Some parents feel inclined to do so. They want their child to be the one with the most friends, invited to the most parties, and the one picked first for every team or class project. They speak proudly when they relate how all the other kids look up to their own son or daughter.
Here, I would say no—this is not a great idea, because encouraging popularity of this type is a hairsbreadth away from encouraging kids to value status instead of likability. It’s the very tactic a desperate stage parent turns to, trying too hard to have his child live out his own popularity fantasies.
In 1991, Texas mother Wanda Holloway was so desperate for her daughter to become a popular cheerleader that she conspired to murder the mother of her daughter’s chief competitor, hoping it would lead to an open spot on the squad. There are two aspects of this story that are distasteful. One is the homicidal behavior, naturally. But the other was that a parent became so obsessively focused on wanting her child to have high status. No matter how you plan to help your child obtain it, research suggests status-seeking is only advisable if you want that child to ultimately be at greater risk for overdependency on others, risky behavior, relationship problems, and unhappiness.
Perhaps the best parents can do is simply to teach their children about the two types of popularity. My own kids are only just starting school, so we’ll see how I feel when they get closer to adolescence. But for now, I’m doing my best to make sure that, at the very least, they understand that it’s fine to be popular, as long as it’s the type of popularity that will make them happy.
Almost every night, at least one of them asks me to read them the story of a race car named Lightning McQueen, who seeks fame and fortune in a championship race. Lightning has spent his entire life working to win the prized Piston Cup, and there is nothing he wants more than to come in first place and reap the many benefits of a champion: a new paint job, fancy sponsorships, and most of all hordes of fans that idolize him. But before he can pursue this dream, Lightning gets detoured to a small town called Radiator Springs, where he is forced to stay and work with its residents, a bunch of cars who are far more interested in having fun with Lightning and becoming his friends. By the end of the story, after he leaves the town, Lightning finally competes in the race he has dreamed about for so long, but he is surprised to discover that he really misses the cars in Radiator Springs. Just inches from the finish line, he decides to give up the championship and offer a selfless act of kindness to a fellow racer instead.
This is usually the part when my son asks, “Daddy, why didn’t Lightning finish the race?”
“Because no matter how long you have been racing,” I tell him, “winning will never make you happier than having good friends.”
CHAPTER 9
Most Likely to Succeed
Choosing the Type of Popularity We Want
Late one night at Foodtown, a local supermarket in the suburban town of Plainview, a sixteen-year-old boy who looked and sounded as if he was eleven picked up the store’s microphone.
“Attention, shoppers,” he announced. “The time is now 9:45, and Foodtown will be closing in just fifteen minutes.” As his high-pitched voice echoed down the aisles, customers looked over their carts. One approached the courtesy desk where the boy was placing the microphone back in its holder.
“Do you work here?” she asked, grinning. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” he said, pushing his glasses up.
Her expression changed. “You’re sixteen!” she shouted. “Oh, I thought you were gifted, like Doogie Howser or something.”
The boy’s announcement also served as the signal for all the teen employees of Foodtown to start making their plans for the night. It was Friday, and as was the custom, whichever stock boy whose parents were away would invite everyone over to hang out and drink cheap beer.
On this particular night it was Jason, a congenial high school senior, who walked the aisles to let everyone know the party would be at his house. Of course, he told Tony first. Tony was the quiet junior whom all of the girls working the cash registers would find excuses to talk to. If Tony wasn’t able to make it, it was hardly worth having the party at all. Jason next invited Sean, the kid who seemed to have made it through adolescence without a single sign of acne. By the time of the final announcement that the supermarket was closed, Jason had invited just about everyone. As they all quickly worked to clean up the store and get ready for the night ahead, a cashier named Sandra approached the young boy at the courtesy counter and asked him to the party, an invitation that left him speechless. Sandra, as it happened, was his first crush.
Jason seemed especially excited that the young boy would be attending. “Guess who’s coming tonight!” he called out to Sean while pointing and smiling.
