Call me by my name.
Self-Advocacy in the small moments helps us build to the bigger ones.
At one of my part-time gigs, I have a coworker we’ll call “Harold.”
Harold’s been…creepy.
Harold’s position requires him to come into the store and do a round for security, making sure no one’s stealing or damaging property. According to my coworkers, he does this when they’re working. When I’m working, he doesn’t—he haunts the cash wrap, lingering near me and speaking to me in an increasingly familiar way. His approach gives me the impulse to bring up “my HUSBAND” every time he comes around.* In fact, after one of these invocations, he felt the need to approach me later and “make sure [I] knew [he] was joking” because “[he] didn’t want to get beat up.” OK, bro, maybe don’t say things that would get you beat up, in jest or not.
(Side note…I never believe men when they say they were “just joking.” First of all, jokes are supposed to be funny. Second of all, methinks thou dost protest too much.)
Yesterday, it escalated, as I knew it would. As I walked past his post to get back to the store from the bathroom, he waved big and yelled, “Hey, babe!” from a distance great enough for coworkers and museum patrons alike to hear.
That’s a HEFTY nope for me, dawg.
“Hey, when you address me, please use my name. My name is Nora. I’d prefer you not call me ‘babe.’ Thanks.”
I kept walking toward the store as he sputtered something about being from a different generation, it’s just a habit, he didn’t mean any harm. All the usuals. And I responded, “I understand. And, I prefer that people I’m not close to address me by my name. Thanks!”
The boundary here is simple: when you do not know me like that, I will not allow you to act like you do. I don’t care what generation you’re from, or how innocent your intentions were. If you decide on my behalf that you have the right to refer to me like a close friend or lover, I will remind you that you are not entitled to closeness with me when I haven’t agreed to the terms.
It’s a low-stakes situation, and one where I could just as easily have said nothing and let it slide, or involved HR. I chose the direct route because we were in a public space with others present, which is important for two reasons:
I had witnesses, which helped me feel safe.
I had witnesses, and what I’m NOT going to do is passively validate this stranger’s familiarity with me by not saying anything, allowing others to assume I’m cool with it.
I imagine Harold thinks I’m a bit of a bitch. Which, good, if that’s what it takes for him to honor my boundaries. If being liked means offering up my dignity one bite at a time, I don’t want to be liked.
By taking the small opportunities to self-advocate, you give yourself the practice you need for the big, critical moments. You help define, to yourself, the nuances of your boundaries. One moment at a time, you teach the world around you what to expect from you, and what you will and will not welcome from it.
I think back to an earlier version of myself who would have broken out in hives at the thought of speaking to another person this way, and I offer her nothing but empathy and a warm hug. She taught me I hate to be objectified, and I love her for that. And you know what I tell her?
“I got you, babe.”
*And THAT is for another post at another time—the fact that many women feel the need to conjure up the ghost of a man to protect them from a real one. I fully hate that this is an impulse I give in to in situations like this…and I recognize that it’s deeply and culturally ingrained, and will remain so as long as there’s a patriarchy.