Short men disgust me

Why I can't date them, breaking Freud's heart, and my weird dating preferences.

If a woman has a bad experience with her father, she tends to look for the opposite.

My dad is 5’6, which is below average in China, but keep in mind that he starved under the Mao regime, so it’s a miracle he’s still alive.

He’s also 120% autistic, which meant talking with him is extremely awkward unless he’s info dumping random facts about Science or the World.

A great role model on character, a good father by objective standards, and extremely good-looking in his youth (thanks for the brows, pops). But despite all his admirable traits, we couldn’t understand each other, even though we’re both reasonable people.

We just travelled on different wavelengths.

If I came home from a party, gushing about all the drama, he would just nod politely and ask me logistical questions such as: how many people were there? what did you eat?

He was interested but he couldn’t fake enthusiasm, and this lack of emotionality made me feel invisible. Like he barely tolerated me.

It still baffles me why my mother married him, when all she’s ever dated were tall guys, and her own father was 6ft.

“Because he loved me.”

Gotta love womanly logic.

I guess she just didn’t wanna be left on the shelf. Understandable.

Her current husband is 5’11 if he doesn’t slouch, and based on appearances they’re happy together.

But back to me.

While I wasn’t that close with my dad, I had more of an imprint on my grandfather. He died when I was only 8, but our bond formed under rural Chinese summer skies remain eternal in my memory.

Although he was an engineer by trade, he never disdained country living, and blended in with the grass and trees as if just another part of the scenery— serene and not in a hurry. He understood life, accepted the flowing river of time, and embraced the aging process without complaint. Every moment was an eternity to him, in the best sense of the word.

In stark contrast to my dad, who was existentially anxious and hated everything to do with dirt.

The old man would send me on quests to de-worm the bok-choy patch, pick up leaves, and taught me to pick apricots by hand. Following his orders felt like following the Captain’s commands out at sea, both natural and the right thing to do. Conversely, it’s interesting to note that anytime my father told me to do anything, even a simple task like taking out the trash, I rebelled with indignation.

Respect is not asked for, cannot be demanded, and yet gramps had mine in plenty. I guess women do want to be ordered around, just not by a loser.

I often wondered why at his age, one would spend such painstaking effort carefully weaving fish nets by hand. Mother told me it’s because he makes the best, most sturdy ones, far superior to those sold outside. Doing something because it pleases you, not to earn the admiration of some little girl, but for the sake of the craft…quietly satisfying the greatest part of oneself.

After his passing from lung cancer, I never once cried over the loss. Today, as these words flow across the page, I felt that familiar pricking sensation behind my eyes, and a solitary tear escaped my mind.

Grandpa was Hank Rearden before I knew the name for it. Young and sprightly once, he was an aspiring entrepreneur working fervently with his buddies, striving to make something of himself in the wine business. And then Big Brother’s hand came flying down like a fallen sword, severing his hopes and dreams with communistic zeal.

A man with a brilliant mind, forced to the inner sanctum of his soul, finding solace in the only place still untouched by the ugliness of human greed and corruption—the wilderness. Leaving the city behind, retreating to Walden, was the last bastion of self-respect he could still claim in a world that seizes production at will, with no regard to personal dignity or heroism. The only things he still lived for was family, country air, and feeling the sun on his wrinkled face.

I remember he always took time to sit beside me, in silence, inside the hay box he constructed for the sole purpose of sun-bathing. My pip-squeak chatter of questions aroused an amused curiosity in him, and our conversation was primarily me doing the talking, but I didn’t mind. He didn’t lecture me on anything, ever, and it felt like an implicit confidence that I’m gonna grow up just as capable as his descendent should.

This juxtaposed with Grandma, who clung onto me every time I passed through the house, motioning “come here, I need to tell you something” with feigned urgency. Steps always dragging, because I dreaded sitting in her lap; it’s gonna be another one of her parrot sermons, droning on about how “you must study hard and get a good job, live a good life, you must…” Like, I know I’m only 5, but my memory is not so goldfish as you might think. Have more faith in me, will you? I haven’t forgotten the 100 previous times we had this Important Talk, so let me get back to doing funner things.

