Stand Tall

                                   

         Everywhere I go people stare. They’ve always stared. Not because I’m stunning, or deformed, or have pink hair, but because for a girl, I’m rather tall. To be more precise I stand just two inches over six feet. I grew used to it- the stares. I grew used to being a freak of nature, and became resigned to forever being deemed “the tall girl” wherever I went. It became my identity, the only trait that remained constant throughout my adolescent years. It’s what defined me.

Growing up I hated being tall. I envied those girls who were tiny and utterly feminine. Those girls who could find cute shoes and wear jeans that went past their ankles. Those girls that guys would ask to dances, because they weren’t intimidating. How I longed to be those girls; longed to be normal. When strangers would approach me and voice their desire to be as tall as me, I would smile and choke down the impulse to tell them how much I despised being tall. Whenever I was in public I would hunch my shoulders and my head, like I had something to be ashamed of.  I saw my height as a curse, an abnormality; something that made me different. I hated being different, hated not fitting in. Then I met her.

         It was the summer of my junior year. I was working as a counselor at a day camp that owned a popular pool that was open to the public. My shift had ended and I walked out to the pool, with the intention of jumping in to cool off before heading home. That’s when I saw her. I stared; I couldn’t help it. After all the times that I resented people for staring at me like some kind of freak, I now found myself doing the exact same thing. I wasn’t the only one. For once I wasn’t the one being analyzed as people openly gawked at the Amazon-like woman standing before me. She didn’t seem to notice, her eyes focused on a blonde little girl swimming in the water, the hint of a smile on her face. In reality she towered over me by about three inches, but it seemed like more. It was the way she held herself, her head held high, her shoulders back, nothing like the awkward way I stood. There was an undeniable presence that surrounded her that had nothing to do with her height that fascinated me. Her head turned, as her eyes met mine. As she stared at me, I tried to look down self-consciously, embarrassed at being caught watching her. I felt her eyes burn through the top of my head.

When I looked over at her again she was talking to the little girl at the edge of the water, as she helped pull her out and dry her off. I sat on the edge of the pool, dipping my feet in the water, staring at my shabby fingernails. Footsteps reverberated softly on the pavement behind me.  I glanced up swiftly; I knew it was her. Her eyes met mine once more. Her blue eyes held a quiet confidence, alit with the content of a woman who knows who she is and loves herself. The little girl ran ahead of her as she stopped walking, gave me a serene smile, and spoke the words I’d never forget. “Don’t be afraid to stand tall.” I stared at her, as she followed the little girl out of the gate, wondering how she knew.

I never appreciated the impact a few simple words can have on someone until her. I never even found out her name, yet she made me realize not only my height as the blessing that it is, but taught me to embrace the differences in people. I no longer walk with my eyes glued to the floor, or my shoulders hunched. I no longer try to change myself to fit in. I’m no longer afraid to stand out.