When Bobby walked towards my desk in the New Zealand Embassy library in Washington, DC 40 years ago, for some inexplicable reason my heart beat faster. I was unnerved by the proximity of his brown eyes gazing directly into mine at the same exact height. I don’t remember a thing he said.
Bobby was all smiles as he came closer to me, a petite 27-year-old with a rare type of dwarfism. I looked nothing like the four feet tall, plump, middle-aged woman he had imagined.
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As president of Little People of America, Bobby was on official business meeting me, the president of Little People of New Zealand. I was visiting America on a Winston Churchill Fellowship from the NZ government to research disability civil rights laws and public relations programs designed to improve attitudes towards people with disabilities. My intention was to interview Bobby as part of my research, but it became much more than that.
Our talks began with a three-mile trip to the Lincoln Memorial. Not so easy for this 32-year-old man raised in the small town of Jupiter, Florida. His two months living in the DC area was not enough for him to adjust to driving his over-sized car, that barely fit in traffic lanes, around the confusing DC road system. He got lost and flustered. And the more lost he got, the faster he drove. He even asked me for directions—someone who had been in DC for less than 24 hours and couldn’t see out the car window. He relaxed when we finally pulled into the Memorial parking lot.
We walked across the street and Bobby extended his hand to help me up a curb. However, he continued holding my hand after both my feet were set on the sidewalk. Not ready for such a bold move, I let go of his hand. After all, this could hardly be called a date.
I didn’t need his hand as we rode the elevator to avoid the 57 step climb to President Lincoln’s statue that towered above us at more than six times our height. Like millions before us, we were inspired by the display of Lincoln’s words from the Gettysburg address: all men are created equal. We knew what it was like to be treated as second-class citizens and shared a life mission to achieve equality for people with dwarfism and other disabilities.
Pizza was our choice for the evening meal. Corned beef and cabbage never crossed our minds until a drunken Irishman saw the arrival of two little people as good luck. He invited himself to our table to share Irish jokes. I was impressed with Bobby’s diplomacy when he persuaded him to move along and declined the offer to join him at the Saint Patrick’s Day parade.
Instead, Bobby returned me to my guesthouse where he was more interested in kissing me good night on the cheek than kissing any blarney stone.
And no, it wasn’t love at first sight; that took two weeks.
This post is a condensed excerpt from chapter 1, My Heart Beat Faster, in Pass Me Your Shoes: A Couple with Dwarfism Navigates Life’s Detours with Love and Faith. The book is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Books a Million.
