Sebastian Junger, in his book Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging, writes “Human beings do not mind hardship; in fact, they thrive on it. What they mind is not feeling necessary.” Junger’s claim came to mind a few days ago while watching the classic, claymation “Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer.” While a familiar tale (and song!), the details of the story teach us a great deal about how to gain a sense of belonging through being necessary.
The Plot
Rudolph is the child of champion flying reindeer Donner, who leads Santa’s sleigh every Christmas. Expectation looms large for Rudolph, as he is expected to take up his father’s mantle as lead reindeer. But, he is discovered to have a red nose that turns bright and produces a truly obnoxious noise. His parents attempt to cover it up, first with mud and then more permanently with an uncomfortable, nose-pinching sheath. Neither attempt is successful, and Rudolph’s nose is exposed while being examined by Santa for his future potential during the infamous “Reindeer Games.” Even though he is comforted by his new crush Clarice, Rudolph runs away: notably, not from the “hardship” of insults, but from his perceived uselessness.
He bands together with the elf Hermey, who dreams of being a dentist rather than building toys. Hermey’s strange, out-of-touch aspiration leads him to neglect his toy-making, and eventually he (with Rudolph) runs away from his duties. The duo are then joined by Yukon Cornelius, the wholly ineffective prospector who can’t seem to find any silver and gold, probably because his prospecting strategy involves nothing more than throwing his ice pick in the air, letting it fall to the ground, and then licking the pick to see if he could taste any precious metal. All three are outcasts, as none of them sense they could be of any use to anyone else.
While escaping the pursuit of The Abominable Snowman (a “boogeyman” of sorts), the trio ends up on The Island of Misfit Toys. Surprisingly, the king of the island allows them to stay the night, but no longer. Although they are misfits, they don’t belong on the island. However, he makes a request: that when Rudolph returns to the North Pole, he tell Santa about the Misfit Toys so they might be given to children who want them.
Rudolph courageously sneaks away in the night, knowing that to continue traveling with Hermey and Cornelius will only endanger them, as the Abominable Snowman is only after him. Seemingly as a result of his courage, Rudolph also comes of age, growing his antlers on his way back home. Upon returning to the North Pole, he finds that his family has been searching for him, and no one knows where they are. He promises Santa— notably, the very man who regarded him as useless because of his non-uniformity— to find his family and bring them back.
Rudolph then— inexplicably— senses that the place to find his family is the scariest place imaginable: the cave of The Abominable Snowman. He does find his family, but is incapacitated and captured by the monster. Yukon Cornelius and Hermey arrive in time to trick and do away with The Abominable. Yukon finally does something useful with his ice pick, dislodging a large rock that knocks out the monster. Hermey also puts himself to use, employing his dental skills and pulling all the monster’s teeth. Tragically, Yukon is dragged down by the monster into a ravine while defending his friends, presumably to his death.
Rudolph, his family, and Hermey return to the North Pole only to find that a blizzard has caused Santa to consider cancelling Christmas, as his sleigh can’t navigate through the blinding snow. It is at this precise moment that Rudolph’s nose presents itself as the solution to the blizzard: however unsightly and loud it might be, it is exactly what is needed. Rudolph leads the team and sleigh first to the Island of Misfit Toys, where the toys are gathered up to be given to children who want them, and then off to the rest of the world to deliver toys. Hermey, back at the North Pole, is afforded the right to open a dentist office for the community, and immediately discovers that his abusive elf boss has some dental needs and schedules him an appointment. Yukon— seemingly back from the dead— arrives with his pack of sled dogs and (of all things) the Abominable Snowman, whose enormous size is put to use when he puts the star on top of the Christmas tree without needing a step-ladder.
The Meaning
It’s a cute story, and one that we all love and— notably— accept, in spite of ridiculously strange plot devices. Reindeer can fly? Rudolph has a nose that lights up and whistles? Abominable Snowmen will eat reindeer (and also pigs?), but not dogs, prospectors, or elves? A winged lion is the king of an island full of unwanted toys? Rudolph has no idea where his family is, but decides to go to the scariest place imaginable to look for them?
Whenever we accept stories full of absurdity and non-objective truths, it’s usually a good assumption that the story tells us something even more important and deeply true about the nature of life. My contention is this: Rudolph teaches us that belonging is not fundamentally rooted in uniformity, but in usefulness to the community.
Early in the narrative, all the characters see uniformity as the means to belong. Rudolph’s nose isn’t uniform, so the solution is to either cover it up to look the same as everyone else or to withdraw from the community altogether to join a new community of misfits. Hermey’s professional interests aren’t uniform, and others try to shame and bully him into uniformity, even as he privately neglects his work in lieu of performing mock dental exams on dolls, an activity that only burdens his fellow elves with more work. He too withdraws from the community, sensing his lack of belonging. Yukon prospects for (but never finds) gold and silver in a non-traditional way, making his trek through the arctic functionally a hermitage: he never brings anything of value back to the community he came from, and his isolation reflects the fact. The Abominable is the non-verbal picture of unencumbered rage and violence, and therefore he is condemned to wander the wasteland alone, devoid of friends or companions. (Although, even when the monster has captured reindeer in his cave, he never eats them. Why? His only way to have others around him is capturing others through brute force and keeping them close.
