I have always disliked being a Brobdingnag in a world of Lilliputians. While my mind tries to assure me that measuring 5' 9'' is not all that tall, my emotions and experiences tell me a different story. During six decades of looming over friends, acquaintances, and colleagues, I have discovered only one advantage to being tall: the M&Ms that I devour by the pound on a daily basis have to first travel down long arms and stilt-like legs before ultimately finding a permanent home in my stomach and thighs.

My height tainted my academic experiences because even my elementary school teachers equated being tall with being older and, therefore, smarter. My B's in math and science, then, earned scornful looks and weighed me down like a dunce cap made of steel. I received the most disdain from my physical education teachers. Instead of winning ribbons for the school with my gazelle-like running or Michael Jordan-like shooting, I constantly brought shame to my gym instructors by tripping over my size 10 feet, getting bruises from the dodge ball that never missed my massive body, and failing to ever conquer the forward roll.

That forward roll haunted me. For years I watched my compact classmates fold their flexible bodies almost into a ball and then tumble head first to a sitting position. Whenever I tried ( and I spent hours practicing in the living room while my older brother jeered and sneered at my efforts) my arms and legs fought each other. I felt like a marionette whose puppeteer had tangled all my strings. Finally, as an awkward, klutzy sixth grader, I gave up. I would just have to go through my life without having mastered this skill.

Junior high only accentuated what I perceived as my height handicap. I had entered the era of school dances when perky seventh grade girls and macho eighth grade guys gyrated on the gym floor like American Bandstand wannabes. I inevitably ended up with Freddy, the shortest boy in the class, whose head barely reached my stomach. My belly button could have twisted and jitter-bugged across the mandatory 12 inch space that separated us and landed on Freddy's forehead, giving him a Cyclops-like third eye. Dancing, like the forward roll, became part of the minus column of my life.

By high school, I had mastered the "turtle trudge," as I called it: head bending at my neck, chin burying in my upper chest, shoulders drooping like post-menopausal breasts, and eyes looking only at the ground. After four years of plodding through the school hallways, I knew exactly how many squares it took to get from English class to homeroom to geometry. I also convinced myself that what, or whom, I did not see could not see me. This approach to life had worked for me in first grade when, forgetting my one line in the class play, I did not run off the stage or turn to my teacher for help. Instead, I stood totally still like a statue illuminated by the spotlight, and I closed my eyes, figuring that if I could not see the audience, then the audience could not see me. After a few seconds of silence, I heard tentative applause; I curtsied, as my teacher had taught me, and exited to the wings where my classmates pointed and giggled. I guess I never learned from first grade to twelfth grade that no one, especially a Brobdingnag, can hide from the maddening crowd.

Although I dreamed of Tall Paul and Suave Dave, I did not meet my first love until I entered graduate school. My Romeo seemed indifferent to the fact that he was a head shorter than his Juliet. While he discussed ring shapes and honeymoon destinations, I focused on buying him shoes with six inch lifts. Years later, I thought of him when Nicole Kidman said "now I can wear heels" after she and Tom Cruise divorced. I thought of him when Katie Holmes married Tiny Tommy, and I wondered whether Katie, who favors four inch spikes, cares that she towers over her husband. Maybe love, especially when accessorized with fame and fortune, can be blind.

Shortly after my divorce (from a man who had inches on my Romeo but lacked his quality of character), I painted my face with eyeliner, blush, and lipstick, curled my hair, donned my most "non-teacher" dress, and attended a lecture/brunch for singles. As I walked through the foyer of the building, trying to decide whether I should enter the reception room, hide in the ladies' lounge, or dash to my car, a divorced/single man looked at me from the comfort of his chair. "So, how's the weather up there?" he asked. Years later, I came up with witty and sharp responses, such as "cleaner than the air you're polluting down there," but at the time, I used my high school "turtle trudge" to leave the building, thereby bringing to a rapid end my "sex in the suburbs" adventure.

