The Vertical Challenge

"Face your deficiencies and acknowledge them, but do not let them master you", Helen Keller wrote. I heartily agree.

As a kid, I used to think of myself as someone who was considerably good-looking -- thin, cute, and especially tall. I took pride in my long legs. I liked being one of the last girls at our line-up ceremonies in school (the order of which were arranged by height). I'd be called upon to be the food monitor in classroom snack times presumably because I was strong. Everytime there was a family gathering, my relatives would often remark on how tall I've grown, that soon enough I'd be able to reach them and so forth, and I'd smile and be snugly lost in thoughts of glory. I loved being tall... and please take note on the past tense.

For when I reached the Wicked Stage of Puberty, everything but my height expanded. Dad had this measurement chart which recorded my monthly growth, and save for the initial spurt, I didn't go up an inch for almost 4 years. Instant karma for laughing at Gloria Arroyo's stature I guess, but then it was also my fair share of guilt since I was such a picky eater and even more picky on exercise.

It was too late to realize that I was never going to grow taller anymore. Doctors and science textbooks say that growth development in women peak at the age of 16 years, and I was already way beyond my fifteenth birthday. As a last-ditch effort, I took those ubiquitous growth pills that barely had an effect on me, except for the fact that I often felt strangely drowsy at night. For the life of me, I couldn't even fathom the number of times I've jumped at strike of 12 every New Year's Day. Mom and I asked my pediatrician if there's anything else that we could do to remedy, but she simply laughed.

Believe me, just when fellow girls were blossoming into pretty ladies, here I was, at the prime of my ugly duckling phase. I wanted to shove away all those teenaged pictures of me in various states of shabbiness. I was the short, fat, four-eyed, curly-haired, mega-braced monstrosity that could very well make a run for Betty La Fea's money. From being one of the last girls in the line, I became third to the first. And boy did my insecurities wallop. Adolescence proved to be a cruel stage of life indeed.

I was never going to realize my frustrated dream of becoming a supermodel, with my hobbit-like altitude and lovely lumps of excess baggage. Moreover, my childhood ambition of being a flight stewardess flew out of the cockpit. How I envied girls that were taller than me. They seemed to be more confident, more beautiful and more desirable for teachers who wanted them for plays and programs. And of course, taller ladies stood to gain more attention from the boys than from the squat set. It's a travesty because I had crushes on tall boys, who in turn made goo-goo eyes to statuesque lasses -- the pattern was recurrent. I found it funny that even in a day and age when beauty centers offer fix-ups from botox to noselifts to augmentation of the derriere, I haven't heard of a "height injection" -- because if they did, I said to a friend, I'd probably be the first in line!

As I matured, petty insecurities turned into self-deprecating episodes. Curious about my impending future, I looked into classified ads, only to be astounded at the height requirements. I then wondered if anyone would ever hire me because I was short, and if I would ever get bypassed at the corporate ladder simply because I didn't have the physical stature for board meeting photo-ops. I thought that if I were a boy, then life would be much harder for me -- even if I were superbly athletic, I won't get picked for sporting leagues! And about love, I was once even worried that I won't ever get married because men would be too scared to mingle their chromosomes with my genes of potential dwarfism!

Time passed by, and gradually I accepted my fate. Maybe it was God's plan that I remain only a little over five feet. But instead of whining about my imperfections, I channelled my energies instead on some things that I could get major work on, like my studies, and my hobby in writing. I have a future to deal with, and I'm thankful for my parents, family and friends, that even in my shortcomings (physical or otherwise), they believed in me and loved me for what I truly am... they are the ones that made me realize that I don't have to be anything in order to be accepted -- it's what's in me that counts.

"The measure of a man" shouldn't be taken in a literal sense. Most of the greatest people that ever lived were recognized for their achievements, not for how they looked like or how tall they were. No one said Jose Rizal couldn't be proclaimed national hero just because he didn't meet a certain height requirement, and Napoleon didn't discourage himself from being a great leader just because horses towered over him!

I may be vertically-challenged, so what? I'm still a human being, having unique abilities, strengths and talents, and capable of living and loving. I don't have to wear five-inch heels to make a point. I don't have to think I'll never be the model, stewardess or athlete that I wished to be -- I could simply strut down the street with all confidence and feel like a million bucks. I have so many goals in life that I want to accomplish, and nothing can deter me from doing so. If I trust myself that I can do it, I can ultimately reach heights far more than a tiny lady like me could ever imagine. In a just workplace, hardwork pays off and promotions come by when you deserve it. And what about the boys? If they're too superficial, then it's their loss for not seeing a diamond in the rough. (Ha ha ha!)

So if by a strange circumstance I mysteriously stumble on a beauty pageant, I'd simply smile, wave and say, "I'm Herschel, 5'1", and I couldn't care less!"

---

Note: This essay was published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer's 2bu! Lifestyle Section dated March 14, 2007 (page E1) as a part of Dove Self-Esteem Chronicles.