My first dream job was to be a model.
Okay, that’s technically a lie. When I was a little kid, I wanted to work at a nail salon because I was a girly girl and my favorite thing ever was painting my nails. Then, I thought about a doctor or a veterinarian for a while before I realized that I couldn’t do needles, then an actress before I realized I couldn’t act, and then, after some soul google searching, eleven year old me discovered modeling, and it was the one thing I could sort of do. So, a restatement:
My first dream job that I actually worked toward was a model.
I was a child model for my great aunt’s clothing business until I was around six, so I had gotten a bit of experience. I had always loved pictures, and the idea of standing in front of a camera and getting paid to do it excited me. So I told my mom and my aunt took some pictures, and we sent them off with a cover letter to some agencies in the city. I awaited at home, hoping at least one of the six or so agencies would take me in.
The responses came back a few months later. Some places didn’t even bother to give an answer unless it was yes, some places sent a letter that began with “We regret to inform you…”, and some places even went on to personalize the letter, saying something along the lines of “We have many people of your look at the moment, but you are allowed to resubmit in 6 months.” I tucked the letters away somewhere in my bedroom and awaited the next one until I received no more for a month and assumed I had not been accepted. I tried again, when I was thirteen, this time my resume looking a little bit fuller, my cover letter sounding a bit smarter, and received the same answer: No.
I’m fifteen now, and last week I rediscovered the letters and wanted to prove those agencies wrong, wanted to show them that they should’ve taken me in sooner. I looked up their websites for the address to reresumbit, and realized, that with my age, I now fell in the “women” category instead of the kids. And that, in order to even be considered, I needed to be at least 5’7″.
I’m 5’2″.
So, while my height crushed my modeling career dreams, that’s not the only thing it did. I’ve always felt out of place for being short, felt like I was never good enough or never pretty enough for my height. And it’s not like I’m that short, at least two of my friends are roughly my height, and I’m taller than some girls that are older than me. Still, even then, my height has caused people to think I’m seven instead of ten, ten instead of twelve, twelve instead of fifteen.
I have a little brother, Xav, and he’s going into sixth grade in the fall. He inherited the tiny gene as well, and he stands just around the 4’0″ range. He’s always telling me how he’s the shortest in his class, in his grade, in his school, (which is an exaggeration, he’s a bit dramatic), and how there’s a girl that’s as tall as my dad and he always gets teased for being short. And I always tell him that I was even shorter than he was at that age, and that he has to learn to live with it and ignore the mean people.
Growing up, (hah, get it?), I’ve sort of learned to embrace my shortness and think of it more as a good thing than a detriment. For example, a lot of my friends think that my shortness and tiny frame are sort of cute, and I’m generally shorter than a lot of boys I meet. I can’t make myself taller, so why worry about it? This goes for other things, too, like face shape or boob size or toe length or whatever else I might care about that I don’t have control over.
And hey, if people are going to think I’m an eighth grader instead of an incoming junior, who cares about them? I’m happy with myself and what I was given, and that’s basically the only thing that matters.
~Annika
dameannika 