Dolly My Beauty
I have a confession to make: I told
a lie in previous posts. I apologize. I preached this good sermon about how my
parents were my only influences and not TV. Well, that’s not entirely true.
There were some TV shows that influenced who I am, but I think the biggest
influence on and reflection of who I wanted to be came from my dolls. Listen.
When I was a little girl my parents went out of their way to make sure I had
every single doll known to man. At one time Mattel and Hasbro couldn’t put out
dolls as fast as they could buy them for me. If they didn’t get them from the
stores they had them made. I had dolls made from yarn, dolls made from cloth, dolls
made from felt, dolls out the wazoo. The only stipulation to this doll craze
that we went through (because they were just as into buying them as I was into
playing with them) was that they had to be African-American. I think I had
about seven Caucasian dolls in life. The dolls had to be black because I spent
a strong portion of my time with them. I had to create my fantasy world based
on them. How could I enter an imaginary realm where no one looked like me? I
already had to deal with that when watching The
Jetsons, a cartoon that suggested my people weren’t part of the future. In
the world I created I had to be surrounded by people who looked like me, no
matter what material they were made of. Good job, Mommy and Daddy. You shaped
my artistic side with a blueprint of perfection. Maybe I’m still stuck in the
world the two of you allowed me to create. That’s why I don’t fall in line with
what the world thinks of me. Well done.
This thing with the dolls was
serious. Although I had more Barbie dolls than anything, that dog-heffa didn’t
add much to me as a person. The whole concept of Barbie was crazy to me because
Barbie had everything in the world, but Barbie had no job. I always wanted a
job. Better yet, I always wanted a career. My mom had a career that required
her to carry a briefcase. I didn’t know what a briefcase was, but it made my
mother look important; so I wanted one. Barbie had no career and no briefcase.
Somehow she had all of life’s luxuries, though, and that alone was supposed to
impress me. I wanted to work for the townhouse, the Corvette, the RV, the Jacuzzi
large enough for eight friends, and the wardrobe so extensive that I never wore
anything twice. And Barbie never really had shoes. I mean, she had those little
things on her feet the size of Tic Tacs, but they never stayed on. I’ve been a
shoe-whore for as long as I could imagine, so her walking around barefoot with
those unreal arches in her feet just irked me to no end. Barbie always had on a
ballroom gown but no shoes to go with it. And she didn’t have a man or
children. My idea of adult life always included both. Yes, I know Barbie had
Ken. My Barbies didn’t. It was decided by my father and my uncle that I wasn’t
allowed to have a Ken doll because Ken had no penis. I had to get a G.I. Joe
for Barbie because he had a penis and masculinity. Ken, they decided, was gay. Why
they cared about a little girl having a doll with a penis, I don’t know. I
don’t know why they thought I knew what gay was either, because I honestly
didn’t learn what that word meant until high school. (It was like they
sheltered me but wanted me to know everything at the same damn time). G.I. Joe
was always off fighting King Cobra or complaining to Lady Jane about how Barbie
never wanted to do “army stuff,” though. Outside of her wide range of friends –
of only whom the minority sect made it into my home (Sorry, Midge) – Barbie
didn’t lead a very envious life. Barbie didn’t even have a daughter. A black
woman in ownership of all of those worldly possessions with no job to show for
it, no husband, and no kids? No thank you. She was fun to play with but not
someone I hoped to be.
My whole family was in on teaching
me to take pride in my race through my playthings. Black women were working
women. I never had a tea set because tea parties were for idle women who sat
around and gossiped. The women in my family got on the phone and gossiped after
work hours; after their families were fed, children were bathed, and while they
cleaned their kitchens. They never drank tea; they drank coffee, and that was
to get them to work to make their contribution toward the bacon being brought
home. To them being a wife meant being part of a team. What part of a team sat
around a table dressed up and drinking tea during the week? The only time tea
was acceptable was when they went to sorority luncheons, functions that served
the purpose of raising money. So every Christmas when I put a tea set on my
list it got scribbled off and wasn’t given another thought. Not even pretending
to be useless was an option.
There was nothing like taking that
five hour trip from Syracuse, NY, to Harlem, NY, on a weekend to visit my
mother’s people and hearing someone – anyone
– say, “In the morning we’re taking the subway and going shopping. My mother’s
side of the family consisted of professional numbers players. That is, they hit
the numbers so much that they were able to supplement their incomes with
Lottery winnings. (I’m still waiting for this trait to kick in). That meant I
was going to reap the benefits of someone’s – or multiple people’s – money from
hitting the three-way or four-way. Aunt Lottie was the best one to win, because
she spoiled me stinking rotten. (I’m actually about to break down in tears from
the memories. She’s gone on to Glory now, and I miss her so). We rarely had to
take the subway, which was a good thing, because I was terrified of subways.
