Recently, I asked students in my Web communications class to post a blog in response to the articles  “The Selling of a President,” by Joe McGinniss, from Parade magazine, and “Coakley v Brown: The Social Media Divide May Decide Election,” from the Huffington Post–pieces dealing with social media and political discourse.

Based on their previous blog entries, I anticipated a lukewarm response. While their writing, throughout the semester, had been consistently thoughtful, I rarely saw any emotional investment. Now, to my surprise, they wrote passionately about their frustrations with politics, the ways social media had nudged and encouraged them to engage in the political world.

Many older folks believe young people to be indifferent to politics. Young adults had come out in droves in support of Barack Obama, a supposed anomaly their elders chalked up to youth, liberal naiveté, fan-like worship of a handsome, electrifying candidate. Surely, the stunning turnout had been induced by a Facebook-inspired mob mentality, a desire to conform or be cool, an inner drive swept into action by Obama’s tsunami-like Internet marketing campaign.

My students’ responses, though an admittedly small, anecdotal sampling, are telling. Turns out, while young people do, indeed, look to Facebook for current news and information, for the most part network affiliations, the urgings of friends, provide insufficient motivation for them to engage politically, never mind to get out and vote. Nor do young adults necessarily vote in self-interest. No, it’s about respect. A candidate who specifically addresses them, who listens—a candidate who takes them seriously—earns their devotion. By addressing young adults through a media they understood and claimed as their own, Barack Obama told young people you matter. I care.

Not so different, really, from the way the rest of us—parents, teachers, coaches, mentors—ought to think of them and behave.

In a true story I heard recently, a teenage girl complained to her mom that she’d been having trouble achieving an orgasm. It wasn’t fair, the girl said. Boys have all the fun. Could Mom give her some tips?

This candid talk resulted in a genuine heart-to-heart, a true Kodak moment—and I applaud them. Really, I do. Had my teenage daughter come to me with that complaint—while I’d love to say that, calling on maturity and deep inner wisdom, I’d have answered honestly, maybe given a mock demo (hey, if you’re going to imagine, might as well go all the way)—the truth is, I probably would have told her to ask one of her girlfriends. Or look it up in a book. Or try Google. I mean, seriously, what’s a search engine for?

I know, I know: It’s a parent’s responsibility to ensure that our teens, if they’re having sex, are, in all ways, protected. Moms need to know the intimate details of their kids’ lives so they can ferret out trouble. To grow and flourish, all close relationships, between parent and child, husband and wife, or friend and friend, rely on a certain degree of intimacy. To truly be close to another person, we have to open up, share, allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Still, a teenage girl asking her mom for advice on reaching orgasm? Sorry. TMI.

Today, nothing is sacred. No information is too shameful, too private or too intimate to share. I’m not talking about Kim Kardashian posting sexually explicit videos on the Net or former gal-pals of Tiger Woods sharing lurid text messages. Nor am I referring to exhibitionists who post uncensored 24/7 podcasts or vlogs of themselves on their website.

I mean regular people, who, before the dawn of this obsessively open  culture, kept their private info, well, private. In the Neolithic age, when I was a kid, people hid everything. You didn’t talk about post-partum depression, for instance; you popped a pill. If your husband strayed, your kids were in trouble, your family faced financial ruin, a relative suffered from alcoholism or mental disease—you were on your own. If you suffered, for the most part, you suffered in silence—a tough life for people who needed support.

People who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, open up to others talked to their therapist. Early talk shows, a stand-in for legit psychotherapy, encouraged guests to talk openly; over time, as guests shared increasingly personal details with soothing hosts like Oprah, we viewers grew accustomed to listening, thus normalizing our nascent impulse to mirror the talk show guests we admired and tell all. Now, porn queens become overnight stars, Desperate Housewives rake in millions for humiliating themselves on TV and social networks, like mean-girl cliques, practically force us, if we hope to be recognized as one of the gang, to spill our guts on a “wall.”

In the old days, we barely knew our next-door neighbors. Now we’re on intimate terms with our mail carrier and the local dry-cleaning clerk. Call me old-fashioned: I’m not interested in hearing the gory details about childbirth or a grisly account of any medical procedure involving bodily fluids or blood. I don’t want to hear about your toilet feats (color, size or consistency) or your problems with incontinence or gas. I prefer to hear nothing, zero, nada, zilch, about your sex life, beyond it’s OK or it’s not (then only in particular cases). If you get trashed and puke your guts out or bang your boss, your boss’s wife or some girl or guy you met in an alley, bully for you—if you’re happy, I’m happy. But, please, don’t tell me about it. Frankly, I don’t want to know.