Tall as Trees Noureddine Boutahar

I come from a family of towering men. My grandfather, father, my one uncle, and both my elder and one younger brother—all tall, standing like proud cedar trees of the Atlas Mountains. In people’s conversations, our family often served as the quintessential illustration, whether height was praised or poked fun at.

I had always been a bit taller than my peers, but during junior school, I shot up like a reed in the wetlands. I sprouted to almost six feet, a height that came with its own set of challenges. Adolescence is already a time of turmoil, but this sudden stretch added a layer of body dysmorphia to my other teenage worries. Not only did I loom over my classmates, but I was also skinny—an easy target for a barrage of teasing. Giraffe, beanstalk, long legs, minaret, house ladder—these names clung to me like weeds in a garden. I laughed along, but inside, the sting was bitter and hard to ignore.

My height came with practical problems too. Shoes were an issue. I needed larger sizes, which made my feet seem oversized and awkward. Clothes didn’t fit either—pants barely reached my ankles, shirt sleeves stopped at my wrists. It was hard enough being a teenager, but when your body doesn’t fit, literally and figuratively, into the world around you, it adds a new burden  to your shoulders. I spent my youth trying to shrink myself, folding inward, as if that could make me blend in.

Standing or walking with friends, I towered over them. The tallest barely reached my shoulders, and so I adapted. I hunched, bent my knees, wore shoes with no heels. I positioned myself on the lower ground, hoping to appear less tall. I suggested we sit on the floor, on the grass, on doorsteps—anywhere but standing, where my height would set me apart.

In class, being a good student came with its own complications. I liked to sit at the front, eager to learn, but students behind me often grumbled when they couldn’t see past my tall frame. I slouched or leaned left and right to give them a view of the blackboard. Some teachers, noticing the complaints, often relegated me to the back of the room. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice.

One particular incident stands out. My French physics teacher, a beautiful petite woman named Miss Barbara, called me to the board to solve a problem. As I stood writing, she slowly approached, her comments drawing her closer until she stood beside me. The class erupted into a loud laughter, louder than usual. Amidst the giggles, someone muttered, “il, il, il,” the French pronoun for "he." It didn’t take long to understand why—the teacher beside me formed the “i,” and I, towering over her, was the “l.” Together, we spelled “il.” Miss Barbara’s face flushed tomato-red, but not in anger. She turned to me, confused. I explained, "Madame, ils rient parce que vous paraissez très petite à côté de moi, qui suis très grand." (Ma'am, they're laughing because you look so small standing next to me, as I'm quite tall.) Her face softened, and she leaned into the joke, standing even closer to emphasize the contrast further, which made the roar even louder, almost hysterical.

As laughter died down, the teacher began speaking. She wasn’t just talking to me now—she was talking to the entire class. She reminded us that none of us are born the way we choose, that the beauty of life lies in its diversity—of height, language, skin color. She spoke of tolerance, of empathy, of putting ourselves in others’ shoes. She continued for a while, and although her insightful words have faded from my memory over the years, her speech held the room captive. For the first time, I felt something shift. Some of my classmates wore guilty expressions, and I could tell the teasing had lost its bite.

Miss Barbara’s ‘lesson’ gave me something I hadn’t realized I needed—a foundation to build on. Gradually, I started to accept my height, wearing shoes with small heels instead of hiding. I began to see the advantages of being tall, researching famous tall figures in history—both saints and scholars. Over time, I learned to laugh at my height. I’d even joke about it with friends, suggesting we line up by height and laughing heartily when I easily topped the list. I’d tell friends and classmates that, while I wasn’t a seer, my height gave me a unique view of the future. The girls especially liked when I joked that one day I’d marry a shorter woman—so she wouldn’t notice when I started going bald.

In the end, tall or short doesn’t matter. What defines a person isn’t the inches they stand but the character they carry within. As the pre-Islamic Arabian poet, Zuhayr ibn Abi Sulma said:

A man's tongue is one half, his heart the other,

Leaving only the form of flesh and blood.

How often does a youth's beauty captivate you,

Yet his worth rises or falls by the way he speaks.

That’s what I’ve come to learn—no height or nickname could define one more than one’s words and actions ever would.