I have, at 63, been suffering at the hands of the little people for decades. You see, I am 6’5″ tall. The world has stared at me and gazed in wonder at me and always put me at the end of the line and on and on.
I played on a basketball team where I was always with my back to the basket and had to get all the rebounds for the shooter stars and was always at their mercy for a piece of that round-ball action.
I am tall, so my body has a harder time getting blood to my feet, and my aorta is longer and more prone to burst. It is infinitely more difficult to bend over and pick something up. Sinks and commodes are made for a persons 5’9″ or so, and this adds to my life-long difficulty. Forget cars.
Persons shorter than me in the workforce have dealt hell to me over the years as they hate someone taller than they are, and they have been a source of constant agitation, aggression, competition and a source of workplace terrorism.
As if things are not bad enough, I have blue eyes and blond hair and am fair-skinned. I have been called cracka and honky and long tall drink of water.
I am totally lost and am at whits’ end searching for a group to attach myself to. I have tried Rainbow/Push, but they want no part of me. Tell me, Michelle, can you help me? (“Please Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”)
Maybe I’ll call that Jennifer Palmieri person at the White House. Hey, maybe Barack will understand as he played b-ball!
Jim Sherwood
