WASHINGTON--It didn't take me long before I was a full-fledged local member. The other members welcomed me with open arms. Or perhaps not open arms but rather knowing nods and quick glances. I didn't even need a letter of introduction from the Boston chapter.

A few of the local representatives of the International Brotherhood and Sisterhood of Tall Subway Riders (IBSTSR) acknowledged my lanky, six-foot-five presence from afar as we rumbled on between Metro Center and Van Dorn St. after my second day of work. Seeing as how this train was more packed than usual, and seeing as how I had no chance of getting a seat, there was no place to look but down toward the ends of the car. That was where my eyes met those of the other tall folk, all over six-foot-three by my estimation.

The simple eye contact and pursed lips on their faces let me know that they felt my pain. In fact, it's a pain all tall people know well.

You don't want to look down because the short bald man in front of you would surely feel your glance reflect off of his cue-ball head. You can't look out the window because, well, you're underground most of the time, and when you aren't, you can only look down toward the grass because you are taller than the windows. So, instead, you look up and down the train, above the heads of the average Joes and Janes. Sometimes, you close your eyes because there just is nowhere else to look. And you have to be careful what you do because everyone else looks up to you. No picking your nose on the Blue Line.

And then there is the pole that runs the length of the train, to the side of your head. It is the bane of your Metro experience. The shorter people have to reach up to hold onto it. You have to strain to avoid knocking yourself out when the train hits a sharp curve.

You make sure each morning to layer the deodorant on because you know that there will be the short people on the train that will be forced, like it or not, to smell your armpit. You hope to God that it lasts all day and through the ride home. If it doesn't, you hope to God that they don't blame you for it, even though you know that there really isn't anything you can do.

When there's a seat open, you try to grab it. You feel bad for not being a gentleman, but on the Metro, all genders are equal. This is what those women's rights activists wanted when they burned their bras in the '60s and '70s, right? That's what we tall people tell ourselves, at least.

You may think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Although the IBSTSR exists only in unspoken association, tall people are uniting. They have taken to forming clubs, as I read in Tuesday's Washington Post. An article in the metro section ("Metro" section. Coincidence? I think not) said that there are a combined 150 members in the Washington and Baltimore Tall Clubs, and that there are 65 chapters worldwide of Tall Clubs International.

The club requires that men be six-foot-two and women be five-foot-ten. It provides social outlets, moral support for tall people--who sometimes feel the sting of verbal jabs about height--and a venue where they can trade secrets on clothing stores, airlines and hotels that accomodate tall people.

You may think this is unnecessary because there are certainly more marginalized groups out there. True--although physical comfort can often be on par with emotional, social or psychological comfort.

Take, for instance, my airplane dilemma. I'm poor enough to afford coach class, so that is where I must buy my ticket. But coach class makes me miserable because I am folded up like a lawn chair and stuck in a seat I couldn't fit in when I was 12 and with no real place to move, especially after the bozo in front of me reclines his seat those precious three inches. He may not think much of taking those three inches, but it means a whole helluva lot to me. If this were a utilitarian calculation, my discomfort would be to his comfort as Harvard's endowment is to my checking account.

Now, I've naturally adapted to this problem. I now only sit on the aisles, and I try to get the emergency exit row when I can. I don't normally like to take 200 peoples' lives into my hand, but I must in order to be comfortable.

I'm sure the other tall people of the world understand my plight on planes. It comes with the territory. Everyone looks up to you and you get used to it.

I'm confident enough not to need the Tall Clubs International, but I do like to know that it's out there. I much prefer the unspoken bonds I have with my fellow tall person--the subway nods, the silent empathy, the knowing gazes.

Besides, I want to keep my secret tricks of the tall to myself. They wouldn't work if every tall person found them out.

William P. Bohlen '01, a Crimson executive, is a government concentrator in Pforzheimer House.