That young boy, in fact, was me, and I still remember vividly that moment when the cool kids—the Jasons, the Tonys, and the Seans—wanted me to be a part of their group. I felt that at long last, despite how different I looked from the others, I would now be one of them. In my own high school, on the other side of town, the popular kids never invited me to hang out with them, much as I wished they would. They all knew me, of course: I was the guy who was still four-foot-seven in ninth grade, barely reaching five feet tall when I turned sixteen, and I wouldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds until my sophomore year of college. I had worn bifocals since the age of five, and while everyone else was ditching school to go hang out at the beach, I dutifully attended class every day, ultimately earning the decidedly uncool Perfect Attendance Award at high school graduation for never missing a class since kindergarten. At the time, it never made sense to me why I was left out when the popular kids hung out together. I was just as cool as them, I thought.
And now, at last, I was. Sean, Tony, and Sandra left the store a few minutes later, walking through the inner set of heavy doors that normally opened automatically but now had been deactivated for closing. Then they made their way through the outer set and stood outside. Jason waited to hold the inner door open for me, and after we both walked through, he turned to lock it for the night. But then, just as I started to head outside, I felt a tug on the hood of my winter jacket. Before I realized what was happening, Jason had pushed me against the inner wall of the vestibule. Stunned, I watched him run through the second set of doors without me, and as it slammed shut, he locked the outer doors as well.
I was now trapped, unable to get back into the dark store behind me or outside, where Sean, Tony, and Jason had started banging against the door and laughing.
Of course, for a few seconds I tried to affect nonchalance and make it seem like I was in on the joke. “OK, haha. You got me.”
But as seconds turned to minutes, a pit in my stomach grew. The guys crouched down so their heads were level with my own. They yelled and pointed at me. They used singsongy voices to tease and mock me, and as my expression began to wilt, from feigned amusement to misery, they began to hold their sides from laughing so hard. I remember looking into Jason’s eyes as he made taunting faces at me through the glass. I thought you were my friend.
Sandra, who was standing quietly outside a few yards away, wasn’t doing anything to help. In fact, she even seemed to be giggling a little at the sight of me pushing at the doors. It was at that moment that I remember looking through the glass, thinking that life must be so much better and so much easier for those who are popular.
Why am I sharing this story? It’s because I know my experience was hardly unique. We have all had our moments of humiliation, times when we felt as if we were left out or even bullied. Studies confirm that over 80 percent of us have been victimized by our peers at some point in our childhoods. Whether it was because we were too small or too big, too smart or not clever enough, too loud or too quiet, we have all been there.
But we didn’t leave these injuries safely back in adolescence—we carry those memories with us for the rest of our lives. We may keep
them private or deny their significance. But they remain with us tenaciously, sometimes as raw and sensitive as they were when we experienced them as teens. They are part of who we are, and we continue to believe, at least at some level, that being popular would make our lives better. If only we were popular, we would be more successful, wealthy, more confident, less stressed. If everyone else thought highly of us, we might feel that way about ourselves. Popular equals happy, at least in our minds.
For many, being unpopular is among the darkest of fears. Aaron Beck, the father of cognitive therapy and the recipient of the first Community Mental Health Award from the Kennedy Forum, suggested that almost every moment of anger, depression, addiction, worry, or despair we experience can be traced to what Beck called our “core beliefs” or “schema.” Beck’s former student Jeff Young discovered that there are only a dozen or so of these schema that people in every culture have in common, and many of them ultimately have some relation to popularity. We fear ending up alone, being excluded, losing the attention or support of others, or becoming unlovable. At some level, it’s these concerns about popularity that underlie so many moments when we excessively worry, overreact, or turn toward maladaptive means to make ourselves happy. If you think hard enough about the most recent occasion in which you felt particularly upset, and dig deeply enough to discern what about it made it so distressing, there’s a good chance you’ll find that it was due to some core belief that you might become unpopular.
