the peppermint mine

With the recent holiday movie viewing, I've been thinking of children's books and films in terms of two particular themes: the child who escapes familiarity and has strange adventures (The Snowman) and the child who finds familiarity outside of an environment where he never felt he belonged (Elf). 

I tend to find the latter category problematic. I grew up also feeling like I didn't particularly belong - I made friends rarely, and even my best friend and I little in common (her: athletic, brave, lovely; me: well, yeah). I loved my family but I wouldn't have been surprised to hear I was adopted, either. So it's possible that to a certain degree my problem with those books is one of jealousy -- I accepted the life I was dealt, and so should everybody else. Also, especially when the stories concern someone who realizes they "actually" belong somewhere else, and they take off without a backwards glance, I feel like they're sort of rotten. Even in Narnia, they're convinced they don't have to go back to England because they're dead, but what if they aren't? Their poor parents. 

On the other hand, sitting with my friends the other night and realizing that to a certain degree we are all misfit toys -- having never felt particularly like I belonged somewhere, it was not too difficult to pick up and move to another country where I don't belong. In fact, in some ways it's easier since the reason I don't belong here is pretty straightforward. The difference between me and fiction is that I didn't have to choose between the two worlds, so it doesn't feel like I betrayed anything. To me.

I should probably just stick to Die Hard.