The woman worshipped her spouse, and I could see why.

His mid-life crisis was digging a massive pond from scratch, with just a shovel and a lot of math. It took him a whole summer, and every week I visited, the hole in the ground got a little bigger. This was no ordinary pond, spanning an incredible 20x20x10m, he dug out in total 4000 cubic metres of solid, hard dirt, of which maybe 40 shovelfuls my dad contributed, because of filial obligation and maintaining appearances. I bet the young man couldn’t understand why the withered oak exerted himself in such a seemingly pointless manner, but I knew why.

The most poignant image I have of grandpa was him standing on a narrow ledge at the centre of the almost-completed excavation, leaning over a wheelbarrow, resting, just marvelling over the sight of his hard work, sweating in sheer joy. Already 55, long past his prime, and yet, in the empty space he strenuously sought to carve, the universe answered that his vitality was still there. I felt it, the whole family did, which is why he looms as the archetype, marking my first feelings of what a man should be like. The masculine ideal my childish brain didn’t know it believed in.

I looked up to him, literally and figuratively, fuelling the same good vibes I’m biased towards when it comes to tall men in dating.

On the other hand, I feel a constant unease around shorties in romantic settings, which is defined by not having to lift my chin to look at them. This happens regardless of race, but I sense it most strongly around asians. They just remind me of my father, and that simply isn’t what I’m looking for. Not to throw shade at him, but it does signify a deep incompatibility. The pattern primarily shows up in the height similarity, but a giant whose mannerisms match him also turns me off.

I can choose my spouse, which means I have no interest in picking someone to have dull conversation with for the rest of my life. It could also be that because my mom settled for my dad, I have this fear of repeating her mistakes, and avoiding a certain height threshold is just my paranoia speaking, because how far does can the apple fall from the tree?

Freud describes how a girl’s early affection for her father becomes redirected later, influencing the traits she unconsciously seeks in partners.

For me, I found this didn’t apply as much as it did when you skipped one generation. This doesn’t bode good news for me because I think my grandfather was an even bigger narcissist than my mom. However, maybe you can’t fight destiny so much as embrace and make the best of it.

Or perhaps I can follow the hereditary life path and become a narc too. Maybe I already am one but just hide it really well. So many possibilities…

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I was in Vancouver last summer, and ran into an old acquaintance who once had romantic feelings for me. A short Indian guy, once bubbly and full of life, has now been reduced to a whisper of a shadow. Standing about 10m away, I could hardly believe this was the same man, the one who passionately stirred up whoever’s spirits he was conversing with, who smiled as if he couldn’t contain all that light, and just made you appreciate such a startling example of optimism. That ball of fire is now dead driftwood, and made Tyler seem salvageable by comparison.

A part of me wanted to say hi, because undoubtedly, seeing me would perk him up. But I refrained, because the memory of our last exchange was highly unpleasant, where he spewed vitriolic rage against my political opinions. I valued peace more, so just watched with funereal solemnity as the depressed dustball rolled across the street, looking forward to nothing and emanating death.

This is what it looks like when life beats the shit out of you, I noted with clerical accuracy. To think such potential could meet such a demise was outside of my wildest imagination.

Sure, he could be having a bad day, but this was lightning splitting the trunk in half. I don’t doubt what I saw was a core fracture.

Some men die at 25 but we don’t bury them until 70.

Would he still be chirping happily, had he been born a few inches taller? Is it that short men are inherently defective, or that the world treats them much too cruel?

There’s a 2004 study that shows height brings more income, leadership, and greater workplace success.

But do tall men achieve more because they get social accommodations from the world, instead of fighting to prove themselves at every turn, always on the defence? When you’re blessed with great genetics, guided towards athletic pursuits in youth, and accessed adequate nutrition during crucial growing years, isn’t it natural that you would succeed in every metric, both cognitively and physically?