Throughout this book, I have argued that the desire to be popular is a quintessential human experience. Whether it’s the evolutionary by-product of our ancestors’ herding instincts, now reflected in the social sensitivity of our DNA, a function of adolescent memories that have become a template for all our subsequent social interactions, or at the root of our collective psychological schema, we all share a universal desire to be regarded positively by others. Our minds, our bodies, our health, and our emotions are linked to popularity in ways that only the most current and sophisticated methods in psychology and neuroscience are now beginning to reveal.
But you have a choice: you can allow these instincts to direct you toward status or toward likability. Choosing likability is not always an easy option in a world so obsessed with status. We’re constantly invited to idolize those with status, we determine quality based on status, and we even pay attention to those with status with whom we may disagree, as if being visible, dominant, powerful, or cool are admirable qualities in their own right. We’re so tempted to obtain status for ourselves that we have invented ways that enable us to simply press buttons and strive for it on a round-the-clock basis.
Yet decades of accumulated research reviewed in this book have established that the relentless pursuit of status puts us at risk for a wide range of serious life problems, including addiction, loneliness, and depression. The efforts required to obtain status—behaviors such as aggressiveness, disregarding the feelings of others, and selfishness—should not be what we esteem for ourselves or for our society.
It turns out that the answer we are looking for is what we have known all along: the thing that will make us happiest is if we are likable. For some, likability comes easily. Their natural tendency to attract others will help them effortlessly establish new relationships, and their likability will pay dividends for years to come. But for others, being likable requires more of an effort, and after an adolescence of ostracism or exclusion, it can seem impossible. In fact, it may be these individuals who are the most heavily invested in status-seeking.
I hope this book has been successful in demonstrating that regardless of our pasts, we all have an opportunity to become more likable—maybe hundreds of opportunities each day, in fact. Doing so requires us to shed our adolescent conceptions of what’s “most popular” and return to what we learned as children. Prioritizing likability over status means choosing to help our peers rather than exclusively satisfying our own needs, showing more interest in others rather than vying for more attention and power, and cultivating relationships more than “likes.” It’s making the choice to help others feel included and welcome rather than making ourselves feel superior. Attaining the most gratifying form of popularity comes from making the effort to fit in more than trying to stand out, and from doing what we can to promote harmony rather than focusing on how to dominate others.
Becoming more likable also requires self-reflection, to understand how our teenage experiences have affected the way we behave in interpersonal relationships today. Considering how our most basic perceptions and assumptions may be biased is not easy, but doing so opens a door to a far happier life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Through writing Popular, I now know what it feels like to be pregnant. It wasn’t long after this book was conceived that I began to feel nauseous. Within a few weeks, I was exhausted, and the more the Word files within my computer began to divide and grow, the more it became clear to me that I was in for a ride like none I had previously experienced. Writing a book on popularity was the fulfillment of a dream—a chance to celebrate psychological science and potentially help people all over the world live happier lives. I had no idea how much I would grow as a result of this experience, however. As the weeks turned to months, and my draft slowly expanded, I noticed that I started to see everything around me through the lens of the hypotheses I was putting forth in each chapter. The text itself encroached on my daily existence, spilling into conversations, and eventually overcoming what had been the comfortable waistband of my daily routines. By the end, I couldn’t wait to have it all finally out of my system. Now, as these words are about to be launched into the world, I must wrestle between my protective instincts and my hope that this book will survive on its own, perhaps fulfilling some of the dreams I wished for it.
