long-nosed, fast cars with the parachutes that pop out the back to keep them from crashing. Our backyard in El Monte had been filled with all kinds of car parts. When we moved to Reseda, the cars disappeared and were replaced by a machine shop in the garage. Dad’s garage was hallowed ground. We weren’t allowed in it. Not one step over the door frame.
In that garage, Dad built anything he wanted. He’d construct furniture, rebuild a carburetor, or tinker with an engine. He turned a two-wheel bike into a three-wheel bike and custom-built his own little motorcycle. If he’d wanted, he could have built a house from scratch, but Dad had no interest in customizing our house. Every Little Person learnsto customize the things around them in order to live a more comfortable life, but Dad only improved those things that he himself used, like the dragsters. Despite his talents, he wouldn’t retrofit our house. Instead of tearing up the kitchen and lowering the counters, we had to use stools or stepladders. When I visited other Little People’s houses, they could stand on the floor and easily reach their tables, their cabinets, their couches, their TVs. My dad refused to make any changes. He could have easily worked around Linda and Janet’s needs and included them in whatever plans he made. But Dad never wanted to admit he was a Little Person and he wanted everything to look “normal”—outside and inside.
Mom enrolled me in kindergarten at Blythe Street School and I stayed there through sixth grade. I hated Blythe Street. I was teased, and the teachers were cruel. There was one teacher, Mrs. Taylor, who’d swat me on the hand with her shoe. She did that one too many times. Finally, I took off my shoe and clocked her in the head with it. My nasty disposition, it started way back when. Needless to say, they moved me to another class.
It was in third grade that my dwarfism became impossible to ignore. All the other kids had growth spurts and I sort of stayed put. Their fingers lengthened, my fingers stayed plump. Their faces lost the last traces of baby fat, my cheeks stayed pinchable. Their legs shot up to their hips while my knees bowed like a cowboy, as I posed for the 1977 Mrs. Titmus Grade 3 class photo. I may have outlived the doctor’s proclamation at my birth, the one that said I’d die before I saw mytoddler years, but I hadn’t been able to escape his more accurate prediction: that I might suffer from malformed bones or abnormal bone alignment. My arms and legs refused to grow. I could walk and I could run and I wasn’t handicapped in any way, shape, or form, but that didn’t stop the kids from choosing me last for any game we played. That didn’t stop them from staring and whispering and keeping their distance. The kids, my classmates, stopped being innocent kids and started being nasty bullies.
I began acting out, always getting into trouble, putting tacks on the teacher’s chair just to stir up some fun. I was never the highest performer in the class, so I masked my frustration by becoming the class clown. I had it in me to be good, but no one ever asked that side to show itself. I was a smart-ass with my family, too. At the grocery story, I’d knock shit over or I’d yell, “Mom, pull out your teeth!,” ’cause Mom wore a partial upper denture. I don’t know why I found it so fascinating that Mom didn’t have teeth, but I just couldn’t get enough of teasing her about it. Either of those acts got me a beating “when we got home.”
I was ten or eleven the morning I discovered Dad also wore dentures. I had to go bad, but my sister was in our shared bathroom. I snuck into Mom and Dad’s room to use their toilet instead. I figured they were asleep; they wouldn’t hear me. But stepping into their room was a big no-no. We were never allowed to go in there. On the sink was a jar with a full set of teeth floating around. It freaked me out so bad, I yelled out, “Who’s the one without the
In that garage, Dad built anything he wanted. He’d construct furniture, rebuild a carburetor, or tinker with an engine. He turned a two-wheel bike into a three-wheel bike and custom-built his own little motorcycle. If he’d wanted, he could have built a house from scratch, but Dad had no interest in customizing our house. Every Little Person learnsto customize the things around them in order to live a more comfortable life, but Dad only improved those things that he himself used, like the dragsters. Despite his talents, he wouldn’t retrofit our house. Instead of tearing up the kitchen and lowering the counters, we had to use stools or stepladders. When I visited other Little People’s houses, they could stand on the floor and easily reach their tables, their cabinets, their couches, their TVs. My dad refused to make any changes. He could have easily worked around Linda and Janet’s needs and included them in whatever plans he made. But Dad never wanted to admit he was a Little Person and he wanted everything to look “normal”—outside and inside.
Mom enrolled me in kindergarten at Blythe Street School and I stayed there through sixth grade. I hated Blythe Street. I was teased, and the teachers were cruel. There was one teacher, Mrs. Taylor, who’d swat me on the hand with her shoe. She did that one too many times. Finally, I took off my shoe and clocked her in the head with it. My nasty disposition, it started way back when. Needless to say, they moved me to another class.
It was in third grade that my dwarfism became impossible to ignore. All the other kids had growth spurts and I sort of stayed put. Their fingers lengthened, my fingers stayed plump. Their faces lost the last traces of baby fat, my cheeks stayed pinchable. Their legs shot up to their hips while my knees bowed like a cowboy, as I posed for the 1977 Mrs. Titmus Grade 3 class photo. I may have outlived the doctor’s proclamation at my birth, the one that said I’d die before I saw mytoddler years, but I hadn’t been able to escape his more accurate prediction: that I might suffer from malformed bones or abnormal bone alignment. My arms and legs refused to grow. I could walk and I could run and I wasn’t handicapped in any way, shape, or form, but that didn’t stop the kids from choosing me last for any game we played. That didn’t stop them from staring and whispering and keeping their distance. The kids, my classmates, stopped being innocent kids and started being nasty bullies.
I began acting out, always getting into trouble, putting tacks on the teacher’s chair just to stir up some fun. I was never the highest performer in the class, so I masked my frustration by becoming the class clown. I had it in me to be good, but no one ever asked that side to show itself. I was a smart-ass with my family, too. At the grocery story, I’d knock shit over or I’d yell, “Mom, pull out your teeth!,” ’cause Mom wore a partial upper denture. I don’t know why I found it so fascinating that Mom didn’t have teeth, but I just couldn’t get enough of teasing her about it. Either of those acts got me a beating “when we got home.”
I was ten or eleven the morning I discovered Dad also wore dentures. I had to go bad, but my sister was in our shared bathroom. I snuck into Mom and Dad’s room to use their toilet instead. I figured they were asleep; they wouldn’t hear me. But stepping into their room was a big no-no. We were never allowed to go in there. On the sink was a jar with a full set of teeth floating around. It freaked me out so bad, I yelled out, “Who’s the one without the
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