My dad had none of those things. He grew up subsisting on garlic, cornmeal, and long periods of starvation. Besides the warmth from the red flags of the CCP, there was little to smile about in daily life. The oldest of 5 children, he was treated less like a child, and more like a paper adult, often giving up his food portions for the little ones.

His earliest dreams revolved around finding a way to avoid suffering, getting a good job, and leaving poverty for good. When you’re so hungry that you can’t sleep, Maslow’s basic level is all that you can think about. With a starting point in life of below zero, is it any wonder that he never thought to strive for more, to reach his highest mental potential?

If you take the absolute distance of how far he’s come in life, from those humble, destitute beginnings, it’s a long way. A software developer by trade, he got himself to the West by learning code, and ensured his daughter would grow up in a world far away from the country that traumatized him.

I don’t have the right to look down on him when my vision is so broad thanks to the shoulders of giants. I owe my privileged position to the sacrifices he made to live millions of miles away from family, in a place where he couldn’t even understand the language.

While my grandfather’s strengths were displayed visibly, my dad’s sufferings had happened long before I was born. It’s easy for me to sit here and judge him for not pushing himself more, when I have never known the pain of not knowing when my next meal will come.

I was spoiled since conception, when my mother could eat as much as she wanted. After taking my first breath as a new-born babe, the only fasting I’ve done has been self-imposed, as a health gimmick for the sake of “autophagy”.

My father had a hard life, one much worse than I could ever imagine.

Maybe my avoidance of short men is a subconscious desire to avoid those who’ve been dealt a bad hand by God, because the unlucky only becomes more so with age.

Besides, what’s the biological advantage of mating with someone short? Every parent wants to setup their children with the greatest chances of success, and giving them a height disadvantage seems like crippling the horse before the race.

It wouldn’t be an issue if it’s a girl, but if I had a son, and he received any rejection caused by a lack of height, that would make me feel guilty for not finding him a taller father.

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One last story, to help make sense of my thoughts.

I used to have a roommate who rented a room in my dad’s house, who was the classic example of looking like a cinnamon roll but isn’t one. When she moved out, I noticed her wall hooks left several ugly rip marks, and dutifully reported this to my dad. He threatened to take away her deposit.

She was frantic and tried appealing to me for help, but I just shrugged off her request coldly; after all, there was no incentive for me to get involved in the meddlesome affair.

It just so happened that her parents came into town to help her pack and move everything back home. I knew her dad ran a multi-million dollar business, had hundreds of employees, but my first impression of the man was even more eye-opening.

Barely an inch taller than my father, but with an unshakable aura that could be felt even from my corner desk a good distance away. The real age of this awe-inspiring figure was easily 3x what his energetic profile was like, which was a pleasant surprise, for it gave me hope that it’s possible to defy the laws of physics.

Up close, I could tell from the phenotype that he was used to ordering people around, never takes no for an answer, and was probably a crafty businessman who knew human nature like the back of his hand.

So of course he stood up for his daughter’s rights. And from the moment he uttered the first sentence on the phone with my dad, I knew papa bear was cooked. Having never met each other in person, the two men could tell immediately whose will was greater based on the voice, and who will succumb.

In the end, only 1% of the deposit was taken. Down from 100%.

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A short man with spirit is twice as admirable as a tall man with the same energy, because the former had none of the ease enjoyed by the latter, and still triumphed. By that logic, a tall man with no spirit is twice as abominable as the same condition found in less vertically-endowed males, for the same reason mentioned above but in the opposite direction.

If you want to make it in life as a short man, you must be twice as strong as your 6ft counterparts, because the odds are not in your favour. But through sheer persistence and an unwavering belief in yourself, you can make your own lemonade. Exceptional psychological strength is rare, and it’s more of a necessity the shorter you are.

I’m looking for a man who imposes his will on the world—4000 cubic metres worth.

That being said, if I meet a short king who really is an undeniably good match, then we can always recalibrate the criteria. After all, requirements become old preferences when the right guy comes along.

Although I try to stay open-minded, a part of me still thinks I should just abide by the genetic pattern. Although it would be funny if God spites me by making me fall in love with a short guy, to cure my hubris.

~Yueyue

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