I do not really know where to start. I know the old saying, “start at the beginning”, but that is easier said than done. What is the beginning? I cannot ever remember me as being anything else or feeling any different. Maybe I should start with the toys. My favorite toys were lego bricks, some plushies I loved dearly (a little horse called Johnny, a dog called Blondie whom I lost at a picnic once and a little lion whose mane I cut to make it grow back thicker – that is what they were telling me when taking me for a haircut) and my brother’s toy cars as soon as I inherited them.
I would line the cars up and drive them one after the other through the living room. Favorites came first, the ugliest brought up the rear. In time, I would expand the collection. My aunt from Vienna did not at first consider it very suitable for a girl, but in the end she gave in. After all, all the dolls were being neglected and catching dust on the shelf. I hated them and found playing with them stupid. So she would sometimes bring me little cars. Once, when I was a bit older and visited Vienna myself, I picked the car I wanted. I had found a model of Ayrton Senna’s Honda McLaren.
With lego bricks, it wasn’t much different. I had built myself a pistol that fired lasers – probably reading too much sci-fi already. The other things I loved were little horses and riders after my brother showed me how to easily make them. I organized Wild West style battles with those – probably also due to the fact that my favorite authors once I started reading were Karl May and Isaac Asimov. Watching Saber Rider reinforced that. In my mind, I was the title character.
The other “weapons” I would carry around the house were two wooden sticks with a crossguard that made them look a bit like swords – they were part of a ring game I never played. I used to carry them in the belt loops of my jeans (and they would constantly hit my knees and get tangled) until I watched Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles, declared myself Leonardo, and shoved them in the back of my t-shirt to carry them on my back. Once I got a walking stick my dad carved for me, I used to say I was Donatello, but I was not alowed to play with that indoors. It was put out of my reach on top of the ceiling high bookshelves in the living room.
