitariness, solitude

Related Words: loneliness, lonesomeness; vacuum; confinement, incarceration, internment, quarantine; retirement, withdrawal; ghettoization

Funny, no one ever wants to be alone. Everyone is always searching for that special someone. Usually, they want to find that special someone so the two of them can go do certain things in private! That's when one really wants privacy!

But, it's the 3rd definition of privacy that I think most Americans think of. Secrecy. No one ever wants their secrets told. Why not? Just what is it that people are doing in private that needs to remain such a secret?

If it's sex...I got news for ya...it's not a big secret. It's how we ALL got here. (except for the test tube babies and maybe Sarah Palin) Pretty much everyone I know wants sex at some point. That's no secret.

Are people perhaps ashamed of who they're having sex with? Again...why? If someone turns you on and the two of you get to bumping uglies...good for you! While it doesn't warrant a parade, I, for one, am thrilled that someone finds you special enough to get naked with. If you enjoyed the sex, or at least the situations that led up to the sex, why would anyone want to hide from those facts?

Perhaps people are doing things that they shouldn't...and that's why they demand so much privacy. Shame could well be the root of this need for privacy...especially online.

If you're doing something that you feel ashamed of, you may want to ask yourself why you're doing it in the first place. Sure, YOU may enjoy it...but can these actions, acted out in private or in the belief that one can expect a level of privacy, can these actions hurt someone...perhaps someone you care about, if these actions were to come to light? If that's the case...why do them? One wouldn't necessarily spit in the face of someone they care about or call them rude names...so why do "private things" that could hurt someone?

Perhaps these private acts involve things like gossip, or perhaps even a matter of questionable legality. Someone is bound to get hurt if the facts of those so-called private matters came to light. Gossip and lies hurts people. Illegal activities hurt people (there truly are no victimless crimes). So why do them? If you're not doing something that will hurt someone else, why the need for privacy?

Don't get me wrong. I'm a pretty private person. I have no shame for anything I do nor is anything I'm doing likely to hurt anyone, I just don't always like people. I grew up in a household with 3 siblings (who I love dearly)...but I had to get really good at hiding things lest I lose them. My one brother in particular...if I hid $5 somewhere in my room, he'd find it. And take it. That was hurtful to me. I'm not a materialistic person...never have been...but sometimes I was trying to save up for something...perhaps for someone else.  That's what always irked me.

Privacy can also just mean a little peace and quiet. I really like that sort of privacy. Being able to sit in the backyard in my underwear while drinking some beers...now that's my kind of privacy! While the sight of me in my guchies may not be the prettiest sight in the world, it's yet to kill anyone or leave them blind, paralyzed, or even queasy. It may even get a laugh.

So ask yourself why you need so much privacy. What is it you're trying to hide...and from whom? Yes, we Americans have certain rights to our privacy...but really, how much privacy is really a good thing? Just something to think about........

M

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...