The Tamesis
When Mattel launched its 40th anniversary “Modern Era” American Girl doll earlier this week, the reaction online was no mute. Kirsten Larson, the Swedish immigrant in 1854 Prairie Tales, traded in her earnest braids for space buns. Felicity Merriman in the Virginia Colony in 1774 suddenly wore jeans. Addy Walker, whose story begins during slavery in 1864, was styled in a gold hoop. Samantha Parkington—the orphan who sailed around New York in 1904 wearing puff sleeves and a headband—seems to be the embodiment of Ralph Lauren children’s clothing. In addition, the doll itself has been shrunk from its original 18-inch cloth body size to 14.5 inches, with subtly sharpened features, smoother lips, and darker eyelashes. Ozone jokes proliferate. The royalists were stunned. Why, many wonder, would something so sacred, so imbued with childhood memories, need to be transformed in the first place?
Mattel, for its part, is admirably candid. Jamie Cygielman, the company’s global head of dolls, told us new york times While adult consumers are still interested in historical figures, younger consumers are more drawn to contemporary collections. The new lines, she explains, “are designed to celebrate original historical figures in different forms.” Translation: Nine-year-olds aren’t clamoring for more 1904.
Why is this happening? Yes, we’re in the midst of a nostalgia boom, but if you think about the dates and details, you’ll see that it rarely spans the late 20th or early 21st centuries. Browse TikTok and you’ll find plenty of Y2K revivalism—Juicy Couture tracksuits, low-rise denim, McBling’s glossy bravado. Thanks to CBK and the like, we occasionally see a revival of the 90s. But that’s about as far back as a collective mood board can go. this gossip Girl Books are getting sequels. We are remaking The queen wears prada. The musical film renaissance mean girls sparks far more discussion online than Steven Spielberg’s successful remake west side story. The message is quiet but consistent: the past is welcome, as long as it doesn’t go too far.
I have never actually owned an American Girl doll. I wasn’t living in the US when I reached the age where I longed for dolls, and by the time I arrived I had outgrown them. It wasn’t until adulthood — when I passed the American Girl flagship store on Fifth Avenue on my way to work — that they started to come into play. When I pass by the window and see the little girl in an outfit that matches her doll, heading upstairs for afternoon tea, something inside me flickers. A distinctly feminine form of Peter Pan syndrome set in—not because I longed to be a child again, but because I had never had Earl Gray tea next to my own doll. (She would definitely be Samantha if I had one.)
There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to be an American girl. As a child, I had a set of historical paper dolls, and their empire waists, petticoats, and light flowing dresses sparked a curiosity about history in me like no textbook could. In many ways, I suspect they helped shape the career I ultimately built. That’s why buying my daughter an American Girl doll now feels less like an indulgence to me (even though she’s only a few months old) and more like a redemption. Most of all, I hope she feels the same pull the next time around.
Such was the quiet genius of the original American Girl doll. Not only are they fascinating collectibles; They are portals. Samantha’s tea-length dress is a narrative entry point into child labor reform, whispers of suffrage, and a city lit by coal stoves and gaslights. The steadfastness of these books now seems almost radical. They believe that nine-year-olds can cope with grief, injustice and social change. Playing with these dolls means understanding how girlhood has looked very different over the centuries.
