Bless You, Yao Ming, Bless You
I used to be a rock star.
Strange though - except for the piano in my living room, I don’t own a musical instrument. I’ve never fronted a rock band and I don’t really sing in public. The closest I’ve come to singing in public recently was when I was driving my seven year old son from school the other day and singing to “Sweet Caroline” on the radio at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down and a car load of kids roaring with laughter as we were both pulled up at a stoplight.
When will I ever learn? Windows down – play U2 or Eminem. Windows up and no one can hear you – Neil Diamond rocks!
OK, so in the strictest terms, I’m not an actual rock star. But I think I know what it feels like to be one – at least when I’m in China.
Here’s how it works. In the U.S., I’m a fairly average-sized person. Six feet tall, average build, not too big, not too small.
When I go to China, especially in some of the more rural areas, that’s another story. A six-foot tall Chinese man in China? I might as well wear a goose outfit carrying a sign saying, “I’m looking for duck-duck.”
It starts up the moment I get off the plane. I have to duck under a lot of doorways. The seats are often too small. Walking up stairs, you often have to bend down so as not to hit your head on the ceiling. People walking pass stop in mid-stride with their eyes bulging and mouths agape, as if Big Foot had just disembarked from the plane.
At first I got kind of a kick from it. Waiting to board a busy subway, you’re a foot taller than everyone else trying to board as you gaze over a sea of bobbing black heads. When I’m sitting on a bus, I usually get the bench all to myself because there’s simply no room for anyone else on the bench once I sit down.
After a while though, you quickly discover that being overly tall in any country has a lot of drawbacks. I have to answer the same question every time. “What did your parent’s feed you?” they ask, expecting me to say, “Oh, nothing special - hamburgers, hot dogs, human growth serum, the usual things.”
Then, despite the fact that I have been to Asia countless times, I have yet to buy a single article of clothing. Oh, I’ve tried, but I can never find anything big enough for me to wear. I immediately start feeling like a sideshow geek. You can see the sales people sizing me up, with a look of bemused amazement when I walk into the store. You can hear them trying to figure it out, speaking Chinese, unaware that I understand what they’re saying.
“Someone go in the back and see if we have any shoes that’ll fit this guy. He’s huge. See if we still have those clown shoes leftover from the party. Maybe those will fit.”
It’s enough to give you an inferiority complex. You start believing that perhaps, there really is something wrong with you. You get paranoid. You start questioning yourself.
Am I really that big? I seemed fine at home. Wait a minute. Why am I so tall? Why do I have all these bruises on my forehead from bumping into doorframes? Look at my hands. They’re freakishly big! I could strangle a cow with these hands! I’ve got cow-killing hands!
Fortunately, I’ve recovered from my paranoia, thanks in large part, to the very large Yao Ming, center for the Houston Rockets basketball team, who ironically enough, is from China. He’s seven feet, six inches tall, and I’m sure he really does know what it’s like to be a rock star.
I just wonder what his parents fed him?
