Let’s stop commenting on people’s bodies, even when it comes to height
Illustration by Sage Blackwell.
Nearly two years ago I was sent the link to a Martlet article written by some tall guy who was complaining about people commenting on his height. I’m a 6’2” woman who also complains about it from time to time, and my friend sent it to me, thinking I’d find a sense of camaraderie.
I remember not loving what he had to say at first. I didn’t think it could be too hard being a tall man. As I read, I appreciated how he acknowledged that being non-male makes being this large much, much harder. I sympathized with his struggle of being recognized only for his height.
One of the biggest things I’ve learned from constantly having my height commented on is that people feel okay mentioning it because they think they’re acknowledging a good feature.
People know it’s not okay to comment on weight (or even sometimes shortness) because society has decided that those things are usually undesirable, so commenting on them is automatically rude.
Being a tall woman is sort of the middle ground here, because even though being tall isn’t bad, it’s best to be tall if you’re also a man. And even if you’re commenting on the stature of a tall man, is that really the best idea? You’re instantly placing value on the body of a stranger, which is already a strange thing to do.
For this reason, I firmly believe that mentioning anything about someone’s body is just something we should avoid, even if you think it’s a compliment. Bodies are so deeply personal, and you really have no idea about anyone’s other than your own.
Maybe I’ve already heard that I’m tall twice that day, and your comment is my last straw. After all, extraordinarily tall women are interesting to people, but we’re not the first thing on your mind when thinking about the “perfect” partner.
I once had a woman at a nail salon tell me that, in her country, I would never find a husband. I’ve had people wish me “good luck” finding someone interested in me. I’ve even had a parent of another kid at my high school tell me that I’m “freakishly” tall.
These comments took a lot for me to overcome. Everyone is insecure in middle school, but when I stopped growing at age 11, these comments started to hit me often and hard. Why do we put so much emphasis on marriage prospects for young girls? Can’t I just go to school?
Except at school, as someone who gravitated towards artistic activities, I was constantly bombarded by teachers and coaches who wanted me to play basketball.
I was once even “scouted” in a bookstore by a sports agent who wanted me to play volleyball. While that might sound nice to some people, it was an awkward encounter that made me feel like my body was someone else’s pawn.
Now, as an adult with a bit more confidence, these comments and experiences are easier to deal with.
One thing I’ve heard a couple of times recently is that I’m “Amazonian,” which always catches me off guard, for so many reasons. It makes me feel fetishized, and it’s a disgusting and dehumanizing way of addressing Indigenous people.
There are certainly racist undertones to societal perceptions of height. The myth of the “athletic savage” persists today, where people think that racialized groups are inherently superhuman athletes and that their bodies are designed for sport.
That’s where I think this “Amazonian” idea comes from –– that Indigenous people are “warriors” whose bodies are special. This kind of thinking is not only flawed, but it has dangerous implications when perpetuating the myth of “race.”
My body is not an interesting resemblance of some fantastical “other” group of people. It’s my body. I am meant to be this size because I belong to a diverse species — homo sapiens.
I’ve also heard that it sucks to be short. I feel for anyone who has been belittled, bullied, or excluded because of their stature — or any part of their body that society deems “different.”
In the end, I see being tall as an experience that has ultimately made me a stronger, more resilient person. And it is also quite nice to be able to reach things.
The writer of that Martlet story is now my boyfriend — and one of our first conversations was, in fact, about the tall “club” we happen to belong to.