The idea that uniformity is the basis of belonging continues onto the Island of Misfit Toys. Rudolph, Hermey, and Yukon are surprised when then the king declines their request to stay, even though they too are misfits. But wait, we fit here! We are like all these toys— doesn’t that mean we belong? The wise (lion) and transcendent (winged) king gives a different narrative: you have work to do for others, get to it! I.e., your belongingness is rooted in your willingness to contribute to the well-being of others, and your quirks make you uniquely capable of contributing.
As the story continues, we see the characters redeem themselves (and gain a sense of belonging) by using their non-uniformity to help the community flourish. Rudolph’s bright red nose helps the sleigh navigate through the storm; his time as a misfit allowed him speak for other misfits and have them put to use as toys for children who want them. Hermey’s oral interests render the menace of the story harmless, saving our hero Rudolph; he also agrees to help his bully of an ex-boss with his teeth. Yukon’s quirky prospecting strategy is put to use when he discovers a peppermint mine at the end of the story: finally he can sense and mine something out of the ground that can be used by and for the community. Even the Abominable Snowman is included and welcomed into the community, not because he captures others through brute force, but because he finds that his strange shape and size is precisely what is needed when it comes to putting a star on a tall tree.
Why is this so important for us to know?
In my clinical practice, I see clients who have the same mistaken view of belonging as the characters in the story. They insist that they are “on the outs” with others because of non-uniformity. Couples split up because “we’re just so different.” Misfit children descend into pits of discouragement because “I’m the ugly duckling of the bunch.” College students develop depressive symptoms and disorders because they “can’t seem to find where to fit,” citing their differences of political opinion, sports team affiliation, religion, or personality as major contributing causes of difficulty.
To be clear, I do the same thing quite frequently. If I am different, I assume that I don’t belong with the group around me.
Both I and my clients attempt to solve this problem in a whole host of ways.
We adopt inauthentic ways of living to look more uniform (similar to masking Rudolph’s nose with a cover or with mud). We pretend we are a certain way when we most certainly are not that way.
We choose to exist in a private world, and in so doing neglect our present responsibilities to others. We develop deeply unhealthy habits of private “misbehavior”: procrastination, substance abuse, heavy/compulsive use of pornography, forgetfulness, or passive-aggression. This is akin to Hermey’s failure to meet the responsibilities of his job, even as he “plays dentist” with dolls.
We become openly hostile to the well-being of others, developing a style of living that says “If I can’t belong, I’ll make darn sure that no one else can either.” We bully others, frighten them with outbursts of anger, and connect with them only through brute force and fear-mongering. Like the Abominable, we make a “cave” of isolation where we trap others as faux-friends, terrifying them all the while.
We seek to belong through uniformity by finding other misfits or “rejects” with whom we can commiserate. Any parent of a disgruntled teen has seen this pattern: their child doesn’t feel that they’re in the “in-group,” so they surround themselves with a strange band of other misfits, who strive to put their Misfit-ness on display in their off-color fashion, avant-garde music preferences, or delinquent behavior. We resign ourselves to an “Island of Misfits” with no real chance for escape.
We withdraw from the community altogether. We isolate, push others away, and retreat into a world of imagination. We spend all day in bed or playing online games, we keep away from social gatherings, and we neglect to communicate with others in-person or for any non-utilitarian reason. We run away from our respective “North Poles” to live in the wilderness of isolation.
The trouble is, none of these “solutions” actually solves the real problem. Human beings are social animals, and we want to belong to a group. Faking uniformity only leaves an annoying thought in the back of our mind: “Do I belong, or this fake version of me?” Privatizing our authenticity produces feelings of shame: “If they only knew who I am in the dark, they would never want me around.” Hostility to others or extracting feelings of belonging by force put us at odds with the community, and our faux connections are often unstable and short. We always wonder “When is this going to end, like the rest of my ‘relationships?’” Building a uniformity out of non-uniformity predictably ends in chaos, as groups splinter endlessly in the paradox of their community: “Yeah, you don’t fit, but you’re not as much of a misfit as much we are!” Social withdrawal provides us an escape from rejection, but keeps us from the sense of belonging we so desperately want.
Alfred Adler observed that clients don’t come to therapists with their problems, but rather with their ineffective solutions to life’s problems. Your non-uniformity can be— without a doubt—a problem that life presents to you. You aren’t entitled to a sense of belonging, and you’re surrounded by a bunch of people who mistakenly see uniformity as the essence of belonging. But, you don’t have to solve the problem the way you always have. You can learn from an old holiday claymation classic, and put your non-uniformity to use for others.
Are you the only “artsy-fartsy” one in your family of accountants? Develop an aesthetically pleasing template for their family budgets.
Are you the only Clemson fan in an apartment full of Gamecocks? Be the civil, respectful, fun rival that every sports fan really wants.
Are you the only atheist/agnostic in a friend group full of Christians? Offer a scientific perspective to a person who might be over-spiritualizing a tough life problem, not to drown out or disprove their religiosity, but to support and encourage.
Are you the only woman on your sales team? Rather than trying to be “one of the guys,” offer insights to the group that— by virtue of their maleness- they might miss.
Free yourself of the idea that to belong is to be uniform. Strive to put your unique— or even quirky!— traits to use for the community. I can say with confidence that this is the real means to belonging with significance.