I married a Swede stateside in 1980. We moved to Sweden in 1982. Upon arrival at Arlanda airport in Stockholm, I showed my passport, marriage certificate to a Swedish national and declared that I intended residency. I was told that I was to register with the police in the village we had moved to. Upon registry, as an alien wishing to apply for residency, I was given an appointment for an interview at the same police station. (There are no hodgepodges “local” police agencies in Sweden as we know them in the US. The Swedish police are one integral national law enforcement agency that handles initial immigration applications, besides local crime, etc.)
The interview lasted about an hour. There was a plain clothed officer and an officer in uniform in the interview room. The plain clothes man stood by the desk as the uniformed officer asked the questions. They were both very polite and informed me what type of questions were to be asked and why they were asked. Most of the info they needed was on the application that I received at customs at Arlanda.
I was then asked if I had ever committed a felony, if I had ever been diagnosed with a serious mental problems, and if I had ever lived anywhere besides the U.S. I was told that a “yes” to the first two questions could put my prospective residence visa in jeopardy and that my criminal history would come from the U.S. embassy anyway. I passed muster. And then he asked me a very interesting question that I doubt they ask anymore: “Did you serve in any capacity for the American armed forces in Viet Nam?” I hadn’t, but I asked why that was important. He said they had had problems with Americans who had served and it was a red flag.
At this point, the plain clothed man left the room. The rest of the interview was basically about what was expected of me in the future in order to maintain my residency. I was to receive in a short time a “seat” at a Swedish language school of which I would be expected to attend five days a week, eight hours a day for 5 months. I said that this would be very nice, but I had money for a tutor and didn’t want to use Swedish tax money for something I could pay for myself. He said it was mandatory. OK. He said that naturally I would be expected to obey Swedish law and assimilate as best as possible, that the Swedish government worked hard to avoid “islands of cultural isolation.” I said no problem, I appreciated their concern. The guy was very nice and said that I could probably expect no problems with my application.
About a two weeks later, I received an invitation to attend language school at a specific date, under the auspices of Arbetsformedlingen (the national employment office), I believe. The classes were tough at first. There was no explanations in English or any other language; the teacher spoke only Swedish. There were about twenty-five other adults in the class, all of different nations. It was very interesting. There were only two other native English speakers; a girl from south England and a memorable machinist from Scotland. I couldn’t understand the Scot any better than the teacher. There were two Roma women as well. Very tough culture—isolation during mense, etc, so once a month they were excused from attending. Attendance was very strict as well. I think we were allowed only 1 day a month of excused absence, otherwise our residency was put in question.
By watching and listening closely, I was, within a couple of days, able to discern that “substantive” meant “noun,” etc. Predikat, helpverb, etc., came along easily. I had a great teacher. We learned about Swedish money, geography, political structure and theory and the 5 politcal parties then existent in Sweden. There were some dropouts. By the time the course ended, we were down to just over ten students. The Scot hung in there, but the Brit and the Romas had left. It was the best course one could get as an introduction to Swedish culture and language and the best investment the Swedes could make toward assimilating their immigrants. Smart people.
During this time, I wasn’t allowed to work as a work permit was granted only on condition of attending this school. I received a stipend for living expenses, a monthly bus pass, and a daily newspaper of my choice—all of which I didn’t need, but the government was adamant to give me. This way, I suppose, there would be no excuses not to go to this school.
After I finished my five months, I was sent to the employment office where they evaluated my work history and I was given a battery of tests to determine my academic achievement level. About a week later, I had an interview with a woman who’s job it was to either get me into more school or into the work force as soon as possible. She said I could go further in school on the Swedish dime if I wanted to. I couldn’t believe it. This was one thing I wanted to do there more than anything else, but I though I would have pay for it. She asked me what I would like to study. Jesus, I thought. A smorgasbord has opened up. What the hell, I thought, for the first time in my life I would go for broke. I told her I would like to go to medical school.
I remember exactly how she reacted. She kind of leaned back into her chair, and looked at me with a kind of wry smile. After a moment she suggested that I first get my feet wet in health care field by becoming a paramedic and, if that worked out, we could talk further. I said o problem. Classes would open up in September and this was May, so in the meantime, as she didn’t want me just waiting around doing nothing, there was a professional cooking class open to new students and that I could attend that until my courses opened up. I said no problem.
In the cooking class I learned about Escoffier-style cooking—the five mother sauces, the history of certain dishes going back to Roman times, etc.,—only with a Swedish bent, including the preparation of various wild fowl, elk, reindeer, and sauces with wild berries, etc.
There, I met a guy, a graduate of Warsaw Politeknik, a young lawyer whose last job was at the Polish consulate in Malmo, evidently a man being groomed for a future in diplomacy. He handled the distribution of coded teletype dispatches. The day one arrived informing the staff that the Première of Poland had “committed suicide,” and General Jaruzelski , the new man in charge, had instituted martial law, this young lawyer took his lunch with the Swedish Police at the nearest station and asked for asylum. Now we were both in this cooking class. He was not a happy camper. He was waiting for Swedish and international law classes to open up. He was all thumbs and not at all interested in cooking. He was a little, skinny guy and terrible in the kitchen and even dangerous to be around when fire was involved. I was having a ball. I loved every minute of this school. Anyway, I was the only other student who would work with this guy so we got to know each other. Very interesting. I never met anybody under a death sentence in-absentia before. He was a very nice person and we have kept in contact over the years.
I eventually became a paramedic and studied art history at night. Later, I became medical staff aboard ships in the Baltic and oil rigs in the North Sea. I even did some cooking in a hotel in Copenhagen and a little pub in Scotland while on leave from North Sea duty. I never went to medical school, and never really expected to. I paid higher taxes there, I suppose, but I always felt I was getting my money back in services. I think most Swedes feel that way.
I’m not sure if this is still the way the immigration policy works in Sweden, but it was probably the smartest thing any country can do for it’s immigrants and we would do well to follow their example. It is much cheaper to make the investment and convert new immigrants into tax payers as soon as possible— which I think was the whole point of it all.
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