I wasn’t allowed to have white dolls when I was a child. Oddly, though, I didn’t actually realize this until I was much older. It wasn’t something that was ever explicitly stated to me, but my mother had very discreet ways of enforcing her will. For example, I remember when my aunt gave me an Ariel doll from “The Little Mermaid” and I was told that the doll could only be used at bath time. This made sense to me since she was, in fact, a mermaid. However, my Jasmine, Aladdin, and Pocahontas dolls were able to go everywhere with me.
I had a lot of dolls growing up but I never realized how curated my collection had been. If I happened to receive a white doll from an extended family member, my parents would always let me keep it. The next time I got a gift from them, though, the doll would be Black or Brown without fail. Knowing my mom, I’m sure there were more than a few calls made in between birthdays and Christmases to ensure such mistakes weren’t repeated.
My most vivid memory, though, was when I was finally able to get my very own American Girl doll.
Getting those catalogs as a child was something I looked forward to every month. I would lose myself in the glossy photos, making up my own stories, and playing out in my head what it would be like to have a doll of my own. My neighbor across the street had a “Samantha” doll, and I thought she was gorgeous. Her soft, curly brown hair. Her tweed coat and patent-leather shoes. These “American Girl” dolls represented girls during different historical time periods in American history. Their intent was to teach young girls about the past, while also encouraging them to be strong and courageous, just like the characters the dolls represented. Samantha’s story took place at the turn of the century, otherwise known as the “Victorian Age”. She lived in a mansion and saw injustice in the fact that women didn’t have the right to vote. To me, she represented determination, drive, and courage, all qualities that any young girl would aspire to embody.
That Christmas I asked my parents for an American girl doll. I took the catalog and circled all the things I hoped I would be able to get for my doll once she arrived. I prayed every night that Santa would encourage my parents to get one for me. And on that December 25th, I ran downstairs and tore open the doll-shaped box.
But when I opened the box I wasn’t graced with the presence of brunette ringlets. Instead, I found thick, black hair wrapped in, what appeared to be a tiny hairnet.
My parents had gotten me the “Addy” doll.
“Addy” was a story of her a young girl who is born into slavery and runs away to Philadelphia to gain freedom. She is forced to separate from her father and other siblings and does not immediately find peace once she and her mother safely cross into free land. Often teased, she finds solace in learning to read and ultimately finds immense joy in schooling. I smile now thinking of the seeds that may have been planted in my spirit even back then.
But as a little girl, I wasn’t initially happy. Even then I knew enough to feel embarrassed about having a doll that represented a slave. But that was the only option I had if I were to have a doll that remotely looked like me.
The second Black American Girl Doll “Melody” was not introduced until 2016.
Reflecting on it now, I greatly appreciate the intention behind my parents’ actions. They recognized that little children would idolize dolls and they wanted my sister and I to be surrounded by dolls that represented our Black beauty and our Black grace. But what message does it send to a child when the only story that seems to be worth sharing about her history is one that involves deep anguish and pain? This is an example of what author Chimamanda Adiche describes as “the danger of the single story.” I deserved to have diverse stories that represented my Black heritage in America. My white friends had 4 dolls, 4 other time periods that represented them. Even at that young age, I felt my prospects were limited.
Unfortunately, that was only part of my gripe with my Christmas gift. The other issue was that I never thought Addy was as pretty as the other dolls. “Pretty” was what I saw on TV, on commercials, and in my magazines, and I didn’t see many women who looked like Addy in those spaces. If you had asked me what “pretty” was, I would have probably said straight, pressed hair, lean or thin build, and pale or light skin. What I would have been describing was White. Even though I grew up in a predominantly Black area, went to an all-Black K-8 school, and lived in a household that was infused with Black pride in everything that we did, as Austin Channing Brown says in her book I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, “...however hard my parents worked to instill in me pride in being Black, their arms weren’t long enough to reach beyond the walls of our family” (25).
As a society, we have made strides in increasing representation in our media, but we still have a long way to go. And while we are starting to see more ads with greater representation of different beauty norms and standards, a few well-meaning ads cannot completely shift people’s perceptions overnight.
I have a friend who is a physician and was nervous about wearing her hair in braids when she started her new job. Having started my own natural hair journey two years ago, I still often worry about how it will come across to people who are unfamiliar with our hair textures and afro-centric styles. As an administrator, will I still be seen as professional if I am on a zoom-call with my hair in a head-wrap, a style that has its origins in Africa? When I meet a new school leader, will I be taken seriously when my hair is styled in a curly, unruly, beautiful, thick afro?
But as I do with most things, I take my cues from the youth.
Walking into work with my hair in a natural style was one of the most nerve-wracking moments of my life. While there were the opinions of my colleagues that I would have to contend with, the opinions of middle school adolescents were the main thing on my mind. When I walked into the school that first day, one of my female students stopped, did a double-take, and said, “I like your hair, Ms. Isaac.”
Nothing else mattered after that.
And that’s not where it stopped. More and more, I saw girls coming to school with their hair curly or wavy. I even had one student complain that her mother continued to flat-iron her hair. “Can you please call her and tell her to stop, Ms. Isaac?” she begged.
Unconsciously, I had started to change the narrative that there was only one way to be seen as “professional” or “pretty” in the eyes of my students. By wearing a style that is outside of the “societal norm” but is heavily celebrated within our own circles and families, they were able to see that they could show up in different settings as their full selves.
That is why representation matters. When you see your story or you see similarities or connections with people in power, you feel more emboldened to be your true, whole, authentic person.
As an educator and writer, I work to showcase myself as “All-Black Everything” because I want my students and readers to know that it’s ok to be proud and that we, as a people, can win. I want them to realize and believe that beauty exists within our past, our present, and our future. Such lessons are ones that I learned from my parents and my beautiful, Black dolls.
Works Cited
Brown, Austin Channing. I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness.
Convergent Books, 2018
Very well stated as we continue to strive ahead👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾
I. Feel. Seen. 🙌🏽