Why Accepting a Nickname Could be Surrendering Control Over Your Identity
"My boss was standing in the doorway as I entered his office; he wrapped one arm around my shoulders, saying, “Why don’t you sit on my lap, and I’ll go through your performance review?”
Nicknames are more than just playful pet names; they often carry significant weight in shaping one's identity and perception. While some nicknames are endearing and affirming, others can inflict deep wounds and perpetuate harmful stereotypes. The damage of going along with a nickname, whether bestowed by friends, family, or society, can have lasting effects on an individual's self-esteem and sense of worth.
Recently, I met someone new, and I was introduced to her by her nickname. Often, men are the ones who carry a nickname into adulthood; you don’t often stumble on a woman who is introduced this way. Her nickname was not flattering, and the interaction had me travel back to a time when an old boss had given me a nickname.
This was well before the Me Too or Times Up movements decades before. In this era, I can tell you I experienced all forms of sexual harassment and discrimination in the workplace.
One morning, a boss looked at me and another female colleague up and down, analysing us from head to toe. He then formally announced in front of all the staff in our section within earshot that he would be taking me to the scheduled lunch meeting with a potential recruitment hire because that day, I looked sexier—his words, not mine.
He wanted my body and appearance to entice a male to join our organisation. Not my years of experience, expertise, client trust or passion for my career, just my arse in a tight skirt. Nothing out of the ordinary; it was a typical workday with the usual side of sexual harassment.
I, of course, went to lunch; there was an option to say no, not that there was ever an option, and there was no alternative reality.
I don’t want to say, “It was a different time.” It feels like I’m letting the side down by saying something as flippant as that. It was a different world and culture; I worked in the corporate world then. I’m only equipped to share my lived experience to give context to this article. At this time, there were disproportionately many men to women in management positions.
Human Resources processed your leave, perhaps your security pass and car parking allocation. Reporting something to HR was not part of the vocabulary. At best, you spoke with them when you first got the job and then on the way out. Reporting your boss for sexual harassment because he thought you looked sexy and wanted to show you off at lunch—well, that’s a compliment, isn’t it? What was HR supposed to do?
The same boss also asked me to sit on his lap during a performance review. I hadn’t thought about that moment until, just then, my brain pulled that little doozy out of the memory filing cabinet. There were so many incidents that going through them all would be exhausting. They're all in the file; however, they were so frequent that one doesn’t stand out more than the others. How awful.
My boss was standing in the doorway as I entered his office; he wrapped one arm around my shoulders, saying, “Why don’t you sit on my lap, and I’ll go through your performance review?” He did it with a jovial tone in his delivery, a smile to cover the sexual harassment just in case; I reacted big enough for him to be caught out.
He was in a position of power; he was significantly older than me and was serious in his request. Thankfully, I had the ability and opportunity to say no (not often afforded to many in a similar situation). I said, “You are so funny; you make me laugh.” I unravelled myself from his heavy arm, still firmly wrapped around my shoulders. Following the script taught from when I could walk (DON’T upset men), I ensured my delivery was soft and light-hearted, so you know I didn’t hurt his precious ego. There were two options in that situation: saying yes and avoiding any future punishment through his passive-aggressive behaviour brought by a bruised ego. Or try and get out of it with humour, compliments and as quickly as fucking possible!
A culture like this festers; if minor behaviours are allowed, it grows into a bigger beast. We waded through this misogynistic cesspool for too long. I now work for myself alongside my husband, so my experience is light-years away from that time. I don’t have a reference to what is currently happening. I hope the current working environment has zero tolerance and the cesspool has been completely drained. Dear reader, you will have to let me know!
Back to the boss I first mentioned. He was not the first male to give me a nickname. However, for the purpose of this article, the story is the most relevant. Far out, again, just writing that flooded my brain with bad memories, not more sexual harassment, just an avalanche of moments of men using nicknames masked under the guise of “mateship” or “endearment”.
This particular boss was a big man in stature. Based on his size, it was intimidating to be in his presence. Adding to this was his inability to use his “inside” voice; there was no room for anyone else to be seen or heard; you were in his orbit. Talking to him one-on-one was the worst; he had no diplomacy, tact, or manners and was the definition of unprofessional.
If you had the displeasure of spending time with him, concentrating on what he was barking at you was significantly more difficult as he either had a pile of saliva foaming in one corner of his mouth or food spilled down the front of his shirt. Then there was the dandruff. So much fell from his head; it was like autumn when the leaves fell from their branches.
Moreover, he refused to shower after his morning gym session, instead coming straight to the office in his gym gear. We (by we, I mean any female staff member) had to ensure his breakfast and coffee were waiting for him at his desk. Whilst eating his breakfast and spilling coffee on his shirt, he would pace around the office, giving orders, causing nothing but disruption. After several hours of this, he would thankfully go shower, giving us a break from him and ending this nasty morning ritual of having to smell his drying sweat.
