The Incredible Shrinking Private

"Yeah. I am on the train. I am on train. Yeah, I am on the train."
-- Cell phone user overhead by Lisa on the train. Yeah, on the train

This 'zine has already given voice to my displeasure with the omnipresence of cell phones, and the inappropriate places and times people make use of them (see "Overheard at Airport," Vol III, no 4). A recent trip to Clearwater Florida for the Feminist Ethics and Social Theory (FEAST) conference served not only to heighten my displeasure but also to sharpen my analysis. In conversation with philosophers Melissa Burchard, Heidi Grasswick, and Lorraine Code, we realized that cell phone usage is deeply indicative of the ways in which the realm of the private is rapidly shrinking. (And no, this is NOT a spam advertisement.) People who talk on their cell phones with little regard to their context may believe that, because so many other people are busy screaming into their cell phones, no one else can hear them or is even paying attention to them. The discretion and privacy afforded by a private phone booth are replaced with the anonymity of being part of a gaggle of cell phone users. The assumption is that no one would be listening to me because every other person is too busy with her own conversation. Parents may be familiar with a version of this sort of thinking. It is similar to the one that children make when they assume that because they cannot see their parents, they are not seen by their parents. We all know how successful that move is.

There's also a more philosophically interesting issue here: nothing seems to be private any more. In an era of public confessionals (a.k.a. talk shows), no topic is firmly relegated to the private realm. All topics are now on par with each other. Talking with your mechanic about the fuel pump or your doctor about your test results while sitting in a restaurant is not uncommon. Calling to make a dinner reservation or calling your lawyer to complain about that lout you accidentally married is truly easy while waiting in a ticket line at the theatre. In this era of dedicated speed dials, intimate conversations are just a button away.

What in the old days we unreflectively called the public space is now better understood as the panopticon, a prison design developed by Jeremy Bentham and made famous by Foucault. Foucault revealed the brilliance of this design: a darkened center tower ringed by cells that were backlit. The guards in the center could see where each prisoner was and what he was doing, but the prisoners could not see the guards. The prisoners were always on display, and could at any time be the object of surveillance. Prisoners would know this, and this knowledge would cause them to modify their own behavior to be more orderly and ruly. Guards wouldn't need to be looking at prisoners at any particular time -- the whole point was that they might be, and you wouldn't know it.

People who talk about the most private things on their cell phones seem unaware of the fact that they too are on constant display. Engrossed in their cell of technology, they fail to notice the publicity of both their conversation and subject matter. Chances are quite good that if another person were to begin interjecting her opinion from the sideline, she would be met with withering looks and expressions of indignation over this violation of privacy. But the same people do not complain about all the other ways that corporations and government agencies acquire private information. To the contrary, many people are all too eager to discuss the minutiae of their lives and provide exacting details.

And here is the decisive move in the conjuring trick: the profession of belief in the sanctity of privacy with simultaneous participation in its ever-increasing erosion. This move ensures some important behavior modification. People become more willing to provide information whenever and wherever requested and people become accustomed to ceding more of their right to privacy without protest or worry. Perhaps there is a belief that all this information creates such a loud chatter that little tidbits about any particular person are obscured.

So what to do? This question truly stumps me. Foucault might argue that in this technology panopticon, we are prisoner and guard both. This complicates the issue immeasurably. Every exercise of power presents opportunities for its resistance.