Somehow I discern a living intelligence in their eyes–possibly in the same way I imagine conversation with my cat. Behind their neutral but pleasant expressions, I sense the histories and stories these dolls were created to represent. And I love them.
I’m talking about four American Girl dolls who occupy a corner of my study. They are Addy, whose story involves escaping from slavery; Kaya, a Nez Perce girl whose story takes place only a generation prior to the first contact with white people; Marisol, a modern girl of Mexican heritage living in Chicago; and BJ, the first of my little family of dolls, who has my (formerly) red hair and, I presume, my huge affection for having and acquiring sisters.
I grew up with two sisters, one older and one younger. Belonging to a military family during my first thirteen years, I knew my sisters as my only everywhere friends, and they still are. Oh, we had our share of quarrels, I’m sure. But nothing fatal to the bonds of love and affection and mutual encouragement we share to this day. I was, however, the only sister with a passion for dolls. My younger sister could be persuaded to cooperate in doll play, with real dolls or celebrity paper dolls or dolls cut out of the Montgomery Ward catalog. But I was the one who cherished them, from my very first baby doll to the Madame Alexander fashion doll who is with me still.
No wonder, when Hallmark was engaged to create auxiliary products for the American Girl brand for which I was a writer, I was smitten by the idea of obtaining an American Girl doll of my own. Who’s to say no? Thus came BJ into my life—named with my initials. Eventually, I owned seven dolls, representing the historic American Girl stories of Molly, Josefina, Addy, and Kaya, plus Marisol, BJ, and a pretty blonde who filled out the representation of my real sisters. Three dolls were eventually adopted out to other little girls. Now the four remain, along with their respective wardrobes and storybooks. Their sweet, inviting faces beam at me every day.
I’ve long since stopped accumulating accessories for this quartet. If you’re familiar with the American Girl brand, you know it provides infinite opportunities to spend money. Sometimes I peek at the catalogs, but firmly resist. I’m at the stage of life where deaccessioning is the necessary decision. I have enough. Every now and then, perhaps with the change of seasons, I drag out the trunks and boxes from under a bed. I sit on the floor with the dolls, the dresses, the hairbrushes, the shoes…and play. The girls seem grateful every time for the refreshed outfits.
When I was a Sunday school girl, we learned a little song that goes like this:
Jesus loves the little children,
all the children of the world:
red and yellow, black and white,
they are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.
I like to think that my girls remind me every day that all the children of the earth are precious, no matter how old they are. Each one has a story. We are a family.
As the brother of three sisters, I vote for the four-legged furry one in the picture. Mostly because I know it would start a, uh, conversation if those sisters knew of my vote.