This
week, Portland hosts the national conference of the Little
People of America, the world's biggest organization for
the short of stature. Approximately 1,300 people, about
800 of them dwarves, have registered for the conference,
which features an impressive range of events--from weightlifting
and basketball tournaments to symposia on medical and
employment issues to dinners and dances. Without thinking
too carefully, we dispatched a 6-foot-2-inch WW
reporter to the Marriott Hotel to go "undercover" and
get the inside scoop on the event. ("Just blend in," we
told him.) Here are his observations.
Friday, 6 pm. I'm standing in the lobby of the
Marriott Hotel, and the only word in my notebook is
"bedlam." At every turn, there are dwarves--not just
solo attendees, but entire families, standing in line
at the check-in counter (conveniently equipped with
a footstool) and sipping lattes in the lounge. Kids
roost on the shoe-shine bench or play on the escalators
while knots of teenage boys in baggy pants and backwards
baseball caps swagger through the lobby, their gait
probably owing as much to adolescent bravado as to their
build.
The casual observer is struck by the incredible variety
in the short-statured world. There are dwarves of every
description, from tanned athletes striding purposefully
up the stairs to egg-shaped folks confined to their
wheelchairs. There are petite dwarves, overweight dwarves,
African-American, Latino and Native American dwarves.
Dwarves standing on tiny, elegant three-wheeled scooters
that fit neatly into elevators. Dwarves riding gigantic
hog scooters with enough room to fit a couple of full-sized
Hell's Angels on the back. There are dwarves on skateboards,
dwarves on dirt bikes, dwarves on roller blades.There
are dwarves so tiny that even next to other dwarves,
they seem short.
Friday, 7 pm. The shock of seeing so many dwarves
in one place is beginning to wear off. Gradually, I
am able to look past the height and the unusual proportions
and see the dwarf world as it really is: just like the
regular world, except (duh) a little foreshortened.
Indeed, the strangest thing about the convention is
how utterly normal--even dull--it is, once you get over
the idea that most everyone is shorter than 4 feet 10
inches. There's a guy who looks like Phil Donahue. There's
a bald guy with a cell phone. There's a flock of teenage
girls in shorts and T-shirts chewing gum and sneaking
glances at the skater dudes. Ho-hum.
Monday, 3 pm. A dozen dwarf professionals are
gathered in a conference room for a brainstorming session
on dealing with career issues. For little people, the
professional world contains all sorts of hidden pitfalls.
Should they put their height on their résumés?
Should they warn potential clients about their appearance
before scheduling a meeting? How should they handle
children's taunts when they're having lunch with colleagues?
"We have to play the same game everyone else does, except
we have to play it better," says one woman. "I always
have to watch how I dress and what I say. I can't afford
to slip up."
Monday, 7 pm. "For some people, it's hard to
look in the mirror and accept what they see," says 4-foot
engineer Lee Kitchens, 69, the former mayor of Ransom
Canyon, Texas, who has been coming to LPA conferences
for four decades.
Monday, 10 pm. It's a glorious summer's eve,
and the cavernous ballroom of the Marriott Hotel is
packed with hundreds of figures gyrating to the Beastie
Boys. The floor throbs to the beat, while disco lights
splash rainbows on the ceiling. Parents line the walls,
anxiously scanning the dance floor, while dancers variously
boogie, shake and pogo to their hearts' content. A dude
in a Harley-Davidson shirt, jeans, tattooed biceps and
long, dirty-blond hair snakes his arm around the waist
of a hot little mama in a black halter top. Then the
rhythm shifts, and the mood slows from frantic to romantic.
Louis Armstrong starts crooning "What a Wonderful World."
The floor fills with couples of all ages, shapes and
sizes. It's a long, slow dance--and, for once, the awkwardness
of the couples has nothing to do with their stature.
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Willamette Week | originally
published July 7, 1999