She was a fancy woman who was all about cabs. A couple of times we took the bus
just so she could try to teach me how to do it, but it was mainly cabs. Looking
back, I believe she enjoyed buying me dolls because she grew up during a time
when there were no black baby dolls. She never told me that, but I remember how
adamant she was about me getting a black one whenever we went out. There was a
time when I wanted a Jem doll, but
she wasn’t buying it for me because they didn’t have the African-American
member of the group available for purchase. She knew there was a black girl in
the group, because she watched the cartoon with me before we left the house
that morning. That day I got clothes and no toys until we got to The Bronx
where I was sure to find a doll who looked like me.
In the first grade there was a book
fair/rummage sale at school. I was one of those strange children who danced on
the ceiling at the chance to buy books. I think my mom gave me twenty dollars
to buy what I wanted. It may have been less, but I remember thinking I hit the
jackpot. I could buy as many books as I wanted with twenty whole dollars! Then
as I made my way to the register, I saw toys! Dolls! The only problem was there
were no black ones. I bought one anyway- a hard, plastic one with short,
brittle blonde hair and blinking blue eyes. I only wanted it because it came
with a baby bottle and wet itself. Later I learned that the stupid thing didn’t
come with diapers; so it was just a mess, especially after my cousin ripped its
pants off and flushed them down the toilet. I sat her on my bed with the elite
of my dolls which consisted of a cloth doll made of chocolate-colored cloth and
long black yarn hair who was named Veroda after my favorite cousin; a yarn doll
with cornrows whose name alternated between Alaina and Arajean depending on how
I felt that day; a pillow version of the little black girl from Strawberry Shortcake; Montgomery Moose
from The Get Along Gang; a Canadian
Cabbage Patch named Feinfay (I did not name her that, so you will not hold me
accountable for that wrongdoing) who was one of the first ones ever made, so of
course she was Caucasian; and Rainbow
Brite. There was no compromise with that one. Even if she was purple with
lime green spots and orange polka dots on her butt I was going to have Rainbow Brite. I introduced the new doll
to the elite crowd. They didn’t receive her well at all. Maybe it was because
they were all dressed to the nines, and she didn’t have anything covering her
butt by the time I made it to my bedroom to introduce her to them. Maybe it was
because her hair was made of a material unlike anything in this world. Maybe it
was the blinking eyes. Whatever it was they didn’t take well to her. She wasn’t
even allowed to be among the peasants of my dolls. How was she supposed to
teach me anything about loving myself? Her shirt was ugly, and she didn’t even
wear draws. I looked at her and thought maybe I could do something to help her.
Getting her pants out of the toilet was simply out not going to happen. I
couldn’t borrow clothes from another doll. She was shaped too funny for that.
Besides, she was already a bum. I couldn’t embarrass her any further.
“With all the black children that go
to that school you’d think they’d have black dolls for sale,” I heard my mother
grumble as she passed by my room. “There’s a black nun at the school. Why didn’t
she tell them to get some black dolls?”
My mother thought everyone should join the effort in teaching her child to take pride
in her race. Most of my friends’ mothers shared the same sentiment. Like my
Aunt Lottie, they grew up during a time when there were no black dolls. To act
like black girls didn’t exist in the lands they created during their recreation
time was a crime. Even the mothers of my Caucasian friends agreed and thought
it was great that there was now diversity on the shelves at Kidde City. So I
committed a horrible crime by bringing this doll into my home. I felt bad for
her. She was already a reject and an outcast. I didn’t even give her a name. So
I decided to “fix” her. Rather I sought to fix the wrong I did by bringing us
into each other’s lives. She wasn’t fancy, pretty, special, or well dressed.
She didn’t look like she came from hard work or love. She was nothing to take
pride in. She was just there, just something I got money to buy. She was a
cheap hooker when I really think about it, a hooker who peed on herself. At
least if she was black she could be considered a prize in my life.
I went into my parents’ room and got
a pen. When I returned to my room with the life changing instrument, I sat in
the middle of the floor and studied the little doll. She was a homely little thing.