I am grateful for the enormous support of three midwives who each served extraordinary roles in the delivery of my manuscript. The first is Richard Pine, who wasn’t only an outstanding agent—he also was a mentor, a colleague, a confidant, and a friend through this entire process. Richard believed in this project, and in me as an author, long before I did. As he shepherded me through each of the tasks involved in trade publishing, I was consistently struck by his actions and his character. In his role as an agent, Richard had an unwavering commitment to excellence. At every turn, I was convinced that his desire for Popular to help others lead happy lives was equal to mine, and he remained committed to every last detail to make this the best book it was meant to be. He was with me for every single step with remarkable patience, limitless energy, and impeccable judgment. I can’t imagine anyone being as dedicated and supportive as Richard was throughout this process. But perhaps even more notably, working with Richard offered me a life class in confidence, kindness, and consistency. Perhaps because he himself is enormously popular, I experienced vicarious benefits simply by standing alongside Richard. He is a powerful mensch, a benevolent force of nature, and one of the most effective people I ever have met. Popular would not exist without him. Special thanks also to all of Richard’s colleagues at Inkwell Management, especially Eliza Rothstein, Lyndsey Blessing, and Nathaniel Jacks, for taking me by the hand throughout this process and being so thoroughly likable.
Bill Tonelli is the guy you want to have yelling “Push!” when you feel like you may give up. His uncensored feedback on draft after draft and his unique ability to offer an honest, grounded perspective on every idea were very much appreciated. Modest, candid, and as “real” as they get, Bill was there for me whenever I needed him, and I am thankful for his guidance.
Third, I am enormously indebted to Rick Kot at Viking, who is as brilliant, thoughtful, and astute as he is gentle, amiable, and kind. Rick didn’t just edit Popular; he was an inspiration. It was his curiosity and encouragement on the day I met him that I drew upon each day as I wrote. His supportive, constructive, and enthusiastic feedback is reflected on every page. Most important, Rick nurtured me as well. I cannot imagine a better expe
rience and I am honored that Rick was with me as Popular was born. Special thanks to the whole Viking team, including Brian Tart, Andrea Schulz, Lindsay Prevette, Mary Stone, and Diego Nunez. Their collective energy has been infectious, and their expertise impressive. A very special thanks to Carolyn Coleburn for her passion, her professionalism, and her love of popularity! I am equally indebted to Whitney Peeling at Broadside for her energy, humor, and optimism.
There are so many others who also deserve credit for Popular, and for the journey I experienced while writing it. First and foremost, I am consistently inspired by the amazing scientific discoveries of my colleagues, role models, and friends in the field, including Amanda Rose, Karen Rudolph, Julie Hubbard, Jaana Juvonen, Mara Brendgen, Joe Allen, Toon Cillessen, George Slavich, Paul Hastings, Ben Hankin, David Schwartz, Ernest Hodges, Bill Bukowski, Brad Brown, Jamie Ostrov, Wendy Troop-Gordon, Ron Scholte, Rutger Engles, Noel Card, Audrey Zakriski, Janis Kupersmidt, Jeff Parker, Ken Dodge, John Coie, Bill Hartup, Ken Rubin, Steve Asher, Tom Dishion, Wyndol Furman, Gary Ladd, Geertjan Overbeek, Marlene Sandstrom, Catherine Bagwell, Adrienne Nishina, Amori Mikami, Amy Bellmore, Andy Collins, Dianna Murray-Close, Doran French, Lawrence Steinberg, Jennifer Lansford, John Lochman, Barry Schneider, Dorothy Espelage, Frank Vitaro, Heidi Gazelle, Hongling Xie, Becky Kochenderfer-Ladd, Brett Laursen, Carolyn Barry, Cathryn Booth-Laforce, Sandra Graham, Scott Gest, Shelley Hymel, Marian Underwood, Martha Putallaz, Michel Boivin, Rene Veenstra, Richard Fabes, Robert Coplan, Ryan Adams, Stacey Horn, Thomas Berndt, Thomas Kindermann, Wendy Craig, Christina Salmivalli, Craig Hart, David Nelson, David Perry, Debra Peplar, Julie Bowker, Karen Bierman, Kristina McDonald, and Lara Mayeux. Nicki Crick, Phil Rodkin, and Duane Buhrmester, you left us too soon, but your legacies lives on. Steve Hinshaw, special thanks for your terrific support. To all these colleagues, and so many others I fear I may have missed: thank you. I attempted to highlight research conducted by each of you so others might be inspired by your work as much as I have.
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