This is America: How my son taught me to embrace dwarfism
I was walking back from the campsite bathroom when a child on a bike whizzed past me.
“Midget.”
Before I could fully process what was going on, the child, no older than 10, whipped his bike in front of me. He looked me right in the eye and said “Ha.”
My first instinct was to push him off his bike. But I was a 27-year-old woman and he, again, was but a child. I felt the words, “You don’t say that to people,” build in my throat but that’s as far as they got.
And he was already gone.
I’m Sallee Ann Harrison, an audience editor at USA TODAY, and I have dwarfism. And you're reading "This is America," a newsletter centered on race, identity and how they shape our lives.
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Let's talk about Dwarfism
“I have dwarfism.” Even that reads funky to me. I know saying someone has a condition is the best way to talk about disability instead of saying they are their disability, i.e., I don’t say “I’m a dwarf.” I don’t like saying “I’m a little person” either, but I blame that on the 654 TLC shows with little people puns while I was growing up.
And you never say “midget,” which is considered a derogatory term by Little People of America, an organization that provides support and information to people of short stature and their families.
So honestly, I prefer just to not talk about it at all. But October is Dwarfism Awareness Month, a fact I didn’t know until I had my son two years ago. There are an estimated 30,000 people with dwarfism in the United States, and 651,700 in the world, according to LPA. About one per 10,000 births is a baby with some form of dwarfism. So, for those babes, let’s talk.
My first memory of knowing I was different was telling my granny I didn’t want to go to preschool. I said a kid made fun of my Pikachu backpack. I confided weeks later that a kid made fun of me for being so small. “A baby.”
In third grade, we were reading Roald Dahl’s “The BFG.” In the book, “midget” is used several times. After no more than two days , my teacher told me privately we were no longer going to read the book and apologized for any hurt it caused.
I remember literally hiding in a clothing rack as my mom walked right up to a group of girls that were following me around and laughing. My mom got in their face and said “How dare you? Do you have any idea how that would make her feel?”
My mom is a tall, blonde woman. I am the only one in my family who has dwarfism.
Or, at least I was.
It feels good to not be "the only one"
I’ve written that “I’m the only one…” sentence all my life. Just now, at this moment, I’m realizing the gravity of being able to backspace that away.
It reminds me of one of my prenatal appointments. My husband and I had learned our baby would most likely also have dwarfism. I had taken that news like a boulder. I had grown used to the weight of being different, othered, called “midget,” and always having to adapt and smile through it all.
But now knowing that weight was going to be transferred to a baby because of me felt too hard to bear sometimes.
That’s when a doctor, not my usual doctor, made me revise that thought.
“I know many people have probably told you how lucky this baby will be to have you as his mom,” he said. “But I think this could also be a really good thing for you.”
I would no longer be the only one. I would not be alone.
My son Rett is amazing. I know every parent thinks that, but indulge me in my own column.
Rett has no fear. He will fall head-first (little people are known for our big heads) five times in a row, rocking a big, bulging welt on his forehead, and giggle through it all. He loves to be swung in the air, his dad gripping him by his hands, his feet, whatever gives the biggest thrill.
He loves to climb. I tell him he’s going to be the next "Free Solo" climber Alex Honnold. He also calls the nine-foot, roaring werewolf Halloween decoration “cat.”
One time at a playground, he wanted so badly to climb the stairs up to the lookout and slide. The place was crawling with kids much bigger than him in age and size. I made them wait while he climbed.
Physical traits I grew up hating are beautiful on him. He has the sweetest face. Growing up, I always wished I looked more like my mom. I hope as Rett gets older, he likes looking like me.
And that boulder doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. Not because I’ve passed it on to my strongman toddler. But because he’s made me strong enough to realize it’s not ours alone to carry.
Teaching the next generation to be better
Quaden Bayles made headlines a couple of years ago after his mother posted a distressing video of him crying after being bullied about his dwarfism. The now-11-year old is cast in the new "Mad Max" movie and, more importantly, happier.
Actor Peter Dinklage said in a 2012 New York Times profile, "Dwarves are still the butt of jokes. It’s one of the last bastions of acceptable prejudice."
I’m raising the best son I can. I count on others to raise their best kids, too. Teach your children the power of their words early and often.
I count on my son’s teachers and other adults in his life to stand up for him. We all take on the weight and responsibility of being inclusive and encouraging.
It’s lighter together.
Sallee Ann Harrison is a USA TODAY audience editor focused on subscriptions. Subscribers can sign up here to get texts from her about the day's top stories. Anyone can follow her on Twitter @salleeharrison.
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This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: Dwarfism Awareness Month: Talking about dwarfism and embracing it