This grotesque man once ended a meeting telling us he would buy a Porche for his son when he was old enough to drive. BUT only if he got to watch him have sex with his girlfriend in that car.
Now you have a clear picture of what we had to deal with. It's time to add another element: his favourite thing to do is give nicknames. Now, not everyone has the privilege of being anointed. No, no, no, you had to be special, different. You only received a nickname if you were perceived as a threat. You could have demonstrated that you were smarter than him, even marginally (trust me, that wasn’t hard). Perhaps you had pointed out that he made a mistake, bruised his ego, or made him feel inferior in ANY way. The quickest way to get a nickname was to do all the above.
I did that in the first week; I’m certain I’m the only one to hold that title.
I was in a situation where he couldn’t fire me; it was contractual. He would have fired me in those first few weeks or made my life so unbelievably uncomfortable that I quit. I watched him do both countless times there to some lovely humans.
The nickname was deceiving; upon first hearing it, it seemed harmless. You hear it and think, OK, whatever. He called you by it so often that the rest of the office followed suit. Knowing doing so fed his ego and subsequently self-serving, keeping him off your radar. It also cements into the narrative that there is no escape.
Within a few weeks, you are no longer known by your name; an insecure egomaniac has reissued your identity. Whose only intention is to remove any credibility you possess.
My new name was Fluffy. I can hear you thinking, that’s not that bad. You're correct; it’s not derogatory or defaming. But remember when I said they seemed harmless at first, they’re anything but. This is like the boss asking me to sit on his lap; it’s cloudy, just enough for you to seem “too sensitive” if you dare question it.
You see, I was in a position where I managed a section of the business; I had staff that reported to me. I was brought in by someone else, not him; I came with experience and qualifications. He couldn’t fire me; he couldn’t make my life difficult enough that I would leave (he made it difficult but made less of an effort than to others he could get out).
He needed to discredit me and quickly!
It worked.
From that point forward, every staff member and any new staff member called me Fluffy. He introduced me to clients as Fluffy; it was mortifying. He would call out from his desk on the other side of the office at the top of his voice FLUFFYYYYY!
His explanation of the nickname was that I would “fluff around the office.” Again, it seems light-hearted—nothing bad, right? Wrong. It undermined my position, authority, experience, intelligence, and ability to do my job. I was just a girl who fluffed about all day. No one of importance. A piece of fluff that has no purpose.
This is not the worst element; that was my own doing. I may have ticked all the boxes that made me a target for him to rebrand me; however, I was the one who perpetuated the circumstances that cemented until the day I got out of there.
Joining in on the “joke”.
Why? We had been shown and taught that it’s NOT OK to upset men. There is a whole other article here. I know this script has been handed down from the generations who walked before me to keep us physically, financially, and emotionally safe. We had been given a different set of lenses for protection; it’s a double-edged sword.
Twenty years later, and with the blessing of hindsight, I’m not disappointed in how I managed the situation; I did the best I could with my life experience at the time. However, there is a level of guilt and regret that I didn’t try, at least for those who came after me. There’s that double-edged sword again.
If I were in the same situation now in a more informed workplace, I would have ensured every element of his behaviour was documented and reported, and I did everything I could to stop him in his tracks.
What about the boss who asked me to sit on his lap? If I were in the same situation now, he wouldn’t know what hit him, literally and figuratively.
Nicknames can redefine how others perceive us. Whether intentionally or inadvertently, they can pigeonhole us into narrow stereotypes or highlight aspects of ourselves we may not want to be emphasised.
They can be harmless and playful, something you cherish, or demeaning, dangerous, and harmful.
Accepting a nickname can signify surrendering control over our identity. My personal experience is nicknames given by men to women are the latter.
Knowing what I know now, going along with it only contributes to a culture of normalisation around disrespect, intimidation, and discrimination. We must reclaim ownership of our identities and assert boundaries (only if it is safe to do so; women are still a hunted species; your safety is essential).
I’m not sure how the girl who sent me down memory lane for this article feels about her unflattering nickname. It feels like it was given within that hazy cloud of labelling to pigeonhole her, keep her small. It is a reminder never to be anything other than the person who gave it to her wants. Light-hearted enough to look innocent at first glance, with a second take, its dark undertone makes you uncomfortable.
This behaviour slips under the radar still to this day; it’s time, dear reader, to question it when it happens to you or someone you care about, even if it has existed for decades.
Tell me, dear reader, have you been issued a nickname with the intention of changing your identity? And was it given to you by a man??