True Doll Stories We Remember

By Helene Simkin Jara

This anthology is a collection of stories people told me about their experiences with dolls. The original idea came to me when I interviewed my Mexican mother-in-law, who used to make clothes for naked Barbies and sell them for five pesos at the flea market in Guadalajara. Hearing her story was very poignant for me. When I would tell people abou

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helene Simkin Jara
• Release date: Jan 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087871554

Helene Simkin Jara

Helene Simkin Jara, author of the Kindle best-seller Because I Had To, is an actor, director, and writer. Her poems, stories, and plays have won numerous awards.

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TRUE DOLL STORIES

We Remember

As told to

Helene Simkin Jara

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher. The publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaims any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.

Copyright ©2019 Helene Simkin Jara

ISBN: 978-1-0878715-5-4 (e-book)

Note from the Author

I never had dolls as a child. I don’t remember being interested in them except when I was around 12 years old and my uncle Sammy brought me one from the carnival where he worked. My mother refused to let me keep it, saying it was probably stolen.

This anthology is a collection of stories people told me about their experiences with dolls. The original idea came to me when I interviewed my Mexican mother-in-law, who used to make clothes for naked Barbies and sell them for five pesos at the flea market in Guadalajara. Hearing her story was very poignant for me. When I would tell people about it, oftentimes their eyes would go off to one side and they would either look off into the distance or down to the floor, recollecting their own childhood and the dolls they had.

Each and every story was fascinating to me. I found myself asking just anyone I ran into, whether at work or the dog park or standing in line at the movies, anywhere really. After hearing about a hundred stories, I decided to put together this book. Some people asked me to change their names and even locations. When you read these stories, you will understand why.

Thanks for reading,

Helene

The Psychological Function of Dolls in Our Lives

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.

--Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926)

Winnicot (1953) introduced the term transitional object, to describe the process whereby a child imbues an object with the properties of the caregiver. Often the transitional object provides soothing in the absence of that person. In childhood and into adulthood, we can give inanimate objects human aspects.

Helene’s storytellers reveal to us the many ways we use our dolls to symbolize aspects of various personas. They are playful, aggressive, and function as messengers calling us to action. This delightful book invites the reader to begin to think about the way dolls have functioned in our lives and the meaning they have for us.

Helen Resneck-Sannes, PhD,

Licensed Psychologist

Helenresneck.com

Excerpt from Counting The Children by Dana Gioia, Poet Laureate of California 2015–2017:

Come in, she said. I want to show you hell. I walked into a room of wooden shelves Stretching from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, With smaller shelves arranged along the center.

A crowd of faces looked up silently. Shoulder to shoulder, standing in rows, Hundreds of dolls were lining every wall.

Not a collection anyone would want - Just ordinary dolls salvaged from the trash With dozens of each kind all set together.

They looked like sisters huddling in the dark, Forgotten brides abandoned at the altar, Their veils turned yellow, dresses stiff and soiled.

Rows of discarded little girls and babies - Some naked, others dressed for play – they wore Whatever lives their owners left them in.

Where were the children who promised them love? The small, caressing hands, the lips which whispered Secrets in the dark?

Table of Contents

ABANDONMENT

Constance

Geraldine’s 1st Story

Ja-win

Lupe

Lynn

AROUND THE WORLD

Annapurna

Belinda

Marika

Pat’s 1st Story

Veronica

Yoshi

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

Angela

Suzanne

ASSIMILATION

Emilia

Isabel

BAD GIRLS

Charlotte

Diana

Joanne

Roxie

BARBIES

Jane

Jessica

Joanna

Josefina

Kim

Nancy

BLACK AND WHITE

Cheryl’s 1st Story

Gina

Jasmine

Lara

Laverne

BOYS WITH DOLLS

Al

Brian and the Fatties

Diego

Lucien

Steve’s 1st Story

Therral

COLLECTORS’ ITEMS

Dana

Dar

Diane M’s 1st Story

Steve’s 2nd Story

Wilma’s 1st Story

COMPANIONS

Beatrice

Dana Talking About Tina

Francine

Melissa

DEAD AND GONE

Daraj

Kenzie

DOLLS AND THE STAGE

Brian’s 2nd Story

Wilma’s 2nd Story

DOLLS’ DEMISE

Carmela

Diane G’s 1st Story

Kari

Katie

Pat’s 2nd Story

DON’T BE CRUEL

Larise

DON’T TOUCH

Geraldine’s 2nd Story

Johnny

Laura Laura

Robin’s Sister Nina

FAKE DOLLS

Brazilian TV

Guys and Doll

FIX WHAT’S BROKEN

Diane M’s 2nd Story

GET ME OUTTA HERE

Ashley

Magdalena

Marylou’s 1st Story

HAVES AND HAVE NOTS

Annemarie

Cheryl’s 2nd Story

Chris

Elsa (Emilia’s Mom)

