As the Thanksgiving holiday was winding down, a medical center in Salem, Ore., found itself in the middle of a frothing social media mess. A nurse named Ashley Grames posted a video on TikTok that went viral in which she mock-confessed to ignoring coronavirus health guidelines.
The video – which Grames has since taken down – was less than 15 seconds long. The nurse is wearing scrubs and seemingly at a medical facility. She lip-syncs to a short audio clip from “The Grinch” and mocks her co-workers’ outrage at her decision to flout the state mask mandate outside of work.
The nurse’s antics drew some unflattering attention to her employer, Salem Health, which on Dec. 8 confirmed she’s no longer employed there. But it highlighted the ease with which employees can pull out a phone on the sly and share a little clip before the boss is any the wiser. Popular examples include a Domino’s Pizza cook, an Amazon warehouse worker and Starbucks baristas. Their employers thus serve as unwitting backdrops – with the logos, uniforms and workplaces on full display.
I find the mass of workplace TikTok videos somewhat surprising. That’s because even the most innocuous videos likely violate standard corporate social media policies, which tend to require a strict separation between the corporate brand and one’s personal life. Workers are generally not allowed to speak on behalf of the company or use the company brand or facilities without permission. These policies also warn against embarrassing the company or mocking customers.
It’s pretty much impossible to dance with your uniform on in the backroom without violating those rules – so why aren’t companies cracking down more?
TikTok, the preferred social media platform of the Gen Z set, is not really about connecting with friends. It’s more about recording the trending dance or fluffy topic of the moment and hoping the algorithm will spread your post to its billions of users.
Since much of TikTok is wordless and anodyne, TikTok seems the perfect corporate antidote to more pointed and politicized commentary on Twitter or Facebook.
And for the most part, it is. In 30-second bites, workers conjure up a mini fantasy world of a job free of supervisors. A man twirls and glides in a glum potato warehouse. An Amazon worker packs boxes with Olympic speed and precision. Hospital workers in protective gear groove with balloons bulging out of their scrubs.
It’s free promotion for the employer, as recruiting and marketing companies have pointed out. Even before the COVID-19 era, these types of jobs could be difficult, dangerous, boring or low paid. Videos that present an alternate narrative, from the workers’ perspectives – showing them looking cool or being silly – can’t really be replicated in formal marketing.
It all seems like fun and games until the scandals mount.
Companies have also pounced on the faintest whiff of embarrassment. Before there was Ashley Grames, there was Tony Piloseno, a popular TikTok paint mixer fired over the summer, apparently for posting a video in which he mixed blueberries with paint.
And there have been less-high-profile scandals in recent months: a Chik-Fil-A worker fired over a video advising viewers to save money by ordering a drink with two extra pumps of mango syrup and a police officer suspended over a homophobic video about “magic” Crocs.
Companies that have not been monitoring workplace TikTok posts may be scrambling to avert the next crisis.
As sociologists Steven Maynard-Moody and Michael Musheno have observed, front-line workers are mired in rules and procedures. The inevitable response to scandal, they argue, is just to impose more rules.
But much of the appeal of TikTok resides in its patina of transgression. Dunkin’s official TikTok squad is as humdrum as any other corporate social media account. Reaping the viral rewards of TikTok may ultimately require companies to accept a little risk – and at least pretend they don’t approve.
Elizabeth C. Tippett is an associate professor at the University of Oregon School of Law. Distributed by The Associated Press.
