The Swedes have a novel twist on the grand old American tradition of "keeping up with the Joneses." It's called "den kungliga svenska avundsjukan," or the Royal Swedish Envy -- referred to as such because it seems to be as fundamental to the culture as a state institution -- and has been identified as an altogether unenviable national characteristic.
Why buy? Americans want to be No.1 and have the best toys. The Swedes' overconsumption, on the other hand, is driven by age-old notions of equality. Having more things than someone else was traditionally frowned upon; the country's modern political system, after all, was designed to keep people at roughly the same standard of living. The first guy on the block with a [fill in the blank] was likely to evoke envious and malicious whispers of "Who does he think he is?"
Today, however, the concept of envy has evolved from muttering behind your neighbor's back to flexing your own economic muscle to ensure you're not the last one without a [fill in the blank]. Credit cards, not politics, are the path to equality nowadays.
Incidentally, Sweden has the highest number of mobile/cellular
phones per capita in the world -- not surprising, perhaps, for
the nation that spawned Ericsson Inc. But like their American
counterparts, Swedish businessfolk have made the cell phone an
obnoxious urban icon. Critics snootily point to the stressed-out
Swedish company man clutching his "yuppienalle" -- literally,
"yuppie teddy (bear)" -- as further evidence of rampant social
decay, i.e., Americanization.
The Swedish national team's ski-jumping hill at Dundret, a small town north of the Arctic Circle. If you think the sport looks insane on ABC's Wide World of Sports (remember the "agony of defeat" guy?), try standing at the base of one of those 90-meter hills. Watch incomprehensibly gutsy young men soar from it at more than 50 miles an hour, land far, far down the slope with an icy crunch and snowplow to a blinding stop just before hitting a snow fence. Repeatedly. My knees ached just witnessing it.
The towering chair lift alone looked more thrilling than any ride Disney ever created. I foolishly declined an invitation to observe from the top of the hill (although I later visited the summit of the Holmenkollen hill in Oslo), but did interview Sweden's then-best weapon against the neighboring "flying Finns."
A serious, reserved young man of 23, he struck me as surprisingly
normal. Just weeks after the interview, he crashed at Dundret
and initially was not expected to walk again. Another youngster
quickly and happily emerged to take his place.
With both resignation and anticipation -- resignation over the loss of independence and control, and the anticipation of generous and regular paychecks. I've been an independent writer for five years and previously had worked only in small companies. So I wasn't prepared for how much the corporate world really does resemble "Dilbert."
I've found a way to have the best of both worlds, however, and that is through contract work. Currently, I'm project editor on a health care "fact book" for a cooperative of non-profit hospitals. As a contractor, I have the security of a fixed income for the next six months yet am relatively unaffected by internal politics.
I come and go as I please, and what I lack in benefits, I make
up for in overtime billing. And it's not a full-time gig, so I
have retained many of my long-time clients. I enjoy the increased
social contact working on-site makes possible and appreciate my
"relaxed" days in the home office more than ever. So far, the
most difficult aspects of the transition have been rush-hour commuting
and wearing pantyhose, neither of which I missed as a free-lancer.
That could be technology transfer in contract pharmaceutical manufacturing, changes in Medicare billing regulations for home infusion therapy providers, or a host of other stories.
Last summer I wrote a piece on a new drug compound used in Japan to treat liver cancer tumors that uses state-of-the art "targeting" drug delivery technology and a polymer similar to that in car wax. I often write about the health care industry for the trade press, and that means interpreting arcana for the benefit of a knowledgeable insider audience.
No one has heard of half the publications I've written for, but their readers genuinely appreciate a well-written piece on a topic that affects their businesses.
It's the "Daddy-knows-best" syndrome and can be observed in both sources and editors. Some men, particularly those of a certain age, have a tendency to treat women journalists, particularly those younger than their daughters, as if we simply don't know what we're doing.
No male journalist I've met of any age has had to put up with the patronizing comments or lack of access and assistance that I and many of my female colleagues have faced.
Sometimes it's well meant, if annoying: "I've been at this game since before you were born, so let me give you a few pointers." Sometimes it's less benign: "I've been at this game since before you were born, so don't you dare ask me a question like that, young lady."
Occasionally, it's even stupid and offensive: "Say, honey, your ribbon says 'Press' -- does that mean I can press there?" Ha, ha, ha.
All of us have strategies for combating this syndrome. I've found that pointed humor often defuses the situation while putting the offender on notice. In once case, I arrived to interview a well-regarded sommelier on his manor-house restaurant and resort and was ignored for half an hour. Eventually, the mature gentleman appeared, sized me up and inquired stiffly, "Are you the journalist?"
"No," I responded, with a winning smile but steely stare. "My
mommy was busy so she sent me instead." He chuckled appreciatively.
The interview went fine from that point.
I learned that maintaining a Web site is a major pain in the ass, particularly when you're making an average of $2 an hour to do it.
My real mistake was being a guide on freelance writing, which is my job. I enjoy my work, but I do it primarily to make money. Being a Mining Co. guide offered more in the way of exposure than income. And if exposure were all I was interested in, I could, as the saying goes, simply drop my drawers at the mall.
But I don't regret the experience. The Mining Co. staff I worked with were helpful and I learned a great deal about human nature and HTML. Had I maintained a site on a hobby or other personal passion, I most likely would not have resented the time the site involved or the income it did not generate and stuck with it.
My grandmothers -- both of them have remarkable stories to tell. From one, I've learned about her life as a teen-age torch singer in the 1940s, and the pain she felt when one of her children (an uncle I never met) disappeared years ago, never to be found. We talk regularly about the mysteries that are life, love and death.
From the other, I discovered the bitterness that can fester beneath the surface of a 60-year marriage revered by others. "Men are vultures," she blurted to me just weeks before her death in 1993. Orphaned as a toddler, she married one of the boys in the family for whom she worked as a maid -- a position she never escaped. I didn't know until after she was gone how often she proudly told others about her granddaughter the magazine editor.
Copyright 1998, Thomas L. Mangan
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