When Reticence Can Be Golden
Does anybody except Miss Manners remember a quaint concept called privacy?
Privacy was what kept nice old-fashioned people from telling other people their incomes, their physical dysfunctions, their sexual fantasies, and the grievances they held against their parents, spouses and children.
Such things, they believed, were personal. This meant that they were discussed only with the people to whom they were strictly relevant (give or take a confidant or two who promised not to tell and sometimes didn’t). They didn’t even discuss these matters on television.
These people told their doctors that they had been throwing up, but they didn’t tell anybody in the office cafeteria. They told their tax consultants their incomes (they even told that to prospective in-laws, who wouldn’t dare expect such information nowadays) but they didn’t tell the people with whom they had gone to school.
They told their spouses that their parents were driving them crazy, and they told their parents that their children were driving them crazy, but they didn’t tell their children that their spouses were driving them crazy. And they didn’t tell their friends the faults of their relatives.
They may have told their spouses their sexual fantasies, but only if these people were in the opposite leading role. They told everyone when they were expecting a baby, but only when it was apparent anyway; and they never told anybody in the world if this event had not been intended.
Not only did they refrain from announcing all of these things, but they acted so insulted if anyone dared to ask, that no one would risk such a question a second time.
Miss Manners finds this kind of reticence dignified, both for the individual and for those to whom that person is supposed to be loyal. She also likes the side effects--the blessing of its sparing a great amount of boredom and clearing the way for real conversation of general interest.
But she is familiar with the arguments in favor of promiscuous blabbing:
These things are nothing to be ashamed of, so there is no reason not to talk about them.
It’s friendly. Offering personal information about oneself is a sign of liking and trust.
Talking about your troubles makes you feel better.
Telling others about your troubles makes them realize that they are not alone, and may encourage them to seek help.
And in fact, Miss Manners does not quarrel with these premises, except the first. Shame is not the opposite of publicity. That what you are doing behind closed doors is natural and normal is no reason not to close the doors.
But Miss Manners wishes to point out that each of the other arguments carries in it reasons to limit strictly the potential audience.
If confiding in people is friendly, then one should do it only to real friends, and as there are degrees of friendship, there are degrees of confidence. Offering intimate information to those to whom one has not established bonds of intimacy is almost bound to result in a cynical evaluation on the part of the hearer--”Why is she telling me this?” “Does he think I give a damn about what went wrong with his marriage?” “Oh, no, here comes the recital of symptoms again.” When confiding is inappropriate, it becomes an imposition.
If discussing your problems makes you feel better--and dwelling on dissatisfactions often has the opposite effect--shouldn’t you consider whom it could make feel worse? This includes not only unwilling listeners, but those who figure in your stories. Such gossip almost inevitably gets back--if you can’t keep your own secrets, it is hardly fair to expect better control from those you tell. But even if it doesn’t, it is a violation of the dignity and privacy of your closest associates. Speaking out about sensitive matters to provide solace and information to others who may be in the same situation is a more delicate matter. Miss Manners is not the only person to notice how much abused that moral purpose is to allow people to pour out their secrets for fun and profit.
It seems to her that problems can be discussed in a general way, without individuals having to surrender their secrets as examples. The personal story, the I’ve-been-through-it courage can then be offered on a confidential basis to those who need it. Otherwise, social pressure develops for anyone with a problem to tell his or her story to whoever asks, for whatever reason, including idle curiosity uncoupled with sympathy.
When people are cautioned, as they so often seem to be nowadays, to mind their own business, the meaning is that they should stay out of other people’s. Attention might also be paid to minding the interests of their own.
DEAR MISS MANNERS--For 15 years I have had the pleasure of an occasional luncheon or dinner with a lovely lady friend. At just about every one of these delightful events, she has found it necessary to suggest that I try to taste a forkful of something she has on her plate.
Sometimes she hints that she would like to try something from my plate. Our food tastes are quite different, so we rarely order the same things.
All her manners are especially good, with the exception of this food-tasting penchant. I consider a person’s plate of food to be a very personal and private domain. My repeated suggestions that she discontinue her--in my opinion--ill-mannered table behavior prompted her to suggest that I write for your advice.
GENTLE READER--Plates can only be shared by consenting adults, and it seems to Miss Manners that you have not consented. Therefore, the lady is wrong.
But since she is also lovely and otherwise well-mannered, Miss Manners suggests that you ask the waiter to put a taste from your plate on a small plate for her, before the food is brought to the table. If she persists with her offerings after you decline, suggest that she put them on your bread plate, and then neglect to taste them.
