Hey Moms, Would You Let Your Black Child Play With White Dolls?

When I was a child, I had many, many dolls. Too many. And they were all white. Some of the dolls came back with me from Russia, while others were purchased in Nigeria. I specifically remember one that had blue eyes and blonde hair, and her name was Amy. I did not name her; that was the name the manufacturer gave her. She was bought in Nigeria, I remember.

It was no big deal that my dolls were white. If anything, I imagine I would have been laughed at if my dolls were black because they would have probably been perceived as being inferior and “Aba-Made.”  So, I had white dolls. To my knowledge, I never noticed that the dolls did not look like me. And I think that was because white dolls were the norm. Just like Jesus being white was the norm. And God, He was white too. 

All the images I saw of Jesus in Nigeria were a white man with blue or brown eyes and long blonde or brunette hair. Jesus was never black. He never had an afro. He did not have dreads. He did not have curly, black hair. And I didn’t see anything wrong with this because I did not know there was something wrong with this. I did not know the propaganda that was being sold to me.

America is different though. In America, you WILL know that Jesus does not look like you because America works overtime to tell you that you are black and not like the rest of them. You are not the norm. They are not here for you. It was in America, after all, that I, too, discovered that I am black. Shocker.

In Nigeria, I thought that I was just Igbo. No, I’m black now. And being black comes with certain realizations. It’s probably how Adam and Eve felt when they ate the apple and realized they were naked. Now that I’m black, I realize just how white everything was and is around me.

So, my parents, they were not woke. There was no black power movement in Nigeria. There was no unapologetic celebration of blackness. Why did the most populous black nation on earth need to celebrate what was so inferior? Black. 

When Ada Verastic turned one, I threw her a big birthday party. I spent more money on candy than I ever want to remember. She received a TON of gifts. From clothes to money to toys — and yes, dolls. White dolls. Blue-eyed dolls. Blonde-haired dolls. I locked every one of them in the outside closet, never to be seen by Ada Verastic. 

It’s not that I have anything against white dolls or the people they’re made to look like. No, not at all. However, I want my child to know that white is not the default color of the world. And black is beautiful. And her thick, curly hair is to be coveted, not hated. I don’t want her to look at her doll and wonder why her own skin isn’t as pink or white, or why her eyes are not as blue as the ocean, too. I want her to love all humans, but I want her to love herself most.

I bring up this issue of the doll now because she’s at that age where she calls everything her baby. From her stuffed Peppa Pig to her plastic Minnie Mouse and to her bath duckies, they’re all her babies, and she has full-blown conversations with all of them. So I want to get her a doll. Maybe even a doll in a stroller, so she can mommy the heck out of it. But it has to be a black doll.

Speaking of black dolls, when next I go to Nigeria, I’ll be sure to get her one of those tribal dolls. I’ll get her an Igbo one, and if it doesn’t already have a name, we’ll name her Ada. Apt, huh? 

Recently, I deliberately introduced her to Doc McStuffins. I like Doc McStuffins because she’s a girl, she’s black, and she’s a doctor. She only watched a few episodes when I bought her a Doc McStuffins “kit” – complete with a doctor’s bag, a stethoscope, a thermometer, an otoscope, a syringe, a badge, and two little sheets of stickers – all in pink, glittery purple, and turquoise. 

I was pleasantly surprised that she knew how to use all the tools. I have been her Patient Zero as she has given me so many shots. She also told me that my temperature was 3, and after listening to my tummy with her stethoscope, I was told that there was a bug in there. My daughter, the doctor!

How do you feel about your black child playing with a white doll? And is it too early to start calling myself Nne Doctor?