Every once in a while, I do something that probably sounds odd. I type my own name into Google and see what comes up. The results always surprise me — not because of what’s new, but because of where the data comes from. Sometimes it’s a real estate record from Florida. Other times it’s an old voter registration entry from another state. Once, it was a scanned copy of a court document I didn’t even remember existed. All of it was technically “public record.” None of it felt very private.
What’s wild is how much this varies depending on where you live. The internet makes it look like the whole country runs under one rulebook, but that’s not true when it comes to personal data. States decide for themselves how much of your life can be published online, and the differences are dramatic.
Let’s start with property records. In Florida, where I live, you can look up just about any home by address, owner name, or parcel ID. It’s all out there — who bought it, when, and for how much. The Florida public records system is one of the most open in the nation. Real estate transparency has long been tied to anti-corruption and open government ideals here. But that openness comes with a cost: if someone knows your name, they can often find your home address in under a minute.
Now compare that to states like California or Maine, where property searches are often more limited. In some counties, you have to prove a “legitimate interest” or go through a public information request. It’s not that they’re secretive — it’s that they’re cautious. California’s privacy framework under the California Consumer Privacy Act (CCPA) recognizes that digital access to personal data creates risks that didn’t exist when public records were kept in filing cabinets. The law lets people request data deletion and restricts companies from sharing personal info without consent. Florida, by contrast, has no such consumer-level privacy right yet. Same country, two very different rules of exposure.
And it doesn’t stop there. Court records are another minefield of differences. Some states, like Texas, make civil and criminal filings searchable through their online judicial portals. You can see names, charges, sometimes even scanned documents. Others, like Massachusetts, require in-person visits for most searches. A 2023 National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers report pointed out that inconsistent digital access has created what they call “digital inequality” — where the same information about you could be globally visible in one state and practically hidden in another.
That phrase stuck with me. Digital inequality. It’s not just about who has internet access — it’s about how the internet reveals different parts of us depending on geography. Your identity online is partially decided by your ZIP code.
Here’s an example that hit close to home. A friend of mine moved from Michigan to South Carolina. In Michigan, her divorce filing was accessible online, but it required a case number — not easily searchable by name. In South Carolina, the same type of filing popped up on the first Google page because the clerk’s office automatically indexed everything by full name. Same kind of document, completely different level of exposure. She didn’t even know it was public until a coworker mentioned it in passing. That conversation changed how she thought about privacy — and trust.
Part of this stems from the Freedom of Information Acts that each state implements differently. These laws were designed to make government transparent, not to expose personal lives. But as clerks’ offices digitized records, they didn’t always adjust for the shift from “available” to “instantly searchable.” What used to require a trip to city hall and a few forms can now be pulled up in seconds, and that speed has changed how “public” feels.
Then there’s voter data. Some states treat it like a public directory, others guard it fiercely. Florida, again, makes voter rolls available with names, addresses, and party affiliation through the Division of Elections. New Jersey, on the other hand, limits access to qualified entities for specific purposes. The National Voter Registration Act (NVRA) allows states to manage data transparency individually, which means privacy depends on your ZIP code more than your citizenship.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? We talk about data privacy like it’s a universal concept, but it’s really a patchwork quilt stitched together by 50 different philosophies. Some states emphasize accountability and open records; others prioritize dignity and discretion. Neither is entirely wrong — they just reflect different ideas about what “public interest” means.
I think about this a lot when people talk about “opting out.” Sites like Privacy Rights Clearinghouse list ways to remove your information from data brokers and people search websites. But opting out of a broker doesn’t make the underlying public record disappear. It just hides one copy of it. The source data — the court filings, the property deeds, the voter rolls — are still sitting on a government server somewhere, waiting for another scraper to come along.
The Federal Trade Commission has been trying to tackle this through its work on data brokers, warning that “publicly available data” doesn’t mean “free-for-all.” But without national privacy legislation, states are still calling their own shots. That’s why your experience searching your own name in Oregon can look completely different than doing it in Texas or Florida.
And while transparency advocates argue that public access deters corruption and keeps officials accountable, privacy experts warn about unintended harm — stalking, identity theft, doxxing. A 2023 Pew Research study found that 67% of Americans feel they’ve lost control over how their personal data is collected and used. It’s not just companies they’re worried about. It’s the government too.
Sometimes I wonder how we got here. The original spirit of public records law was noble: give citizens the ability to see what their government is doing. But when technology made those records searchable by name, the line between civic transparency and personal exposure blurred. We didn’t vote on that change. It just… happened.
I think the real question now isn’t whether these records should exist — it’s how visible they should be. Maybe the answer isn’t locking them away, but creating digital fences. Access levels that separate journalists and researchers from casual browsers. Some states are already moving that way. For instance, Washington and New York have introduced data privacy bills aimed at limiting how personal records appear online (New York State Bill S365, Washington State RCW 19.255).
Still, until federal standards arrive, we’re living in a digital patchwork. The same court record that’s a click away in Florida might require a formal written request in Vermont. It’s easy to blame government databases, but the truth is, we’ve all adjusted to convenience. We expect to find information instantly, even when that expectation chips away at someone else’s privacy. That’s the contradiction we live in now — we crave privacy for ourselves and transparency for everyone else.
I’ll admit, I still Google myself now and then. Sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes out of caution. It’s a reminder that data is like water — once it’s out, it flows where it wants. The best thing we can do is understand how our state handles it, and keep pushing for laws that remember the people behind the data. Because this isn’t just about what’s public. It’s about what should be humane.
For those who want to explore further, check out the National Conference of State Legislatures’ overview of state public records laws and the FTC’s data broker research. It’s a good place to see how differently 50 states define something as simple — and as complicated — as your right to be seen.
