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Through adversity and self-discovery, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer helped one writer in his youth find strength in being different and kinder to yourself and others.
I'm a dog person, but I'm also partial to reindeer. One in particular: Rudolph, of course.
To be clear, I'm not one of those everyday-is-Christmas folks. Nor am I that person who spends the whole year prepping, ordering new ornaments on Amazon in February, and posting on Facebook in mid-August: "Christmas shopping…DONE!" Most years, I don't celebrate Christmas at all.
If Tofurky isn't sad enough, try Tofurky for one.
Rudolph isn't about Christmas. Sure, he's a big help on foggy Christmas Eves, but I'm confident there's technology for that now. With three hundred sixty-four other days in the year and, even accounting for a week to rest his tired legs, he's got more of a life to live.
Rudolph—I used to call him Rudy, but a particular political figure ruined that—got me through childhood. I suppose every kid has bouts of feeling like he doesn't belong, but it was pervasive with me. I'd play the equivalent of reindeer games like Hide and Seek, Tag, and Make My Sister Scream.
But right around the age when kids started questioning the whole Santa thing, games got more complicated, requiring coordination and catching skills. That's when I, like Rudolph, started getting left off the neighborhood roster. When my gang let me play baseball, they would stick me in the Extreme Outfield, where no ball had ever landed. My at-bats were preceded by Jimmy Hardy yelling, "Move in, everybody. Way in!"
If I'd perfected a slugger's spit, I might've landed a loogie on Jimmy's cheek instead of my chin.
I’m different, I'd tell myself in wallowing moments. Just like Red-Nose. Unlike the derisive names Rudolph's peers gave, it became an endearing expression.
I wasn't as brave as Rudolph. For all the times I wanted to run away, I needed more follow-through. The closest I got was walking out of the house and "hiding" on a window ledge under an awning. I didn't spawn a search party since no one realized I was missing during my twenty-minute stunt.
If he left the North Pole feeling like an outcast, Rudolph soon attracted like-minded company. Hermey the Elf refused to be typecast as a toymaker, walking away from a lifetime supply of Keebler cookies in pursuit of a career in dentistry. Affable Yukon Cornelius showed I could be content living life as a solo venturer. These were dreamers, believing wholeheartedly that the best days were ahead. I drew on that mindset so often and still do.
Having faced intolerance—even from a cranky Santa—Rudolph never responded in kind. He didn't tell Hermey that elves can't be dentists. He didn't question the value of Charlie-in-the-box, the water pistol that shoots jelly, and the other misfit toys. Rudolph immersed himself in a world of acceptance when he found his chosen bunch.
In time, I realized my sense of being different was more complicated than my hair color. I preferred boys more than girls as I was supposed to in second grade but, when all the boys shifted to liking girls. I couldn't make the pivot. A sheltered '70s kid, I didn't know what that was about until others introduced me to many unkind labels.
I grew up long before "It Gets Better" and rainbow flags. Instead of RuPaul, it was Rudolph who offered comfort.
To this day, I think the animated stop-motion TV show is a 1964 marvel, a subversive production intent on showing it's okay to be gay. I don't regard Rudolph as gay, but it's easy to draw the parallels. His father, Donner, insisted he mask his bright nose. "You'll be a normal little buck like everybody else." Even warm-natured Sam the Snowman struggled to talk openly about Rudolph: "Well, for the first year, the Donners did a pretty fair job of hiding Rudolph's, uh…nonconformity."
I connect to Hermey's sensitive nature. Yukon and the possibly closeted, meticulously dressed Sam represent the masculine "bears" of gay culture. Charlie has stereotypical, dated gay mannerisms. He can't pass for Jack. Tellingly, the misfits sing, "Wake up, don't you know it's time to come out?"
Others are welcome to interpret the show as a production aimed at accepting their own misfit qualities. Enduring classics have specific and universal messages.
Thanks to Rudolph, I proudly claim my misfit status. Shunned differences have required considerable soul-searching. However, they have strengthened my convictions and made me kinder to others and myself.
It's enough that I can draw inspiration from Rudolph at any time of year I want.
Gregory Walters is a writer living in Vancouver. His essays have been published by The New York Times, The Globe and Mail, CBC, Writer's Digest, The Funny Times, Little Old Lady Comedy, Next Avenue, and Cottage Life.
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