Eager to Prove Workplace Is ‘Just Like a Family’, WOTC Begins Deadnaming Trans Employees
The following is a recounting of recent work done by The Herald’s elite Agents Locating Prominent Harmful Associations/Bigotry, Establishing Tolerance, & Making All Free Information Available (aka ALPHABET MAFIA) unit. It includes information assumed to be true, cited properly in hyperlinks to original sources, as well as exaggerated fictions of conversations that the team may or may not have had with people who may or may not exist, all obfuscated and redacted as appropriate to keep both our agents and the individuals involved safe per the Salacious, Alleged, & Terribly-Interpretated Recollections of Events (SATIRE) guidelines.
PAWTUCKET, RI – It was a dark and stormy early summer’s evening when we first arrived at the wrought-iron gates to Hasbro’s corporate headquarters. Our mud-slicked, sodden forms were dwarfed by the looming castle in front of us-a large, gothic structure of black marble and gray granite that cut a bleak figure contrasting the streaks of bright lightning cracking in the air. It took all of our courage to merely loiter by the intimidating edifice; we were only shaken from the petrification of our abject terror due to the beckoning of a cloaked figure who wordlessly ushered us inside the building.
Once inside, we hastily gathered our bearings and turned to face our savior, but they had already disappeared. In their place was a pile of rags and a hastily scrawled note on parchment which read: “The CEO has been expecting you. Up the stairs, to the left, he waits in his study.”
As we climbed the great stairway in the foyer from which we entered, we passed by countless dimly-lit portraits of sullen and hollow-eyed people, all placed seemingly haphazardly in strange configurations across the walls. We failed to identify any of the individuals, but their bleak gazes seemed to follow us down the hall as we neared the den of our reclusive host.
“Welcome, friends and guests,” chirped a bright, cheery voice from a chair beside the room’s fireplace. “I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since your visit with Mr. Hight back in Renton.”
The man stood up to greet us. He was a jolly, rosy-cheeked man with a big smile and wild gray hair. He was dressed in a red cable-knit sweater and casual slacks, and held in his hands a mug of warm hot chocolate.
“I am Chris Cocks, Chief Executive Officer of Hasbro Incorporated,” he said, holding out one arm for a handshake. As one of our less experienced interns foolishly took his hand, he quickly pulled the young man into a bear hug. “But honestly, I prefer that folks call me Uncle Chris.”
When we explained to Mr. Cocks that we were there to ask about the ongoing unionization effort by WOTC employees and the various attempts Hasbro had made to discourage the effort, he motioned for us to join him in various seats by the fire.
“Y’see, when our employees first came to us with this union business, we thought it was a phase. Like all children, our employees would of course be rowdy and unruly at times, but deep down we knew we were all a family and it would all blow over”. He pointed toward a giant mural of a tree plastered above the fireplace as he continued: “But as the issue has dragged on we realized that while we were saying all of this stuff about how we were a family, we hadn’t really been doing enough to act like a family.”
“So we came up with this wonderful idea: we already keep so many meticulous records of all of the most important relationships of our employees, what if we used that knowledge to really sell that family dynamic?”
Mr. Cocks stood up at this point, and traced with his hand a long branch of the tree that seemed to follow the wall all the way back out into the hallway. He encouraged us to tag along behind him as he picked up a small lantern and followed its twisting, winding path. “It’s clear that our children are not feeling adequately valued and appreciated. To combat this, we needed to show that we intimately know each and every one of them.”
We asked Mr. Cocks why, if Hasbro was making such an effort to cultivate their individual relationships with employees, some transgender folks at the company were being referred to by their deadnames.
Mr. Cocks froze in front of one of the portraits lining the hallway, which seemed to be attached to this long forking branch of the larger tree.
“Part of replac-I mean, fostering-a familial relationship means emulating the environments folks were raised in.”
Mr. Cocks bathed the portrait in front of him with lantern light. In the dim glow, we could make out the writing. It was an MTG Arena employee’s name, here redacted, preceded by the title “Cousin” in Mythic Orange hue.
We asked Mr. Cocks why this was necessary, and if making trans folks use their deadname when casting their vote to unionize was not just the company weaponizing their trauma as a tactic to discourage voting.
The CEO seemed to ignore us, intently gazing at the portrait above him.
We finally asked if he realized how immensely offensive it was to refuse to use trans employees’ chosen names at the beginning of Pride Month.
“NO MORE QUESTIONS!” He suddenly screeched, as he whipped around, mistakenly dropping his lantern onto the carpet below him. In the brief moment of its shattering, the lantern illuminated the entire wall in an eerie blue light, revealing the various portraits to be wreathed not in branches, but tentacles.
A chorus of voices filled our minds as Cocks began to chant, the portraits droning along: “I’mrakul. We’mrakul. I’mrakul. We’mrakul. I’mrakul. We’mrakul.”
Our vision blurred and we were suddenly back outside the iron gates of the castle, with nothing to show for our efforts but our memories and a rainbow Pride pin emblazoned with the CEO’s face and writing beneath: “The Gays love Cocks.”
