The Heights
I am not short, but I am also not of the tall crowd, especially in this day when people are growing taller and taller. I’m a shade shorter than 5’8".
During the weekend I began thinking about my mom’s next visit to New Jersey. We’d have a girl night: the two of us and the fantastic girls I’ve met here in NJ, which is new, as I’ve said before, since most of my friends have been guys. I imagined us all together and I saw that every one of those fabulous girls, including my mom, is shorter than me. This is not a value judgment, girls, just an observation of the physical, particularly following a recent picture taken of me, my mom, my aunt, my grandma, Mark’s mom, and Mark’s brother’s wife’s mom. I look like the obvious basketball candidate towering over every one of them. It’s all relative; in some crowds I look wonderlanded into the diminutive.
Anyway, I then began thinking about the contributors to said body type. My mom is 5’4". My biological father, whom I do not know but whom I have seen once, is responsible for my height. He’s 6’4". I don’t even know this man yet he contributes to one of the major aspects of the way my body developed. He is also responsible for my brown eyes, also a major aspect, and maybe my cheekbones, but those might be attributable to my mom. Of course, scientifically, since he and my mom contributed to my make-up, there was a 50/50 chance of my receiving one or the other for any given piece. (I’m skirting genetic accuracy here.) Standing back, though, looking at the whole picture, how I grew up, reared by my mom, my grandma, and my grandpa, until I was 5, when my adoptive (and kick-ass fantastic) dad entered the picture, it seems ultimately strange to me that I would still bear as symbol, always and absolutely undeniable to the eye, so much of my biological father, who, whether he cares to or not, knows nothing of me.
On Sunday while Mark and I were hiking, his bad knee and all, in the woods, this conflict between the physical and the intangible that compose me surfaced into my staring at sticks and leaves.
Before you go, you have to see this stunning photo.
During the weekend I began thinking about my mom’s next visit to New Jersey. We’d have a girl night: the two of us and the fantastic girls I’ve met here in NJ, which is new, as I’ve said before, since most of my friends have been guys. I imagined us all together and I saw that every one of those fabulous girls, including my mom, is shorter than me. This is not a value judgment, girls, just an observation of the physical, particularly following a recent picture taken of me, my mom, my aunt, my grandma, Mark’s mom, and Mark’s brother’s wife’s mom. I look like the obvious basketball candidate towering over every one of them. It’s all relative; in some crowds I look wonderlanded into the diminutive.
Anyway, I then began thinking about the contributors to said body type. My mom is 5’4". My biological father, whom I do not know but whom I have seen once, is responsible for my height. He’s 6’4". I don’t even know this man yet he contributes to one of the major aspects of the way my body developed. He is also responsible for my brown eyes, also a major aspect, and maybe my cheekbones, but those might be attributable to my mom. Of course, scientifically, since he and my mom contributed to my make-up, there was a 50/50 chance of my receiving one or the other for any given piece. (I’m skirting genetic accuracy here.) Standing back, though, looking at the whole picture, how I grew up, reared by my mom, my grandma, and my grandpa, until I was 5, when my adoptive (and kick-ass fantastic) dad entered the picture, it seems ultimately strange to me that I would still bear as symbol, always and absolutely undeniable to the eye, so much of my biological father, who, whether he cares to or not, knows nothing of me.
On Sunday while Mark and I were hiking, his bad knee and all, in the woods, this conflict between the physical and the intangible that compose me surfaced into my staring at sticks and leaves.
Before you go, you have to see this stunning photo.
3 Comments:
It must be true what you say. When I lived in Iowa I met more than a few fellows who had grown to 6'3" and up. The guy who helped me move my large things in his pick-up truck to my second apartment was 6'7".
i've been told that in China i would be a giant.
That's a nice photo, though, it'd look even better if I stood 6'1". damn...
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