As a little girl, I wasn't interested in traditional, dress-up dolls. By the time I started to notice Barbie, I saw myself as too old to bother with her. Now I realize that being a butch lesbian may have lessened my interest in doll dresses.
But I had a troll doll that was dearer to me than life. I distinctly remember having misplaced it once in the large room where we (roughly seven-year-old) children gathered for drama lessons. My agony over its loss brought everything to a halt as we all looked in every corner and under everyone's belongings. I think it was hiding behind an opened door, between the door and the wall. Sighs and shouts of relief could probably be heard in the next county.
I never lost it again. It accompanied me across the country and as I ping-ponged from Northern California to Southern California and back again.
I think it was during my junior high years that I bought a pattern for troll doll clothes, and made two little jackets out of felt. By that time, I had acquired a second troll. The first one had long straight black hair, and the other had shorter, frizzy magenta hair. Neither of them has, to this day, a name or even a gender. But both have a place of honor on my bookshelves.
At around the same time, I carved a copy of a troll doll out of a fat, cylindrical candle. I don't have the carving any more. I probably gave it to whomever I was crushing on at the time.
Why am I so attached to a funny looking androgynous sprite with short limbs and big ears? Clearly, I identified with it. I myself am short, androgynous, and not conventionally pretty. And I have hair of impressive straightness, which is the only thing about me that is straight. The only troll attribute I lack is big ears. So, when my troll alter ego went missing all those years ago, it was like I had misplaced a part of myself.
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