I am short.
Look at that.
This might seem like an obvious fact to those who know me, since I stand at 4’10. And there are certain times when I become hyper-aware of my height – or lack thereof. For example, if dancing at a club in a circle with friends…I normally tend to be nipple-level with most guys. That’s not comfortable. That’s awkward. Which explains why I rarely go to clubs.
But when not placed in awkward dancing-circle situations, I rarely realize what I lack in height. Maybe it’s because I’m loud, so my voice easily carries to others, even if it has to travel an extra foot to get to the target. Or maybe it’s because my personality is so large that it overruns my little body.
But there are so many big things in this world. And compared to them, I am very, very small.
There is a monument, cleverly named the Washington Monument. And it is very, very tall.
When I look at it from a ways away, my breath catches, my heartstrings pull and I know that I’m in love with my new city. I feel wholly, devotedly, and proudly American.
When I look at it from up close, I feel overwhelmed, intimidated, and yet, strangely protected.
I feel like I am a citizen of a great nation. A crazy nation, where sometimes white supremacists are considered heroes (“The Day Freedom Died: The Colfax Massacre” by Charles Lane) and little girls are kidnapped on their way to school to help “solve” a grown man’s sex problem (“A Stolen Life” by Jaycee Dugard). Where Casey Anthonys can be set free because of a lack of evidence and men can (almost) get away with writing a daily blog bashing their exes (www.thepsychoexwife.com).
But these less-than-happy antics are intriguing in their own sort of way, because they indicate that we live in a nation where laws are responses rather than control mechanisms. Where our freedom of speech might just allow us to write a book detailing the atrocities of our kidnapping or detail the perceived (or real) insanities of our exes. Where students study history with a glimmer of disgust and a hope for a brighter future. Where we can do what we want, because we are free. A free people. Free to read, write, sing, and dance however we want to. Free to pray, armor up, and study however we want to. Free to think and love and take a stand for what we honestly believe in.
Life isn’t black and white; it’s full of color. And Americans are a colorful people.
(Thanks to prohibitionsend.com for the picture).
A beautiful, colorful, collective mass of people.
And I am one exceedingly small woman within that crowd of people.
Despite this, it’s nice to remember…everyone in my country has the ability to make a difference. Everyone, no matter race, gender, sex, favorite language, favorite movie, or belief system, can be remembered positively.
In fact, the place that I felt the smallest so far in D.C. was at the Vietnam War memorial. I walked through it at night with some new friends. As the walls of fallen men grew taller, I ran my finger over the etched names, halfway listening to those around me murmuring about the humbling effect of the minimalist design.
(Image from tucsoncitizen.com).
I know I’m short. But, in reality, you know it doesn’t much matter if you’re small or tall. It isn’t your physicality that binds you or defines you; it’s how you choose to live your life. It’s what you’re willing to die for. And I know I’m not the most passionate person out here, or the bravest, or even the most dedicated. But I do know that I’m proud to be an American, and I know plenty of people, big or little, inspire me every day.
Hear hear!
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