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

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let's Talk Typing

When I was a kid, we had an already ancient Royal typewriter at home. Book reports, certain schoolwork, or in my case, just for making noise. Mom had a nice electric typewriter that she used for work. But that old Royal - that's probably where my love of writing began. - MM I was thinking about my old typewriter last night. Writing was serious back then. Forty pounds of steel, keys, and ribbon. No batteries. No updates. No distractions. Just you and the machine. And that machine fought back. Type too fast and the keys would jam together like two drunks fighting in a bar. Type too slowly or too lightly and it might just decide you didn’t really need that letter or that word. Sometimes it felt like the thing had opinions. Like it was quietly judging you. You learned quickly. You learned rhythm. You learned pressure. You learned patience. It was like a built-in editor made of steel and stubbornness. Made a mistake? Start over. Or, if you didn’t mind your work looking like hell, dab s...
Post a Comment
Read more

Fags & Faggots

 It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas.  I had lucked into a handful of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance. I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile. I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate. I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself ad...
Post a Comment
Read more

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...
Post a Comment
Read more