Hello, Shorty!

The first in line—that’s where I belonged in school while everyone was growing up except me.

From elementary grade to college, and definitely in graduate school (because by then I was in the US straining my neck up to Americans), I was dwarfed by humanity. At that time, height shaming was not a crime, so those close to me would tease, “Hello, shorty!”

Before we reached our maximum height, my cousin Minna, with whom I saw eye-to-eye, and I would jump the highest during our family reunion on New Year’s Day; we believed what people said that if you did that, you’d grow taller.

They lied.

We both got vertically pegged at 5 feet (or barely). 

“Big things come in small packages,” my mom and Minna’s mom would say to make us feel better.  They added, “Think Cleopatra, or Queen Victoria, or Deng Xiaoping, or Jose Rizal.”   

To the rescue came clogs, then stiletto heels, then wedgies, then clunky mules, and then platform shoes. And there was that era when we seemed stretched because of the beehive hairdo. Indeed, we were way below the required height-line for many jobs (such as a stewardess or a beauty pageant contestant).

By grace, I married a tall man, with whom I have three tall sons, by my standards. That sealed my shorty stature, a fate I resigned to.     

But one glorious day, my grandson, Adrian, was born. He inherited my “shortest in the family” title and I reveled in my new position in the area of elevation. 

Till he came home for a vacation last year.

Now 12 years old, he has outgrown me by an inch or so. I say “or so” because when we hugged, I was wearing my cork espadrilles, yet, I had to tilt my head up to say, “Hello!” 

 

Well-mannered, respectful, and affectionate, Adrian did not gloat nor say, “Hello, shorty!”