Allison Queal grew up like any other kid in her Lakewood neighborhood. She just didn’t grow as much. And she never will.
But that hasn’t stopped the energetic 17-year-old from being a varsity cheerleader and yearbook editor, acting in plays and being on the swim team. She not only has a spirited yell for the Woodrow Wilson High School Wildcats, she has an indomitable spirit.
A senior at Woodrow Wilson, she is one of the “little people,” a euphemism for dwarfs. The clinical word of her condition is achondroplasia, a congenital disorder that results in short arms and legs, a normal trunk and a normal mentality.
But no matter what you call her, you can’t call her a shrinking violet. A browse through her scrapbooks attests to that: Here she is on a school trip, in front of the Eiffel Tower. Here she is in the stands at the Olympics in Barcelona. And there she’s a leprechaun in a St. Patrick’s Day parade.
“I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve done, and I enjoy everything I do,” she says in a husky, Lauren Bacall-like voice. “I love my friends and I like being involved in school activities. I work hard and I play hard.”
This year, in addition to being yearbook editor, a cheerleader and a member of the National Honor Society, she is a member of the Key Club and is always performing in yet another one-act play when she’s not working part time as an office clerk.
Allison’s mother, Pam Queal, says she and her late husband, Bob, always tried to let Allison live as normal a life as their other kids, Karrie and Brenton, ages 12 and 22.
Bob Queal died 10 years ago, within weeks of being diagnosed with liver cancer. One of the last things he did was to adapt a bicycle so Allison could ride it.
“There are some things she can’t do, but she doesn’t let it get in her way,” her mother says.
When Allison was born, her parents didn’t know immediately that she had a condition that affects an estimated one in 14,000 live births.
At birth, Allison weighed a healthy 7 1/2 pounds. Fortunately, in growing up, she had no health problems, so she had to cope only with adjusting to her shortened limbs.
“Once Allison had been diagnosed as a classic achondroplastic dwarf, we got our hands on everything we could read,” Queal says. “Initially I asked myself if I was capable of handling this. You ask yourself, `What could I have done to keep this from happening?’ Then you just accept it. We asked the pediatrician if we could talk to another family whose child had the same condition.
“He suggested I take Allison to Children’s Medical Center. Once I saw what real mental and physical problems some of the children had, I took a deep breath and realized how lucky we were after all. At least Allison was and is healthy.”
And a dynamo. Allison is at school daily at 7 a.m. for varsity cheerleading practice. On a recent Monday, she passed through a sea of students scurrying to class.
Several greeted her as they whizzed by. The only place she is not likely to be passed is on the stairwells: She has her own key to the school elevators because her legs can’t navigate the steps.
But they navigate the kicks and struts of the 25 or 30 cheers on Woodrow Wilson’s behalf.
“We’re rockin’ and shockin’ every team around;
“We’re WHS and we’re victory-bound!”
Decked out in her tailor-made gray, red and white uniform, Allison leaps, tumbles and shouts along with her 13 teammates. Standing on the sideline with the football team after a devastating defeat at the hands of Jesuit College Preparatory School, she barely comes to the waist of Wildcat defensive back Joe Theriot. Still, at 3 feet, 10 inches, she holds her own with the squad.
“Allison fits in just fine,” says cheerleading sponsor Bridget Flanagan. “She’s the first little person I know of to become a varsity cheerleader, but there has never been a problem with acceptance. She knows her strengths, and she plays to them. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself, and she doesn’t allow anyone to feel sorry for her. She makes no apologies. Actually, I don’t think of her as a dwarf. I think of her as Allison.”
That’s how it should be, as far as Allison is concerned. After all, she doesn’t feel like anyone other than a normal, if slightly driven teenager, although she might look different.
She recalls an encounter involving the Dallas Police Department.
“I was coming from practice, and I was starving,” she says. “I have a tendency to drive kind of fast, so when I looked in my rearview mirror and saw this police car, I looked down to see how fast I was going. I wasn’t speeding, so I just kept heading toward McDonald’s. They followed me into the line. After I drove around to the window to get my food, this officer walks up to my window and says, `Let’s see your license.’ “
The police officer suspected Allison of being a child who had appropriated someone’s car. When she saw the extensions on the gas and brake pedals, she realized her error.
“She was so embarrassed,” Allison says with a laugh. “She kept saying, `I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.’ I just said, `Fine, now can I go home and eat? I’m hungry.”‘
Much of Allison’s self-confidence comes from the comfort of her Lakewood surroundings and the support of friends and neighbors. A neighbor, Elsie Claybrook, modifies her clothes. Another neighbor, Lois Lamb, is also a “little person.” In addition to having taught Allison in elementary school, she has been a role model.
And Sally Moore, Wilson’s swim coach, has known Allison for more than a decade. She tells how they met:
“Years ago, there I was, teaching this class of little kids at Lakewood Country Club, and as they walked into the pool area, I greeted each one, `Hi, there, little midget; hi, there, little midget; hi there, little midg . . .’ Well, Allison set me straight. She put her hands on her hips and said, `I am not a midget, I’m a dwarf. There’s a difference!’ “
That difference, according to Dr. Lewis Waber, pediatric geneticist at Children’s Medical Center, is that midgets are proportionately smaller, whereas dwarfs have a disproportionate shortening of the limbs.
Despite Allison’s adjustment to her condition, there are a few emotional scars, but she doesn’t dwell on them. These days she ignores rude people, but it wasn’t always easy.
“It used to hurt my feelings when people called me `Shorty,’ but now I just ignore people who call me names or ask stupid questions. With people I know, joking around doesn’t bother me because I know they’re joking. It’s people I don’t know who get on my nerves, because they don’t have the right to ask me anything.”
It is clearly a sore spot, but as quickly as the anger surfaces, it is gone.
“I have to get on with my life,” she says. “I don’t have time for nonsense.”
Really. She has to sell ads for her yearbook, which will have 264 pages, making it the largest in a decade.
“I raised her to be independent; now I’ve got to live with it,” Queal says. “She is so focused and self-assured, people sometimes forget there are things she can’t do, like reach the freezer on a refrigerator. About the only concession we’ve made is to make the cord to her ceiling fan a little longer.”
As for Allison, she’s making plans for the weekend. Her boyfriend, Pierre Palenzuela, is coming from Florida for a visit.
And for the future, the University of Texas at Austin is definitely in the mix. But so is the University of Miami.
“A lot depends on who offers the best scholarship,” Allison says.
