“I myself was once a Tall. Now I'm an ex-Tall. I work for a place which helps people like yourself to learn to understand the reasons behind Tall tendencies. And how to heal them.”
That was Rick, on my first day here at Looking Up.
My parents had, earlier that day, told me to pack my things because I was going to a place that could help me. I wasn't sure what they meant. The car ride was long and hurt my gangly legs. When I complained, I saw the reflection of my father's eyes glaring at me, and my mothers consoling hand on his knee.
We all met with Rick, and his wife, who ran the ministry together.
“Mrs Tiller, I believe what you and your husband have created is a miraculous thing,” said my father.
“We believe so, too,” said Grace, as I know her now, offering another tea.
The room was quaint, old-fashioned, with the kind of wallpaper my grandmother might use. But they were much cleaner than my grandmother, with everything, including doilies, in their place.
It didn't take long for my parents to say goodbye and for my sparse lodging room to be shown to me. Rick explained that the low ceilings and short bed were just one component of the syllabus offered. In the cupboard I discovered a pair of pants and a top. After I put them on Rick asked me to look in the mirror.
“There's a common misunderstanding that vertical stripes make you look taller.” He said the last word with a spit. “But recent studies have shown the exact opposite.”
My lack of response must have convinced him to head down a tangent, by saying, “Oh yes, we keep up-to-date on the latest scientific literature. Unlike others who think that their gut instinct is enough. You see, we deal in evidence-based approaches to your problem.”
Again, I had nothing to add, and stood stone-faced. I was a bit angry that he accused me of having a problem.
After bunching up my top so that my shoulders appeared larger, he looked into my reflection and said, “What do you see?”
I wasn't sure. I just saw me. But that wasn't the right answer, as I found out, and so it was a ritual we would repeat every morning.
After breakfast I met up with others undergoing the conversion. In the room were three teenagers around my own age and an older man. One of the teenagers was female, which shocked me, since I'd never seen a tall girl before. We were lined up in order from perceived tallest to perceived shortest. That was the first lesson: there are no tall and short people. The effects of a sinful modern society dictate how we see the world. None of it is hereditary, since it's simply a case of upbringing. I started to wonder if my parents had played a part in what I had become.
The older man in the room, Kwame, was by far the (perceived) tallest. But he would often drop to his knees at the slightest provocation, which he said not only affected our perceptions of him but his own perceptions of us. Rick, who was taking the group, seemed to hold Kwame up as an example of where we should aim to be. He had, at that point, been here almost four months. I wasn't sure I could be on my own for that long.
We ended the group session with a prayer, for God to fix our spurious perceptions and grant us the strength to keep moving in the right direction.
We skipped lunch since, according to scientific studies, humans need only two meals a day to survive. The rest of the afternoon was spent alone performing visualisations. We were to sit somewhere we felt comfortable, anywhere within the high fences of the compound, and picture ourselves as tiny, so short that we'd have to look up at a cat. For some reason my imagination got the better of me and I saw myself as a rat, scampering away from swinging brooms while trying to scavenge for food scraps. Perhaps I was simply hungry.
That night was difficult. I didn't realise that I had anything wrong with me until they told me. Now I had a sense of what others must think of me, and the embarrassment made me shrink away. I was gradually pulled out of that by Grace, with calming words and a sweet smile. “Coming here was the first step in making positive changes to your life,” she said. “Soon you'll be looking up.”
The next week continued in much the same way. Because general chit-chat was discouraged, I didn't get to know the others that well. Yet there was still a connection with people who are afflicted in the same way as you, and that is what I felt for them: both camaraderie and pity.
Every day I was made to repeat Looking Up's core charter, which lays out the most important points we are here to learn:
- Attaining abstinence from tall behaviours.
- Lessening of tall temptations
- Strengthening a sense of short identity
- Correcting distorted styles of relating to other people and objects.
To cure the sin of point one we were told to not reach up to the high cupboard in the tea room. If we needed a plate or glass, we should find a safety step or a ladder and climb until the crockery was below our line of sight.
For the third sin, photos were taken of the entire group, Grace included, in front of a plain white wall. The photos would be processed and pinned to the community board. When looking at the picture, I was always shorter than Grace. It certainly made me feel like progress was being made.
The fourth sin was overcome by walking on our knees from morning till noon, becoming used to the perspective in relation to Rick and Grace, and also to the tables and chairs and beds and windows in the ministry.
Before curing the second sin, there were other activities to perform. I was asked to join the support group, where each of us was asked, in turn, how feeling tall had negatively affected our lives. One of the boys, Matt, spoke about the low clothes line in his back yard and how he'd often run into it playing cricket with his brother. Grace told us that in time he would not see the clothes line as being low, but as of being the correct height. The others all nodded in agreement. Then the girl, Pat, told about a trip she'd made overseas with her family and how it was difficult to fit within the tight confines of the seat. I thought back to my ride here and became instantly homesick.
It wasn't until I heard these stories that it really hit home just how difficult it is and what a daily struggle we go through. It is as if my eyes were opened. “You can't change what you don't acknowledge,” said Grace.
I was badgering her more each week about point two. I felt like this sin was being papered over. She only said that there will be a time to overcome the sin, but that I needed more preparation. I didn't fully trust her, which makes me feel silly now, and so wasn't as patient as I should have been.
After eight weeks I finally had my chance. Rick came to me, solemnly, and asked that I follow. He took me down a staircase I hadn't used before and through to a dark room with a large piece of fabric draped down one of the walls. In the centre of the room sat a strange looking chair, with wires coming out like hair, and a metal plate in front. He asked me to take a seat and connect the wires to my arms and legs with the small clips. They pinched at my skin but Rick said the pain would fade away shortly. The metal plate was just in front of my legs, making it extremely cramp.
Something popped up on the white screen – a movie. It was a comedy, I think, but I can't remember the name. Rick said sit back and enjoy the movie. I do remember laughing a few times. Then I must have relaxed and let my legs slide forwards because as soon as my feet touched the metal plate I received a jolt of pain. Rick said this was aversion therapy and that I would get zapped by electricity every time I succumbed to tall temptations, like stretching out.
It was very uncomfortable but I managed to keep from touching the plate until the next commercial (Rick must have recorded the movie from TV). The pain this time was much worse. Then I succumbed again, and again. It hurt, a lot, but I fought through the pain and tears so that my parents could be proud of me.
When we finished, Rick was nice enough to carry me to my bed to let me rest. I didn't even have to do anything the next day! He said I'll need more sessions, but I could rest for now. He also said he loved me.
I'm sure I'll be released soon as Grace thinks I'm doing very well and could be close to conversion. I don't feel tall at all, only on some days. Grace says I can write more in this journal from now on, but that I can't send my parents anything yet. Hopefully I can soon see them in person and, for the first time in five years, look up to them.
© 2014 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