While age has added some pounds to my usually slim frame, it has not taken away inches from my stature. Yet, I live in hope that one day I will be shorter. My physician, one who specializes in geriatric care, just gave me a prescription for bone-strengthening pills to curtail the osteoporosis that has already begun to threaten me. I will follow my doctor's orders because I hate any kind of physical pain, but a part of me welcomes an older age that may cause me to shrink like a cotton sweater left too long in the dryer. Maybe I'll end my years as a Lilliputian -- or at least as a less blatant Brobdingnag.

In the meantime, I fill my closet with flat shoes, style my hair in a coiffure that adds width but not height to my head, and slouch in my theatre/movie seat so as to not block the view of the person behind me. I avoid all shades of green and yellow in an effort to not look like the Jolly Green Giant or an advertisement for bananas.

Still, I cannot escape the reality: I am tall. I am also a victim of height obsession. This obsession follows me like a giant shadow. It labels me as if a scarlet "B" for Brobdingnag has been sewn to my chest. It invades my work environment, my social life, and even my intellectual decisions. With the April Pennsylvania Democratic primary only weeks away, I continue to vacillate like a pendulum of indecision between Hillary and Barack. Yet, even as I revel in the idea of a woman finally leading our country, a part of me knows I will probably vote for Barack. In doing so, I will not even consider experience vs. change or going back to the future vs. charting a new course. Instead, one thing only will guide my hand towards Barack: height. Hillary, at 5' 6'', is more of a Lilliputian than Michelle Obama who stands almost 6' tall in heels. In a world threatened by terrorism, poor health care, educational inequities, and a plethora of domestic and international concerns, we Brobdingnags have to stick together.
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Breaking News
By Ronna L. Edelstein

Every Wednesday and Saturday, I squander one dollar on a Power Ball ticket. Every Thursday and Sunday, the lottery machine reminds me that I am "not a winner." While constantly missing the monetary windfall does not make my day, I am more perturbed by being exposed to the "not a winner" or loser message. Perhaps the lottery should adopt a more positive vocabulary: Good effort! Please try again? Don't give up! Instead, it labels me with a word that has become the Lord Voldemort of language.

Words have emotional undertones that are not found in their dictionary definitions. The "geek," rather than being honored for her intellect, becomes the four-eyed outsider. By labeling cheerleaders as Barbie and jocks as Ken, the public makes it almost impossible for these young adults to display any kind of depth. For some, "liberal" paints a picture of the dreaded 1950's communist, while others find nothing right in a "right-winged conservative."

If the word "winner" sits at the top of the vocabulary hierarchy, then the word "loser" occupies the bottom rung. When I was little, I used to write "Mrs. Paul Anka" over and over again in my notebook; now I take a black pen and fill the white pages with columns of "loser." The first four letters, written in cursive, remind me of coiled snakes, while the final "S" looks like a deadly fang. I remember that childhood saying about sticks, stones, bones, and words, and the false message it sends. Like sticks and stones, being called a loser can break bones -- the emotional ones that sometimes never heal. The word "loser" scares me more than the boogey man of my childhood nightmares, more than the image of Norman Bates's mother rotting in my basement, and more than the clicking of the coffin lid as it closes.

While my elementary school classmates played Candyland and other games, I sat by myself in Loser Land. Although I always earned high grades and the respect of my teachers, my classmates dismissed me with their "What a loser!" sneer. They labeled me a loser for not being able to conquer the forward roll in gym class and for always being the last one chosen for the square dance. By eighth grade, when the teacher made me sign a contract that allowed me to participate in the holiday concert as long as I mouthed the words without singing even one off-key note, my loser status was set in stone.