Joan

Robin

Sy

I DON’T LIKE DOLLS

Bonnie

Heidi

Marcy

IN SICKNESS

Aaron

Jill

IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE ME

Elena

Jacqueline

Kelly

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOLL

Helene

NOT A DOLL

Bill

Janine

Ron

RAGGEDY ANN

Marthann

Rebecca

Wilma’s 3rd Story

THAT WAS THEN

Mae

Muriel

UNFATHOMABLE—GRAPHIC CONTENT: BE WARNED

Marylou’s 2nd Story

YOU REMIND ME

Diane G’s 2nd Story

Erica

Maria

ABANDONMENT

The stories in this chapter left me with both sorrow and admiration. When my father died, I went into a deep depression. Although he didn’t abandon me, I felt abandoned. I couldn’t believe the sun still shone, people still looked happy, the buses still ran, life went on. Listening to the stories of these children and how they dealt with that feeling helped me understand the strength of the human spirit. We go on. We find a way. It may take some time, especially as an adult, but as a child we seem to find a way out of desperation more quickly. We invent. We hide. We pretend.

I was at my desk at work one late afternoon when a Swiss woman I knew as a re-entry student came by. She asked what I was doing in my life, and I replied that I was writing a book about people’s experiences with dolls in their childhood. I asked if she had a story she could tell me. She proceeded to recount her terrifying childhood for the next 2 hours as I typed on my computer. Her story poured out of her.

Constance

Teaching the Alphabet Wrong

We were children in an orphanage in Switzerland, the German part. It was in a small village. I did have a mother somewhere. She would come and get me once in a while. I was forced to be with her. She didn’t like me. It was always a nightmare to go with her. Whenever it was time for presents, like my birthday or the middle of summer, there was a chance I would have to be with my mother.

She once gave me a present for my birthday. It was in a big box full of little plastic cheap dolls, the kind that would cost 2 cents: the ugliest, cheapest, naked dolls. I was shocked. Why did she give me a whole box? One doll would have been bad enough, but a box of them? I couldn’t even scream, she hurt me so much. I don’t remember what I did with the box. I’ve blocked that out.

Soon it was my mother’s birthday—and I got my revenge. I was alone most of the time. I didn’t always come home and I wasn’t even noticed. So, I found a beaten-up dead mouse. Probably a cat had chewed on it. I wrapped it up beautifully with colorful wrapping paper and ribbons, way more than necessary, and gave it to her. I watched her unwrap it. She looked at me and said nothing. And nothing happened. Sometimes I wonder how I had the guts to do that. It was never spoken about.

In the orphanage, there was an old woman who lived there who made handmade dolls. She made all the clothes herself. They were gorgeous. She even made her own strollers. The dolls’ faces were knitted with thick cotton fabric. She made different sweaters and different shoes with real leather parts. They had hair made of wool—curly, blonde, or different colors…dark and white skin. She made black babies. Once in a while, on a birthday of one of the girls, she would get a doll. One day I did. I feel like crying just thinking about it. It didn’t last long. She took it away about a month later. It was devastating. I never found out why it was taken away. I think she regretted giving it to me or maybe she wanted it back.

When I was 6, the orphanage was closed down because the owner was violent towards the kids. I had to live with my mother then, which was far worse. She came and got us with a car. When I say us, I mean my younger brother and me. She had put us in the orphanage. She entertained everyone there. She had a big mouth. I didn’t want to get in the car, so she pushed me. Pretty soon, my mother arranged for my brother and I to stay in a house called House at the Sea. It was protected from the government. It was right by a lake. It was almost in the lake. The train went right by the other side of the house. The house was light blue and big with lots of windows and balconies, kind of like a castle with turrets. I lived there alone with my brother who was almost 2½ years younger than me. I was only 6.

At the end of the week, my mother would come and bring food and then we were sort of a family. She cooked and left again. She left me a franc—one for each day of the week—to go to the village and buy food for me and my brother. She lined up the francs in a row on the table. I can still see them.

I didn’t buy sausage. I never liked meat. I bought candy. When I was in the mood for real food (I took the responsibility of my brother very seriously), we would go to a restaurant in the village. We would ride down the hill on our tricycles into the village. My tricycle was an old one I found. My brother was given a new one for one of his birthdays. So, we would just sit in a restaurant until the owners would give us food. Sometimes on the way there, people would take us back to our house or sometimes, further away, we would find a house in a neighborhood and we would knock on the door. Then we would invite ourselves in for a meal. It was always an adventure riding into the village.

