This is how we give Praise to a Witch who is really Nailing an Outfitte.
I have a mighty need to expand the knowledge that this gif is from the ballet Giselle, and these are spirits of women who died from broken hearts called wilis - in the ballet, men who get lost in the forest at night are trapped by the wilis and danced to death for doing wrong to women. It’s all quite badass. (with Myrtha, Queen of the Willis in the middle - she’s one cold hearted bitch and I love her.)
As I’m walking through Target with my little sister, the kid somehow manages to convince me to take a trip down the doll aisle. I know the type - brands that preach diversity through displays of nine different variations of white and maybe a black girl if you’re lucky enough. What I instead found as soon as I turned into the aisle were these two boxes.
The girl on the left is Shola, an Afghani girl from Kabul with war-torn eyes. Her biography on the inside flap tells us that “her country has been at war since before she was born”, and all she has left of her family is her older sister. They’re part of a circus, the one source of light in their lives, and they read the Qur’an. She wears a hijab.
The girl on the right is Nahji, a ten-year-old Indian girl from Assam, where “young girls are forced to work and get married at a very early age”. Nahji is smart, admirable, extremely studious. She teaches her fellow girls to believe in themselves. In the left side of her nose, as tradition mandates, she has a piercing. On her right hand is a henna tattoo.
As a Pakistani girl growing up in post-9/11 America, this is so important to me. The closest thing we had to these back in my day were “customizable” American Girl dolls, who were very strictly white or black. My eyes are green, my hair was black, and my skin is brown, and I couldn’t find my reflection in any of those girls. Yet I settled, just like I settled for the terrorist jokes boys would throw at me, like I settled for the butchered pronunciations of names of mine and my friends’ countries. I settled for a white doll, who at least had my eyes if nothing else, and I named her Rabeea and loved her. But I still couldn’t completely connect to her.
My little sister, who had been the one to push me down the aisle in the first place, stopped to stare with me at the girls. And then the words, “Maybe they can be my American Girls,” slipped out of her mouth. This young girl, barely represented in today’s society, finally found a doll that looks like her, that wears the weird headscarf that her grandma does and still manages to look beautiful.
I turned the dolls’ boxes around and snapped a picture of the back of Nahji’s. There are more that I didn’t see in the store; a Belarusian, an Ethiopian, a Brazilian, a Laotian, a Native American, a Mexican. And more.
These are Hearts 4 Hearts dolls, and while they haven’t yet reached all parts of the world (I think they have yet to come out with an East Asian girl), they need all the support they can get so we can have a beautiful doll for every beautiful young girl, so we can give them what our generation never had.
Please don’t let this die. If you know a young girl, get her one. I know I’m buying Shola and Nahji for my little sister’s next birthday, because she needs a doll with beautiful brown skin like hers, a doll who wears a hijab like our older sister, a doll who wears real henna, not the blue shit white girls get at the beach.
The Hearts 4 Hearts girls are so important. Don’t overlook them. Don’t underestimate them. These can be the future if we let them.
You can read more about the dolls here: http://www.playmatestoys.com/brands/hearts-for-hearts-girls
I asked her what she felt most guilty about, and she said: “I can’t say it, because it will make me cry. And I don’t like people to see me cry.” I told her that was fine and changed the subject, but after a few minutes she typed it out on her phone, and handed it to me:
"When I was eleven years old, I got in a fight with my twin brother and told him that he was going to die before me because he had a brain tumor."
"Is he still alive?" I asked.
When I was 10 I got into a fight with my brother and said I hated him and wished he wasn’t around (Over something stupid, can’t even remember) Hours later he got into an accident and almost died. I couldn’t even see him when he was in the hospital because I was too young for the ICU.
No matter how angry you get, or mad at someone, always end the conversation by saying you love them.
You never know when you won’t get to anymore.
|me:||i am actually so happy with my life right now for once|
|next day:||*everything fucks up*|