As a 5' 8'' Brobdingnag, I should have confronted those lecherous Lilliputians with whom I went to school, but I lacked the power to do so. I felt impotent because I bought into the "loser label," accepting the perceptions others had of me without question. I thought about this when I recently read a review of David Anderegg's "Nerds: Who They Are and Why We Need More of Them in The Week (January 25, 2008)." One comment particularly resonated with me: "Even on the playground," Anderegg says, "the nerd label remains potent enough to change the course of some children's lives. This, in turn, may affect the nation's capacity to compete in a global economy." As a teacher, I guess I have contributed in some way to the global community, but as a loser, I question whether I have ever done anything worthy of praise.

I also wonder about my culpability in fueling the flames of the loser wildfire. My children's first grade teachers, like many of their elementary school colleagues, established low, middle, and high reading groups, known as the Moons, Suns, and Stars, respectively. These educators believed that beautiful solar system euphemisms would soften the loser label, but every one of their students saw through this subterfuge. Still, when both my son and daughter earned Star-status as readers, I rewarded them with Star Wars figures for him and a Cabbage Patch doll for her. I, the perpetual loser, exulted in having winning children. However, when my son only reached the Suns in science, and my daughter hovered between the Moons and Suns in math, I wallowed in shame. I still bought them gifts, even treating them to the cinnamon glazed doughnuts they both adored, but my children, Stars in common sense and perception, saw through my facade. They understood that they had begun a lifelong battle in which they would constantly be trying to prove to me, the mother supposed to give unconditional love, that they were not losers.

To change this connotation of loser by lessening its malignant sting is a formidable challenge that requires patience and effort. Thus far, not even the passing of time has diluted the derogatory impact of the word. I became painfully aware of this when, forty years after signing that humiliating eighth grade contract, I again found myself in junior high, now called middle school, but this time I was the eighth grade teacher, not the student.

As usual, I was sitting at my desk, eating my lunch of yogurt and M & Ms while grading papers. A knock on the classroom door was followed by the dramatic entrance of a sobbing female student. I imagined the worst; heinous scenarios from "Law and Order: SVU" flashed before my eyes. When I asked the distraught girl what was wrong, she gulped, "Please let me do extra credit. I can't bring this report card grade home to my parents."

The report card was the first one of the young woman's first semester as an eighth grader; the toxic grade was an A-. Imagine: This novice adolescent had worked herself into a frenzy because of an A- that would never affect her ability to get into Harvard -- or even to be promoted to high school. If this girl were the exception, I might have dismissed the episode as a reaction to a squabble with a locker partner or a lunch menu that offered tofu burgers instead of the real thing. Unfortunately, however, this girl and her anxiety were more the rule than the exception. Receiving anything below an "A" was just not acceptable in the highly competitive district in which I taught. After calming the young woman, I took the low road and changed her grade. I realized that her emotional health meant more than my educational integrity. Maybe I was wrong, but I could not bear being the cause of her parents viewing her as a "loser."

The word loser has invaded all segments of society. I remember watching the two consecutive winter Olympics when Michelle Kwan, one of my favorite ice skaters, won the silver (1998) and bronze (2002). The announcers and analysts lamented about "poor Michelle" whose defeats would forever label her as a loser in the annals of the Olympics.

Loser? Kwan skated better than every other skater in the world -- except for Tara Lipinski and Sarah Hughes who just happened to be a bit better at that particular moment. Kwan's years of skating and shelves crowded with trophies lost their meaning, fading like old photographs lying in the attic. Fans turned to foes as the skating world sewed the scarlet "L" onto Kwan's sequined costume.

I live in Pittsburgh, also known as Steeler Nation. Unofficial city law ordains that residents of this area must own a Terrible Towel, wear the black and gold on game days, and never support the New England Patriots. When the Giants emerged victorious from this year's Super Bowl, then, I did not shed any tears for Bill Belichick, Tom Brady, and company. Yet, I did cringe when the sports writers and broadcasters began referring to the Patriots as losers. A team that went 18-1 cannot possibly be considered losers, even if that "one" was the super one. Once again, American society showed little sympathy for those of us who fall short of the gold, just miss the endzone, or fail to darken the correct numbers.

