When I turned 14, I reached my fully-grown, tall and willowy height of 5-1-½. What, you might be saying? Tall and willowy?  Yes indeed. Here’s the story behind that.

Before I was old enough to manage my long hair, my mother would sit me down at her dresser and braid my hair. As mother worked, I would look at a portrait picture of my mother in an amazing black and white dress, a dress that still hung in her closet and one into which I just knew I would grow into someday.

While I sat dreaming of my mother’s dress, my sister was growing. Always one of the taller girls in her class, around the age of 12 or 13, Judy reached her final height of 5-6 and that’s when mother began talking about how wonderful it was to be tall and willowy. Tall and willowy people always stood up straight, were people with which to be reasoned, people who others noticed. It was a gift.

Having an older sister, I always assumed whatever happened to Judy would happen to me, and I assumed those tall and willowy conversations were meant for the both of us. When I hit my final height, I was just like Judy, tall and willowy. When talking to most girls, I assumed we were the same or close to the same height and while there might be others who were perhaps a little taller, those who might be able to reach something I couldn’t reach, that didn’t change my status at all. Just like mother had instructed, I stood up tall and proud, secure in my status, secure in who I was.

Even when mother needed something from our chest-style basement freezer and insisted that Judy go with me to fetch it because I stood on tiptoes to reach into the chest and she feared I would fall in the freezer and never be found, even then I was still tall and willowy, Judy was just a little more so.

A few years ago, I lost a half-inch, something about which I was not happy. After Judy listened for a few moments to my comments she said, “Cindy, nobody thinks of you as short.”

She was right, a fact that I had momentarily forgotten but a fact that was borne out when I taught school, and the newly grown kids would say they were taller than I was. I’d look back at them and say, “No, you’re not.” That mostly worked. My tall and willowy status was recently reconfirmed when an extremely tall and willowy friend was lamenting the fact that growth indicators are pointing to a possible small future for his 3-year-old granddaughter. He asked me for advice and after an abbreviated version of tall and willowy, I happened to ask him how tall he thought the little girl will become. He said, “Around 5-6 or so, you know, about your size.” I told him my height and he was astounded.

What one thinks of oneself shines through to others despite size. Mother’s tall and willowy speech was a gift to both her girls.  No matter how many inches might be available to one, those inches do not dictate a box in which one must live. Being tall and willowy put me in the “everybody box,” not the “small box.” Judy’s version of tall and willowy put her in the “everybody box,” not the “tall box.” The “everybody” box means you can do anything. I never grew into mother’s beautiful black and white dress, but I have never actually been small. I am in my woman box, a box full of endless possibilities.

By the way, a few years back I stood on my tiptoes to reach into my own chest-type freezer only to have the lid fall on my head, almost tipping me into the freezer. Mother’s nightmare had come true. However, when I came up for air, rubbing my head, I was still tall and willowy, secure in the knowledge mother gave me: size doesn’t matter, it’s what’s inside that counts (except for freezers).

Cindy Arp, teacher/librarian, retired from Knox County Schools. She and husband Dan live in Heiskell.