Buyer’s remorse consumed me. I only bought the doll because she was there. I
never would have picked her out if she was at a toy store. Those horrible,
prickly eyelashes would never have won me over. I decided that what I was doing
was for the best. Over those rosy cheeks I scribbled with black ink. Rosy
cheeks were an overrated concept of beauty, so they had to go first. I
scribbled over her forehead and over her chin. Pleased with my act of kindness,
I returned her to the elite society on my bed. I swear that all those faces
with permanent smiles molded or stitched into them frowned. I looked back at
the little homely doll that never had a name. My own face frowned. Except for
ridding her of the rosy cheeks, I didn’t do her any favors. She was hideous.
Into the Humpty Dumpty toybox she went, unloved and unnamed.
Only during the Christmas seasons was
she allowed to resurface. That was the time when my mother swore I wouldn’t get
anymore toys because I didn’t play with the toys I got the previous year. So
during November and December I dumped out every toy I owned and made sure to
position myself where my mother could see me playing with each of them. Cleanup
time was like slave labor during that time of year. Soon I came up with the
idea of putting on a Christmas pageant and giving each of my toys a part. The
pageants never got put on as I could never get the scripts just right, but it
let my parents know that I did need more toys because I did play with the ones
that I had. The little homely doll with no name was always in the back playing
some part where she would blend and not have to be recognized, probably in the
choir of dolls shouting the chorus to “Children Go Where I Send Thee.” Then
came the year when she boldly asked to be Jesus in the Christmas play, and she
had to go. I conveniently left her around the same cousin who took her pants.
She had no legs when she returned to me. My mother thought it was tacky to have
dolls with missing limbs, so it was bye-bye for the nameless little homely doll
who added no sense of pride to my life.
November, 1991. I sat under the dryer at
Miss Selena’s boutique, thumbing through Ebony’s
anniversary issue of their magazine. The article that interested me was one
complaining that there were never any medium to dark brown girls or women with
long hair featured in the hair care articles. The writer was trying to point
out that such a thing didn’t exist. I was confused because all of my dolls were
medium to dark brown, and they all had long hair. Dolls like Dolly Surprise,
whose ponytail grew when you made her hand touch the butterfly in her hair, and
Lady Lovely Locks, who I called Lillian because the name just sounded so much
better than “Lady Lovely Locks,” were famed for their long tresses. My own hair
had me on hour two of torture under the dryer because it was so thick and long.
At the time it reached the middle of my back when it was pulled into a ponytail
and braided, so I was trying to figure out how I didn’t exist. I was a dark
shade of chocolate brown, darker than a Hershey’s Special Dark Chocolate bar. The
kids in my class called me “burnt piece of toast” when they wanted to be mean,
so how was this writer telling me I didn’t exist? The people pointed out that
the magazine could feature Tatyana Ali, who played Ashley Banks on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, or Chili
from TLC. I wondered what was wrong with featuring me. While they were
complaining I noticed every model in the magazine was caramel colored or
lighter. The writer insinuated that women of darker shades weren’t as beautiful
as the models they selected for their magazines. I was confused, because all of
my dolls were beautiful and dark. Light-skinned dolls simply did not exist. The
writer’s point of view was interesting, because he shared the same viewpoint as
the kids in my kids who called me black. My blackness was just a fact to me. To
them it was a way to hurt me. I did notice that when I called them “Brown” in
that same condescending tone it didn’t have the same sting. So all those years
of building up my pride were undone by just reading one article.
Then I turned the page of the magazine
and laid my eyes upon the greatest prize conceivable. It was a Kenya Doll. A
friend from school was sitting under the dryer next to me and bursting with
excitement when she saw what I discovered.
“Isn’t she wonderful? I’m getting her
for Christmas,” she gushed.
I was in too much awe to respond. She
was the most wonderful thing I ever saw. There were three of her. One was of a
lighter complexion, one was medium, brown, and one was dark. They all sported
some pink hued version of kente cloth. All three were wide-eyed and beautiful.
They had loosely curled afros and came with a variety of hair accessories,
including a lotion that turned their hair straight. When you wet their hair the
curl returned. Kenya boasted that all shades of blackness were beautiful,
negating the entire article I just read. That made me love her. I squirmed in
my seat while waiting for my mother to get to the beauty shop. Kenya was the
must have Christmas gift that year. She smiled at the doll when I showed her,
pleased with what the doll promoted I guess (or maybe she was elated that I
finally stopped asking for Barbie’s Dream House, because two hundred dollars
was just too much to spend on a toy). The doll became the topic of discussion
for that entire season. My mother and my friends’ mothers were always looking
for the best places to find them at the lowest prices. Which one would they
get? I naturally thought they would buy me the dark one, but I heard my father
make a remark so crazy I thought I dreamed him saying it:
“We gotta get the brown one for her. The
chocolate one is just a little too chocolate.”
