Letter 20: The Toxicity of "Nice" Work Culture.
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I live in Minnesota, the land of Minnesota Nice.
I am not FROM Minnesota, and neither are my parents.
And it shows.
I was born in Boston to two east coast nut jobs (I say this lovingly and honestly, and they would agree) who are loud, boisterous, and culturally nothing like anyone in Minnesota. We moved when I was about 9.
Historically, my parents were always confrontational with one another. Aggressively so. Often times in ways that weren’t exactly healthy, though sometimes momentarily entertaining.
My friends were always entertained by my parents when they’d argue about what year a Led Zeppelin album came out like it was a matter of life or death.
“Led Zeppelin IV came out in ‘71, Mark! I’d bet my life on it!”
“No it DIDN’T, Morgan! How would you know, you were busy making beer pyramids in your dorm room!”
My friends with midwestern parents who would come over for dinner stared at them, not realizing they’d signed up for an evening of live dinner theater.
Minnesota Nice was not exactly something they understood or adopted. And quite frankly, neither did I.
If you’re not from Minnesota or you’ve never heard this term, I’ll fill you in.
Growing up we had a neighbor who often talked shit to my mom about another woman who lived on our block.
The first time it happened my mom didn’t understand where it was all coming from, seeing as they walked the neighborhood together every single morning.
“But I thought you and June were friends!”
“Oh, well you know how it goes!” the neighbor said, sipping her coffee. Her tone was sugary sweet with a subtle venomous undertone. “We’re all very Minnesota Nice around here! You’ll get used to it.”
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