Questions of Privacy

I am the first to admit that perhaps I take privacy a tad too seriously. In the sense that possibly Noah was willing to acknowledge that he had seen enough rain.  I live in a big city where “stranger danger” is all too real, so I taught all four of my children to be vary of adults asking personal questions. Under any circumstances. Ever. “People who need to know where we live already know where we live!” I intoned endlessly. “Anyone who asks you where you go to school doesn’t need to know where you go to school!”

My delicate concern–“paranoia” is such a value laden word–about privacy was badgered yet again on a recent tour of Eastern Massachusetts boarding schools when a colleague asked our student guide a personal question.

My fellow counselors and I had already seen the admissions office, the soccer fields, the indoor swimming pool, the ice hockey rink, the cafeteria, a dorm room, the student union, the robotics lab, the chapel, and more classrooms than I could remember or distinguish. A dozen of us were now following our tour guide across the quad toward the stables.

Like a car careening through an intersection, one of my fellow counselors asked our tour guide, “Are you Episcopal?” I cringed. Surely this young man’s religious convictions were a matter between him and his family or him and his God (or lack of one.) How could our understanding of his school be enhanced by my knowing which church he attended? Awkward! I winced, embarrassed to the core.

The joke was on me as it turned out in that the questioner was referring to the school in general not the young man in particular. “You” was second person plural, not second person singular. Neither the 17-year-old student nor the 170-year-old school had an overwhelming religious affiliation as it happened. “Episcopal lite” I dutifully recorded in my notebook. “Religion of tour guide thankfully undisclosed.”

But within minutes, I once again observed my colleagues asking questions that can only be considered boundary crossing, intrusive, and–shame on us– offensive. Subsequent to the dreaded religion question, my colleague asked our intrepid guide, “Where are you applying to college?”

Maybe I’m over sensitive–look, I admitted I might be over sensitive in the first paragraph, okay?–but this question annoys me like people taking phone calls in a movie theater. Surely these youngsters are not cuts of meat wrapped in cellophane in a market to be examined and prodded, purchased or put back. Why do we need to know the specifics of this youngster’s transition process? Doesn’t he have enough stress with supplemental essay questions and early action deadlines? Isn’t choosing and applying to college enough of a nightmare without the added humiliation of public disclosure?

Because what if the answers were of the sort that no reasonable young adult would care to reveal? “I flunked algebra; I have to go to the local community college;” “My dad is a gambling addict so there are no funds available for college;”  “I just got out of wilderness therapy. I have to attend a step-down program to complete treatment for my depression, substance abuse, and self-harm.” How dare we ask questions the answers to which are none of our business?

If you were a first-time guest in my home, would you have the temerity to ask me “What is your annual pre-tax income?” or “How many times did you and your wife ‘go to the movies’ last year?” Certainly not. You would be handed your coats before the soup course whether or not you winked when you said “movies”.

Why do we as adults feel free to subject strangers to such personal questions, just because they are showing us around their boarding school homes but can’t yet vote?

Obviously, the rules are different in our offices where we, as educational consultants, are required to inquire about personal information. I can’t recommend appropriate schools to a client without knowing her grades, test scores, extra-curriculars, learning style, financial situation, and yes, maybe even religious beliefs. But our tour guides had signed no wavers. We were guests in their homes. Why do we feel no compunction about poking about in their academic and emotional cupboards?

At the very least, shouldn’t we preface our questions with disclaimers? “You know you don’t have to answer this, but could you tell me a little bit about what you might change at this school if you could?” “Stop me if I’m crossing a boundary, but would you feel comfortable sharing where you are applying to college?”

Every school has summary data of where their seniors are heading next fall. “Of our one hundred graduates last year, five will be matriculating at Princeton and four will be enrolling at North Cornstalk University.” This information tells us everything we need to know to factor in whether or not the school might be an appropriate fit for a client. Using our positions of authority as consultants and adults to scrutinize specific disclosures impresses me as shameful and a tad voyeuristic. Instead, let’s use our position of leadership to model appropriate boundaries. I for one will feel less awkward as I tour with my respected colleagues. I think the children will be grateful not to be treated as cuts of beef as well.