Last week I was driving to Champaign to hang out with friends. I am, admittedly, a fast driver, especially on flat, wide open Midwest interstates. I was going around 86 and this silver SUV kept chasing me, or at least that’s what it felt like. Lo and behold, it was a state trooper and he pulled me over. He was robust in that hearty, corn-fed way with a buzz cut and well-pressed uniform. He spoke slowly and rounded his vowels. It was straight out of central casting.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked.
I smiled, said, “Eighty.” I’m not the kind of girl who gets to flirt their way out of tickets so I just work with plausible lies.
He peered into my car, then asked if I had received any tickets lately. I said, “No,” which was the truth. Thus began a brief interrogation.
“Where are you going so fast?”
(Let me add that he acted like speeding was a moral affront. It was ridiculous.)
“To hang out with friends from work in Champaign,” I said.
“Where do you work?”
“Eastern Illinois University.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a writing professor.”
At this, there was a stunned silence because he had made some assumptions, just by looking at me and my answers did not fit his assumptions. The tattoos up and down my arms, my size, my race, maybe my gender—he assumed I was trouble or that I was just…not worth some basic consideration. After that, his tone changed, he took my information and returned to his vehicle for a long while.
As I answered his questions I realized, “I do not have to answer these questions,” but I also knew that I did have to answer the questions. If I didn’t answer, he would have probably made me get out of my car. He would have probably searched my car. Another unit or two may have been called. I see it all the time, up and down the Interstate, young black people being put through an arbitrary ringer for the crime of being black.
The rules are different when you drive black in rural America, or do anything, anywhere for that matter. Just ask young black men what it’s like to walk while black in New York City. We don’t have the same rights. It’s a really bitter pill to swallow, one that fills me with a quiet rage, quiet only because I have to get on with the business of living.
This sort of double standard is the same in airports. I travel by plane once or twice a month, sometimes more. Without fail, at some point in the journey, I will be pulled aside for “special screening.”
And what always… amuses me is that I know I have it easy compared to say, air travelers of Middle Eastern descent or certain men of color. I think, man, if this is easy…
In that moment, answering the trooper’s questions, I could have made a stand. I could have fought the good fight. I had nothing to hide, no tickets in years, no arrests, a squeaky clean record but I didn’t want to waste a couple hours of my evening. It was easier to just play along and answer his inane questions. I mean, what was I going to say? It’s all absurd.
I had a right to privacy in that moment but I didn’t. When you are a member of certain communities, privacy has diminishing returns. There are things you don’t get to keep to yourself. As a woman, people see your gender and make assumptions, think they know things about you. As a person of color, people see your race, or they guess at your race, and make assumptions, think they know things about you. There are certain privacies you can never be afforded, simply because of who you are.
Privacy is important. I like privacy, keeping things to myself. I do not want you to know my secrets, my fears, my vulnerabilities unless I choose to disclose them. I do not want you to know what weird things I spend my time on the Internet looking at. I do not want you to see the content of a great many, shall we say, dirty e-mails. This is all fairly trivial stuff, but it’s my stuff. It’s my life, and I have a right to keep such things to myself. We all have that right or we thought we did, or we hope we do.
There are degrees of privacy. There are privacies to which I and many, many others, will never have access, privacies, the luxury of which we will never be able to fathom.
This past week, with these revelations about the NSA and wiretapping and PRISM, I’ve been a bit bewildered, a bit bemused. Intellectually, I do understand the seriousness of these revelations, the disturbing potential consequences. In truth, I’m not even a little surprised. I’m not particularly outraged, though I wouldn’t mind the privilege of being outraged. I guess I never really assumed I had digital privacy where the government was concerned. The Scrabble game I’m playing online knows I recently visited Home Depot to buy metal shelving and keeps displaying Home Depot ads. If that’s possible, then yes, it’s not a reach to see that the government is probably in my business, too.
To be clear, it doesn’t thrill me to know my data is potentially being analyzed by a powerful government overlord, to unclear, probably nefarious ends, not at all. It’s also hard to feel a sense of urgency about this, or a sense of crisis because so many aspects of my life are beyond the realm of privacy and always have been.
We now know who this latest whistleblower is—Edward Snowden. He’s 29. He makes $200,000 a year. He works as a contractor for the NSA. He has a girlfriend with whom he shares a home. He up and left his life, apparently without explaining himself to his loved ones, and went to Hong Kong, from where he leaked the information, to journalists, about the NSA’s incursions into American privacy.
People are already calling him a hero. It’s this easy narrative just waiting for us to grab hold. We love heros, especially when they fight for our freedom! I don’t think he’s not a hero. It’s too soon to understand what the hell is going on. I mostly keep thinking, “Oh his poor girlfriend, what a mess her life is going to be for the next while.” He sacrificed her privacy to bring attention to the erosion of everyone’s privacy. I suppose this is about the greater good but as usual, the greater good has unwitting victims.
It is not a coincidence that the people who most visibly advocate for the right to privacy are middle class or relatively affluent, heterosexual white men. Privacy is, for them, something sacred, and when there is the slightest hint that the sanctity of that privacy has been breached, my goodness, that’s when they spring into action, and how. They start foundations and movements. They become advocates for the freedom of information and the right to privacy. They proudly take credit for what they’ve done because, by god, they are fighting the good fight. They are fighting for an inalienable human right that is, alas, unique only to them.