goodie bags for the connected:
corporate 'swag'

written by: Nancy Shohet West

Here's my list: a leather-bound appointment book, a gym bag, a watch, an oversized umbrella, a vinyl passport holder, a letter opener, a briefcase, a set of luggage tags, and enough t-shirts to go running every day for a month without ever doing laundry. The popular term for it is ''swag.'' You know, free stuff. Corporate giveaway items from your own employer. More specifically, my accumulation of eight years' worth of holiday party favors, company outings, meeting deadline rewards, show-your-company-loyalty fundraising walks, officewide Trivial Pursuit contests, and the occasional after-hours raid on the storeroom, just to see what was lying around.

Sometimes the gifts were undeniably useful, such as the umbrella. At other times, they were status symbols within the office walls: for example, each watch that was bestowed bore evidence of its owner's five years of continuous employment with the company.

And sometimes, there were things I didn't want at all. A few years ago, a vice president gathered my division together in early December to thank us for hard work heading into the holiday season. She then distributed small gifts that she said we would find useful in the new year: leatherbound appointment books. I have to admit that I was disappointed. It seemed anachronistic to me, where most of my colleagues had already joined me as PDA users. It also seemed somewhat self-serving, as if the subtext was ''Here's a great way to keep track of all the work you'd better plan on doing for me in the New Year, not to mention all the meetings you'll be required to attend and the career development seminars you'll have to find time for.''

When I got home that evening, I put the appointment book in a cardboard box I pull out when my young nieces visit me. It joined the discarded purses, wallets, and other props and accessories they use to enhance their games of house.

It was almost as if the gift-bearing vice president was watching over my shoulder as I shoved the box back into the closet. Two weeks later, she held a meeting with a different team of managers of which I was also a part. At the end, she handed out gifts. You guessed it. Another appointment book, identical to the one I didn't want two weeks earlier. It reminded me of that vaudeville-era joke about the contest that my father tells: ''First prize is a week in Cincinnati. Second prize is two weeks in Cincinnati.''

Late last summer, I took a personal day to go to the beach with a friend. Together, we looked like walking banners: me with my company beach bag, beach ball, and sunglasses, giveaways all; my friend with her company sweatshirt, kite, and insulated water bottle. We surveyed the heap of corporate logos that marked our space on the sand. ''Are we being good employees by advertising our businesses, even on a day off?'' she asked me. ''Or is it just that all these vivid reminders of work make us feel guilty for not being there right now?''

I'm not sure of the answer, but I do love to tell the story of a co-worker who used her gym bag as an overnight carry-all when she went to the hospital for a scheduled surgery. Only when the surgeon appeared in her hospital room and introduced himself did she realize with horror that he was involved in litigation against our company. Desperate and partially incapacitated, she did the only thing she could think of: she threw a pillow at her bag to cover the logo.

Of course, there is one decent thing to do with extra material goods: give them away. There's a reason that so many street people foraging for bottles in trash cans all over the city are wearing T-shirts with my company's name emblazoned across them. They aren't former employees who have fallen on hard times; it's just that we all end up sending bags of T-shirts to Goodwill every year.

I'm not sure why my company puts so much faith into tchotchkes, and sometimes it unnerves me to think that we employees are so very facile as to be wooed by the unending shower of swag.

But a couple of years ago, I had a moment of enlightenment when I accompanied my 5-year-old niece to another child's birthday party. My niece went to a lot of birthday parties that season; she and all her friends knew the routine. I was impressed with how obediently they fell into rotation as they played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, decorated plates, whacked at a piñata, and ate cake slathered with orange and red frosting. They even sat quietly as the birthday boy opened a mountain of enticingly wrapped presents. ''We should head out soon,'' I whispered to my niece as the present-opening ritual drew to a close. Her eyes widened in alarm. ''We have to stay for goodie bags!'' she hissed in my ear, her tone slightly panicky at the thought of leaving empty-handed.

Oh, right, goodie bags. Maybe I didn't know the drill, but she sure did. Five minutes later, the birthday boy's dad emerged from the garage with a big basket of cellophane baggies and handed one to each child. My niece made it as far as the car before ripping hers open. We watched together as the contents spewed over the back seat: lollipops, beads, a bottle of bubble solution, trading cards, a jumprope, a candy necklace, a miniature flashlight.

''Wow!'' I couldn't help exclaiming. ''Swag! All that stuff, just as a reward for showing up at the party!'' I looked back at the house, imagining the birthday boy inside, digging his way through all his presents while his friends went home, happy with their bubble gum and paddleball games.

Then the image in my mind's eye gradually morphed into the chief executive of my company opening his paycheck.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

  Published: Boston Globe, October 24, 2004

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