Living alone in that house was scary. There were mice and cats and no heat. It always seemed like one of the grownups might come back, so it was expected that I clean up the house. My mother expected me to. I would pray to God that God would clean up the house instead of me. I mean, there is a God, right? And everyone says He’s helpful. I prayed with my brother for God to clean up the house. God was disappointing. I didn’t clean up. God didn’t clean up. There was a little anxiety about that. But, other than that, I began to wonder what my purpose in life was. To clean?

Sometimes, for fun, I would break the big vinyl records I found in the house into little pieces. I liked the sound of breaking. I would make a little mountain of them and put them under the carpet.

In the winter, the snow was so high I was afraid that we might not be able to get back home or that we would freeze before we got there. We didn’t have winter clothes. I still sometimes look at my fingers and toes and marvel that I never lost any of them.

When we lived in the house, we would play orphanage. I would teach my brother what the nuns taught me. One day there was a phone call. It was the public school. Someone said that I had to go to school because I was already 7 or 7½ years old. They said I should have been there already. I was very excited, thrilled to go to school. It was far away from the house. It was an hour’s walk. The way to the school was between the lake and the railroad tracks. It was not safe. Not like in this country. In this country, none of this would ever happen.

On the way there, there were lots of things to do. We didn’t know what time it was. We would eat something for breakfast and then go to school. The school we went to was very small. There were two or three first graders and one second grader.

Sometimes we were an hour early or an hour late. The teacher told me I had to leave my brother at home. I just nodded and brought him anyway. My mother made it very clear I was not to tell anyone about our home life. The teacher finally accepted it and made a little place for him right next to me. He could do whatever he wanted.

In the evening, when we were home again, life was serious. We would go home and do more than the homework, whatever I thought was important. We would play school and I was the teacher. I decided we both had to do homework: the alphabet and math. He claims to this day that I taught him the alphabet wrong. I taught my brother how to tie his shoelaces. At least I did that right.

One day my father came home. There was an old laundry basket in the house and he told me to put all the things I wanted the most in the basket. Then he drove me to a new orphanage. My brother was in the car, but he didn’t go to the orphanage. I didn’t know what happened to him. I found out later that he lived with neighbors somewhere. He was devastated. Two years later he had to go to school because he was the right age and the police brought him to the orphanage.

As I said, I always preferred the orphanage to my mother’s house. They made me go home on weekends. By this time, my mother was married to a new person and living somewhere else. His name was Herr Haeberli. He was an alcoholic. He hated me. Why was he so mean? When my brother and I would arrive on the dreaded weekends, I had to check which room we would get and hope that I could lock the door. There was always tension, always fear.

One time the nuns told my mother that she had to get me some shoes or boots. I had broken sandals, even in the winter. When I got back home, even my mother thought I should have something for my feet. She got me cheap plastic boots. The kind you can buy for 5 francs. They were yellow. When my stepfather came home and saw them on the floor, he screamed, Who bought those? Nobody said anything. Then he sent me away. He screamed, Get out of the house! If you come back, I’ll kill you! I looked at my mother for support and looked at him and looked at her again. I knew what he was capable of doing. I remember when furniture went flying. Once he threw a big TV out of the fourth floor onto the street. I remember when pans flew and hit me when he tried to catch me. I knew he wasn’t kidding because I had seen him beat my mother. When I looked at my mother’s face, I knew I had to go. She said, Just go. He said you should go. I was 10 years old. I wandered around in the village at night in the street. I tried to go back to the orphanage, but the train wasn’t running that late. I just walked and walked. I finally got to the orphanage the next day.

When he was dying, many years later, I brought him flowers. I wanted to give him something, be there for him. He threw the flowers on the floor and said, Get out of here!

Because I hated going home to my mother, I was always selfishly thinking of ways not to have to go. When I was in school, there was a class for cooking. I learned to bake cakes. I baked cakes for the orphanage and tried to convince the teacher to let me bake a cake for a little girl in the orphanage who had asthma. If I baked her a cake and brought it to her, it would delay my going home for a long time. I would go back to my room and pack my bags to take the train, but first I would have to bake the cake. That would save me about 2 or 3 hours. I went on the wrong train on purpose. I told lies so often about taking the wrong train that even I believed them. Whenever vacation time would come closer, I would have nightmares at night. I would be screaming and a nun would come out and sit on my bed. But I never would tell her why I was screaming. I didn’t explain. I told you, my mother had always threatened us about ever saying a word.

And so, this last part is for you, Wolfie, dear sweet brother. I’m sorry I used to chase you onto so many roofs. I loved to climb roofs