At 170cm, I’m an expert in short-man syndrome
Perceptions of height have an effect on social dynamics and behaviour, researchers found. Which is enraging for those who are vertically challenged.
I can reach the plates on the top shelf in the kitchen. I can, honestly. But I don’t look good when I do it. There’s a tippy-toe, whole-body stretch that’s very hard to make look cool or traditionally masculine. When people come over for dinner I usually make a defensive joke about it. This, if anything, draws attention to the stretch and turns it into a sort of circus act as I grasp the china with my fingertips.
I’m still not completely comfortable with my height. Being short is always partially falling short of a manly ideal. I’ve been short — 5ft 7in (170cm) — for about 50 years (the first 11 years of my existence don’t count) and along the way life has informed me of my status. Phrases such as “tall, dark and handsome”, “imposing figure” and “short arse” placed me in a height hierarchy. I don’t wake up every morning and shake my fist at my genetic inheritance but I’d rather be taller. I’m not proud of that but if I could take a pill and wake up at least 6ft, I would.
New research by the Australian Catholic University has found that short men really are angry, peevish, jealous and power-crazed. I’m paraphrasing; it’s a serious piece of academic work, but only just. Napoleon syndrome suggests that short men compensate for feelings of inadequacy through being aggressive, competitive and attempting to dominate much of the world through military force. I understand this stereotype.
Height is laden with meanings: it is strength, authority, safety, the ability to protect loved ones and fight off enemies. Obviously, in the age of self-driving cars and supermarket sushi, literally being able to wrestle a mammoth and feed the village no longer has the same relevance, but manliness and height are still paired. So, over the years, I have probably attempted to make myself bigger in ways that weren’t consciously related to being below-average height but now seem connected.
The moment I met weight training, for example, I was very taken with the way lifting heavy things would give me bigger muscles and a more masculine physique. On the most basic level — vertical bigness was impossible but a degree of horizontal bigness could be achieved with hard work and protein shakes.
I first entered a gym at 17 and I’d recently experienced violence (everyone did, it was the early 1980s) and wanted to feel safer. At that time I would have traded all my vinyl collection and my best Dr Martens to be 6ft 4in. I’ve kept training since, never consciously compensating, but now I think of it …
The least flattering elements of small-man syndrome are anger and the need for validating success. It would be easy to deny this as you don’t know me, but I’ll level with you and admit that I am capable of both.
My anger triggers are minor injustices like queue jumping or someone blocking my car in my driveway. It’s impossible to know whether I’d be more Zen if I were a couple of inches taller, but there could well be an element of learnt response.
Growing up small and male in a fairly rough place and time does teach you to fend off the bigger boys by at least appearing to be a less soft and tempting target. These habits linger. I’m not delighted with myself; in fact, a bout of street sarcasm always leaves me feeling ashamed and appalled, but it happens and, yes, it could well be something that worked for me in an east London pub in 1983 that I really should leave behind.
As for a competitive hunger for visible success, I used to have a lot more of that. I bustled my way into my first magazine editorship at 33 and behind a lot of unconvincing sub-Hugh Grant self-deprecation I was indeed very happy to see myself in a position with a little profile. It sounds ridiculous now but was it important to be “kind of a big deal round here” because I was kind of a small deal height-wise?
The height business is really all about gender stereotypes. The deal was: men are big, brave and protective and women are small, nurturing and protected. I hate this. My wife is 6ft and we’ve been together for 40 years and have produced two extremely high-quality children. If she’d have needed to feel petite and safe, or I’d needed to tower over my little woman, our lives would have been completely different.
Women are made to feel weird about having big feet or big hands; men are given special names such as “short king” to counterbalance their failure to achieve the full requirements of masculinity. We really need to escape these bizarre, outmoded expectations.
I’d better stop there, I’m becoming angry again …
The Times
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