Standing Tall

My entire life I’ve hated being tall. It’s nearly always the source of my problems. I was born via c-section, because I was, quite literally, too large to come out of my mother’s vagina. My sister could slide out perfectly. A few stress-free hours of labor and, despite her mop of dizzy brown hair, she nearly fell out of the vagina. That, unfortunately, was not that case for me; even though I was bald and had (and still have) the perfect head shape to navigate those territories. Had my mother chosen to give birth to me the conventional way, we would have spent all night trying to pry me all the way out. So the doctor sliced my mom’s belly open and, when she’s really tan, you can still see the six-inch, fish belly white starting line of my life.

All through my life, my height has screwed me over, time after time. I’ve considering smashing my shins to smithereens to knock off just a few inches: maybe three, four. I’ve tried to explain how my height is my curse, but even my dad, a fellow giant doesn’t understand my perplexities. Everyone thinks that it’s a gift from God. Everyone thinks that I’m blessed to be so tall. Little do they know that my height comes with bitter ramifications.

My earliest memory I have that involves me being raped by my height was when I was at McDonald’s at the age of three. I was such a gentle giant. I would chase butterflies back to their flowers. I collected daisies and made tiaras out of them. I cried when we sold our car because I was emotionally attached to it. My gleeful smile stretched so far across my face that it spilled onto my neck and then into my hair. I was like a cartoon character. I wouldn’t dream of hurting anything. Sailor Moon was my idol and she was the diva of good deeds. I dreamed of being her. Hurting people, even involuntarily, was more painful than hurting myself. So I was playing with a little boy my age and we were frolicking and rolling and laughing and having a gay old time when I nudged him, or, what I thought was nudging and he thought was violent shoving. My freakish three-year-old strength had turned against me. He knocked his head, ran off crying and hid under his mom’s skirt. His mother spotted my mom and tried to pick a fight.

“Is that child yours?” She said, pointing at me, who was traumatized by the fact that I’d hurt someone.

My mom looked up at me, looked around, then looked up at the woman who was rocking her sniveling child in her arms and said: “No.”

That’s right. To the mom’s and dad’s in that McDonald’s I was the parentless kid who committed random acts of violence and then wrote words much too adult for his age on the jungle gym. I wore denim shorts and rode my tricycle at dangerously high speeds and left skid marks wherever I went. I stole lunch money and helped myself to other kid’s snacks. I was the enemy and I was to be eliminated.

All through my life I’ve tried to be gentle, but I always end up hurting someone. Innocent horseplay with my friends always ended with me sitting on the couch, burning up and my friend crying. I’d make a wrong move and knock him over or step on his foot and he would think that I was trying to hurt him and would try to get his revenge by scratching me, or kicking me, or shoving, or punching me in the gut, or kicking me in the shins, or pulling my hair and I would get angry and slap him. But just tap him, just to defend myself from his wrath. He’d start crying, call me a violent psychopath and run home to tell his mom that I had started it, that I’d hit him hard, that I was rabid, that I was out of control and that I’d picked him up over my head and tossed him clear across the room, hitting him against the wall and drawing buckets of blood. Because I was tall, I was obviously the criminal and I was obviously only out to hurt people.

Not to mention that I also had a knack for befriending bullshit artists, who would do anything to get themselves out of trouble.

I was also a major target amongst scrappy Normies. They thought that taking down “the giant” would earn them status.

After having pestered me endlessly, I’d finally lashed out (by “lashed out” I mean shoved, or pushed. I never aimed to do much damage) at this kid named Ali.

“Oh. Oh, so that’s how you want to play?” He said, curling his lower lip over his bottom teeth and motioning with his hand. “Right, well, bring it on.”
“Ali. I don’t care about you. I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone. I beg of you.” I said, trying desperately not to start a fight.
“Well, I’m not scared of you. You think you’re so scary but you’re NOT. You’re not scary, you don’t scare me.”
“I’m really not trying to scare you. I don’t even want to talk to you, you obviously wanted to talk to me or else you wouldn’t have poked me.”
“I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of you. Just because you’re a freak, doesn’t mean you’re strong. Wanna fight? Hmmm? I’ll fight and win. I can take down the giant.”

I was tempted to ask him who had said anything about taking down the giant, but didn’t. I just smiled and walked away. He followed me, trying fruitlessly to ignite an altercation. That night my asked my dad about why people were always trying to provoke me and he told me that it was about dethroning the alpha-male, separating him from his “power.” They never succeeded. They probably could’ve if I’d chosen to fight but I’m much to precious to get really dirty. I’m spiteful and hold grudges. My words are my weapons and I tend to be ruthless and caustic when arguing, but when it comes to fists, I’m about as competent as a quadriplegic.

Being tall also means that you can’t get away with anything that involves discretion. You attract attention like lightning to a lightning rod. Because I’m big, it means everything I do is big: large gestures, a booming voice, a weighty presence in any room even if I’m silent and motionless. Whenever I wanted to pass notes in class it was like trying to get away with flipping off someone looking dead at you. I couldn’t whisper something, no matter how short or silent the message was without being scolded. My head always soared feet above those of the rest of the class. I stuck out like a hard on in spandex. Nothing is stealthy when you’re up over 6’ 2 at the age of fourteen. Any misstep will be perceived and registered by everyone in your vicinity. An opinion is a broadcast; your throat is a loudspeaker. I felt like a satellite, hovering over everyone and invading their privacy. I could walk through a crowd of people and listen to or see anything I liked.

