I always knew that somehow I was different. Slight of frame, fair of skin, and serious of demeanor, I toiled for many years under the mistaken impression that I was just like all the other boys around me. But I was not: I was smaller and somewhat wiser, and attracted to tales of lands distant and times remote. Occasionally I glanced a hint of pointy ear, and wondered about the attached sly grin. And, of course, the greatest modern-day Elf of all, Mister Spock, blessed me weekly with his presence on the farseer. A wise man, different from those around him, he found ways to attune himself to his Man-friends. He played an ideal role-model for me.

Then I read The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien. Such a storyteller, such a spinner of yarns and weaver of tales was this Man! And such a gift gave he me: a name to call myself, a Race with which to identify. Now I had a word to attach to those things that made me special, a word I could bear with pride. I knew then that I am an Elf.

In other places I read tales and heard songs about Elves, and learned that we were believed to perpetrate all kinds of eveil upon the Earth. “Seven Hundred Elves came out the wood/ Foul and grim they were,” sang Steeleye Span and saddened my heart. Tales in which a Man-child was abducted and replaced by an elf-child to grow up in his stead made me doubt the value of my heritage. And thus shamed I vowed to hide my true identity from all.

Next: Hiding