What did that mean?! After all the nine
years they spent teaching me to take pride in myself, that I should be sought
and no rest should come until I was possessed, they wanted me to believe that
there was such a thing as being too black?
I was the same color as my father. Did we both need to be punished for our
complexions? Too chocolate? Really? I had found the advertisement in a magazine
at home. My obsession with the doll caused me to carry the ripped out page
around with me. Hearing my father’s comment made me take the page out of my
pocket and stare at the dark doll. I thought she was gorgeous, magnificent
even. I thought that since she was so
dark that she was the most valuable among them all. Before then black dolls
were right in the middle of Mother Africa’s color spectrum, neither light nor
dark but a perfect compromise that met right in the middle. The dark Kenya Doll
was just my complexion, causing me to take even more pride in myself. That is,
until I heard my father’s comment. At that moment I had to wonder if the kids
at school were right. Was I supposed to be ashamed of how dark I was?
Apparently I wasn’t hurt enough when they called me “Blackey.” Well it did hurt
then. I cried extra tears to make up for how hurt I wasn’t before versus how
hurt I was when I learned the awful truth. It was a perplexing point in my
life. I thought if anyone thought I was beautiful my own father did. But since
he downed the black doll he downed me as well. On Christmas I received the
brown Kenya Doll. By then I was more concerned with getting her than which one
of her I got, so I danced on the ceiling and loved her. No longer did I have to
write about her obsessively in my diary. I got to actually play with her.
That spring following spring, though, my
father was gone but left behind the painful memory that I and the doll were “too
black.” I had to do something to erase it. I needed that chocolate Kenya Doll.
She had to know that we were worth loving, and we were in this thing together.
First I had a different mission that needed to be completed. I had to buy an
American Girl doll named Addy. Her stories taught of slavery, escaping to
freedom, and building a life after. Addy was the definition of black pride. She
had to come into my life. My mother made me save half the money to get her,
then she put in the other half. It took weeks of saving allowance and even more
weeks of waiting for the UPS man - who coincidentally was the father of the
friend who was sitting next to me when I discovered the Kenya Doll – to deliver
the package. Immediately after receiving Addy and making her queen of the elite
among my dolls, I asked my mother to take me to Hills. I needed to put
something on layaway. It only took a month for me to get the chocolate Kenya
Doll off layaway. Every weekend I went to Hills with my mother to make a
payment on the doll and to inspect her. There was no telling what kind of wrong
they were doing to her in that back room. After all, wasn’t it part of their
job to convince her that she was “too chocolate?” Father abandoned daughters
who were too chocolate. I couldn’t let her think I would ever abandon her. My
mission became more of a rescue party than one of pleasure and entertainment.
When I got her home I decided she needed an even more beautiful name than
Kenya. Ikea was what I named her. Do not judge nine year old me.
In my adult years the lessons taught to
me through the dolls are still there, still fighting to be realized by the rest
of the world. I guess I’m supposed to equate my blackness to ugliness, but I
can’t bring myself to do it. According to what I’ve heard, I’m supposed to have
low self-esteem because I’m dark skinned. In addition to this I’m supposed to
be clinging to everything that is African in a struggle with identity. I’m
supposed to accept that I don’t exist. Life is supposed to just hand me scraps.
When it comes to men I’m supposed to accept whatever they give me in a
relationship, because my dark skin makes me unworthy of having standards. I’m not
supposed to desire to be anyone’s love interest in movies. I’m supposed to be
attracted to the Shemar Moores and Michael Ealys because I’m supposed to want
to run from my darkness. (Wait. I am attracted to Michael Ealy. Sexy is sexy
and skintone has no dictation over that. Hey boo!). The Idris Elbas are
supposed to be left to my lighter sistas. I’m not supposed to want a tribe of
chocolate babies running around. Unfortunately I can’t conform to these ideas.
It’s already been instilled in me that I have a beauty that has been suppressed
for far too long. My value takes at least two subways and a cab ride to obtain.
I am acquired in reality so that fantasy worlds can be completed. I shape futures.
I’m something to take pride in. I teach self-worth. Society, just like the
writer of that article and just like my father, has it all the way twisted. I
am a thing of beauty.