People also tend to ask you ridiculous questions. Not just ridiculous, but also mildly insulting. I’ve been asked countless times how it was going or how the weather was “up there?” Up where? You mean less than a foot above your head? Well, the storm looks like it’s approaching fairly quickly, but I can see beyond the clouds, so it shouldn’t last too long. Just shut the fuck up. Stop trying to be funny. You’re not.

When I get most burned by my height is when my parents have dinner parties. Normies just get told that they’ve grown and that they’re looking great, but I don’t luck out like that. First comes the expression of utter shock. Like they’re just witnessed the execution of their mother, or God has parted the sky and winked at them.

Then, they speak.

“Oh. My. God. You’re so tall! The last time I saw you were this tall! How tall are you now? What six three? Six four? Have you caught up to your old man yet? Stand back to back, I have to get a picture of this? Do you play basketball? No? You should! Tall guys do well at basketball! Have you tried it? No, but really tried it. You don’t like it? But you’re so tall! What about volleyball? Height is important in volleyball, too. You don’t like that, either? Well, it doesn’t matter; you’re going to have lots of success with the ladies. They love tall men! Right Maxine, don’t girls love tall men?”

Tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall. It’s all these erudite, well traveled, interesting people can talk about, I try to change the topic, but it always comes right back to my height.

“Are you on your school’s basketball team?”
“No, the goddamned French-system doesn’t offer extra-curriculars, it’s very old-fashioned. Did you know that they haven’t modified their schedules in nearly a hundred years?”
“No, I didn’t know that… you should take basketball elsewhere! You’re just so tall, it’s such a shame that you’re not taking advantage of it.”

I nod and smile and let the people telling me this feel like they’re cleverest people I’ve ever spoken to. That not every single other guest I’ve greeted before them said exactly the same things to me. That our conversation is not nearly identical to the conversation I had right before it, or before that one, or before that one.

I also had to surrender many wonderful child experiences to keep myself from looking foolish. I learn very early that I couldn’t pull off a lot of things because I was such a giant. I could never bat my eyelashes in order to get an extra candy or I could never giggle. It never worked. I could never use any of that oh-they’re-such-silly-kids charm, because once I was old enough to know how to manipulate it, if I tried to pull it off I just looked slightly retarded. I’ve also been turned away from many a rides, playrooms, kids gatherings and other congregations of children with an age limit. I always looked much older than my age, but didn’t feel it. If I wanted to go on a ride for five-year-olds at age five, I would be turned away with a: “Sorry, you’re a bit too old for this, buddy.” I knew that I was perfectly fit to ride that ride, but my exterior said otherwise.

At the age of thirteen, a friend of mine was having a Halloween get together. We were going to eat, drink and be merry and then spend the night trick or treating and collecting dozens of pounds of candy, which we would then gorge ourselves on. It even gave me license to be in drag and not be mocked. It sounded perfect to me. I could ignore the odd looks and the whispers that I received. I was used to hearing “Oh my Goodness, look at how tall he is.” But, when confronted, I nearly broke down. It happened at the door of an old man who couldn’t handle the thought of a fully-grown gay man, dressed as a nun asking him for “a little something sweet.”

“Aren’t you a little too old to be doing this, buddy?” He said. I glared at him.
“I’m thirteen.” I answered.
“Okay, that’s right, you’re thirteen.”

What the fuck? I think I know how old I am. You have no reason to not believe me, we’re both strangers.

“No, no. Honestly, I’m thirteen. Please, can I just have some candy, my friends are already three houses down.”
“What are you dressed as anyways?”
“I’m a nun, can’t you see the giant, plastic cross hanging from my neck and my black robe?”
“Well, I’m not giving you any candy?”
“What? Why not?”
“First off, you’re not thirteen, you can’t be. You’re too tall. Second, you’re costume is bad. You’re not even wearing a full robe, you’re wearing pants.”
“But am I, hold on, I’ll get my friends, they’ll tell you.”
“Right, right. Please keep going, goodbye.”

I never got the candy. Even if it didn’t make much difference, I still got candy from the people much too sheepish to ask me what the deal was; it was the thought that counted. This man refused to reward me for making a fool out of myself just to respect the spirit of Halloween because he didn’t believe that I was thirteen. He was the one who should’ve been egged, not the woman handing out religious pamphlets and apples. At least she was impartial as to whom she tried to convert.

Not only bad came from being tall. I can always reach what I reach for. If I set out to get the cookies off of the top shelf, I can. Sometimes I need a chair, but heights are never really much of an obstacle for me. I could get into R-rated movies without having to flash a piece of I.D far before seventeen years of age. I could shop in more adult stores and fit into a suit before every other boy I knew. I could trick adults into thinking I was much older than I actually was. I could hunch over, growl and scare pretty much anyone. I warded off rapists and murderers (which I was deathly afraid of.) I can stand at the deep end of the pool. I can see over the little view-blockers at urinals and, best of all, people always think that I have a great, big, gargantuan penis.

It’s so wonderful.

In the 8th grade, when all the other guys were just growing into their sexuality, they were all about who had more pubes and who jerked off more and who had a bigger dick and who watched the kinkiest porn. Distasteful conversation for most, but for me, it was like a buffet. I could take my pick of who I wanted to rant on about how their dicks. I knew tasty little factoids about all of the boys in my grade. Prying information was like taking candy from a baby. They were doing everything besides writing booklets and handing them out like samples. Amongst their favourite topics to discuss when gathered was who they thought had the biggest penis. I was faithfully at the top of their lists. The other candidates would jump around, growing and dropping inches at a crack, but I was always number one. Somehow my freakish height meant that I had a freakishly large penis. Not wanting to spoil the fun of “having” the biggest penis in the grade, when asked how big ‘it’ was, I would simply answer:

“Well, just take a look at my height.”