"25 New Medium"

By: Ifelayo Ajanaku

There were six shades of an American Girl doll in 2010: “05 Very Light,” “10 Light,” “20 Old Medium,” “25 New Medium,” “30 Dark,” and “35 Very Dark.” Six shades were listed from top to bottom to reflect a scale of skin tones, of which only two out of six were made for Black dolls: “30 Dark” and “35 Very Dark.”

It only took six shades to change everything.

Like any little girl who grew up in the 2010s, I wanted an American Girl doll. I had the desire to caress her smooth hair, put makeup on her as if she were a princess, and braid her hair, to treat her as if she were a vessel of mine. And a few weeks later, after I told my mom I wanted her, she came in the mail. Excited, I touched its smooth, dark hair, flattened out its clothes, and put its bed in the corner of my room, staring into what I envisioned: a mini me. I held the doll and looked at it, hoping that people looked at me with the same dilated pupils and admiration I had when I looked at her. Beautiful, because of her long, dark brown hair. All the features that I didn’t see when I stared into a mirror. Pretty, because she had lighter skin. A pretty me, that was the shade “25 New Medium.”

I was a “35 Very Dark,” and I didn’t have long straight hair, or a nose like my American Girl doll—and especially not the kind of skin complexion that Tinkerbell and Cinderella had in Disney movies besides Princess and the Frog. And, when I stared into the mirror, my skin conjured in me the emotions of shame and pity, reminding me of how ashamed I was of being “35 Very Dark,” because dolls that looked like me were never “beautiful” enough to sell out in stores.

I don’t know when it started. Really.

It could’ve been the television, the girls displayed on ads, growing up with my hair relaxed. Or, in a deeper context—slavery, the KKK, maybe even Ronald Reagan, just because I feel like including him. And easily—if you were to ask me, “Who taught you to hate the color of your skin?” I would respond, “White supremacy, slavery, the fact that the Pledge of Allegiance did not mean freedom and liberty for all.” But if you were to ask me on a deeper level, I would say, “I did.”

Yes, it was true that my nose was round, my hair was nappy, my skin glowed like the night, my hair wasn't naturally straight, and I was never—never going to look like my American Girl doll. Yet, I taught myself how to hate myself through the shame I felt covering my entire body, dripping over my clothes like slime, sticking to me after I walked into class with braids in my hair. The way I dreamt of having blue eyes like Pecola in The Bluest Eye. How I observed the girls on television and picked out the same clothes as them at Justice. And at such a young age, I was manifesting internalized hatred from the shade of a doll and allowing myself to be engulfed by White society.

I was never alone, though.

Many Black girls in our country have different kinds of shades, noses, hair textures, and eyes—yet there's still a specific kind of doll that is on the shelves. The kind that looks exactly like a White doll with a different shade. The kind of doll that is only a dark shade to look inclusive, so the company can profit off of it. These are the kind of dolls that are one of the first standards Black girls compare themselves to because we view them as vessels that encapsulate beauty in a physical image we can touch, feel, and see. These are the kind of dolls that tell us, “We are not the prize.”

We are taught from these dolls that we have to have straight hair to be viewed as presentable to the public. We are taught that our facial features must mimic White features to be beautiful. We are taught that, to be beautiful and Black, we must not look it.

We live in a society that tries to force Black girls into a mold at a young age—to steer them away from being a product of their ancestors, from their heritage. Constantly, society tells Black girls that they are “too much, too loud,” when that really just translates to telling us, “Be lesser—then you’ll be treated equally,” when we all know that is far from happening right now. But since I am no longer the little girl who would rather be “25 New Medium” over a beautiful “35 Very Dark,” I refuse to be quiet—not like anyone expected me to anyway.

We are persuaded to believe that because we are given a month to celebrate our Blackness, we should feel bad for other races because we are celebrated, and we are being treated “more than equal,” when that is not true. We have been taught White history all our lives. White saviors. White heroes. White doctors. White lawyers. White princesses. And as a result, all we know are White people. We as a society refuse to celebrate Blackness the same way because we are told that it’s anti-White, when in reality, we have been the victims all along. Just the way we refuse to celebrate Black girls. We are told we have to be curvy to be accepted into beauty standards, but if we have curves, we are “asking for attention.” We are told that to be beautiful, we have to have features that are acceptable in White society. But because I am not the same little girl as I was before, I refuse to be quiet, to stray away from the stereotype that I’m “too much, too loud.” Well, surprise, I am too loud. I am too much.

Struggling with my identity has influenced me to observe the injustices and unfairness that we as Black girls face for a majority of our lives. From the rising popularity of wearing bonnets, to the originality of braids, to even a makeup product, they’ve pushed me to write. Black girls have created a standard of beauty, lifestyle, and culture that is only acceptable to possess when it's out of our hands. While young Black girls struggle to embrace their identity by being misled, on top of that, we are constantly beaten down.

There needs to be more than just White dolls on the shelves. There needs to be different types of Black dolls that are not just one shade, one hair texture, or one face. There needs to be a talking doll that screams, “Dear Black girl, you are the prize.”