Despite my pessimism, I do detect small but important signs of change. By receiving another chance from the voting public, John McCain seems to have shrugged off his "loser" cloak to become the presumptive Republican candidate. When John Edwards decided to end his presidential campaign, political pundits did not punish him with the "loser" label but instead congratulated Edwards for the contributions he had made and for encouraging his Democratic rivals to bridge the huge socioeconomic gap that divides us. Good for America, I thought. Perhaps the country is finally reaching the point where it can value and respect someone, even if that person does not make it to the finish line.

Then, as if to mock my optimism, the media, eager to determine whether Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama deserves the golden mantle of winner or the black cape of loser, have engaged in an intense numbers battle. After Barack lost New Hampshire, analysts flirted with assigning him the loser label, but then Hillary lost a string of races, making her the more likely loser winner. The campaign has deteriorated into one of poll projections and numbers juggling. At this point in the race, only one certainty exists: one candidate, with arms raised in victory, will stand at the podium; the other candidate will join me in Loser Land.

Even President George W. Bush tries to intimidate Americans by dangling before us the threat of being seen as losers. He insists that we as a country cannot leave Iraq until we win. He argues that in addition to winning our war against external terrorism, we must fight and claim victory in the internal wars against violence and poverty, illiteracy and addiction. If we abandon the Iraqis, we will be seen as losers. If we allow even one societal disease to still infect us, we will be seen as losers. I guess it is more important to fight a war we never should have begun and spend billions of dollars on foreign matters that could be better used for domestic challenges than to ever allow ourselves to be defined as losers. As Bush declares, losing is not an option.

I suggest that we Americans need more than iPods, Blackberries, and cell phones in our purses or briefcases. We need rulers --  ones that clearly mark all the numbers, not just one and twelve. We need to make it acceptable for ourselves and others to land at 3'' or 5.25'' or 9.75'' as long as we put forth an honest effort to get there. We need to teach our children and ourselves that it is okay to lose as long as we emerge from the loss with enhanced knowledge, deeper insight, and a greater understanding of which direction we should now pursue.

When Mitt Romney left the Republican race, he stated, "I don't like to lose." No one does, Mr. Romney, whether it is losing the lottery or losing one's self-respect and confidence. But just because we don't like to lose doesn't mean that losing should make us feel as dried up as Langston Hughes's raisin in the sun. We can diminish losing's potency by giving Michelle Kwan the kudos she deserves. We can tackle losing by celebrating the New England Patriots' magical season with a parade and a shower of gold, silver, and bronze confetti. We can bury losing before it buries us. We can change our thinking so that we see losers not as lost causes but as contenders -- those of us willing to take risks by entering the game, charting our own course, following the path less traveled, and striving to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. And should we not succeed today, well, as Scarlett so eloquently reminded us, there is always tomorrow.

I will continue in my efforts to become a Power Ball zillionaire, even if that means spending more money on the lottery than I ever win. I will continue to send stories to publishers, even if I end up wallpapering my room with rejection letters. I will test myself with harder crossword puzzles, and I will embark upon journeys that may involve detours, potholes, and wrong turns. And I will wait for that special day when the television screen flashes: "Breaking News: Loser, the Voldemort of language, has been neutralized." When that day occurs, I will incinerate my loser label, confront the lottery machine and all those Lilliputians who have dismissed me as "not a winner," and declare: "I am a contender!"

Ronna L. Edelstein is currently a part-time member of the University of Pittsburgh's English Department and a consultant at its Writing Center. This fall, she will also be teaching Freshman Programs, a course that focuses on introducing University of Pittsburgh freshmen to the academic environment of Pitt and the cultural environment of Pittsburgh. When not teaching, she spends her time writing, reading, and ushering at many of the city's theatres. In January 2008, Quality Women's Fiction published her short story, "Ma Bates," and since May 2007, many of her personal narratives, essays, and poems have appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the local daily paper. As always, she dedicates this to Ilana, Jonathan, Dad, and - in memory - Ma.