It's all about the girl

If you have a daughter or granddaughter between the ages of 4 and 24 you may, at one time or another, have encountered an American Girl. Not the said female relative, but the female doll she begged you to buy. And extra clothes. And accessories. And maybe even doll-sized furniture. When you inquired at the local Walmart, the associate laughed a bitter laugh and informed you that American Girl dolls were only available online—or, if this conversation happened after 2008, at an American Girl store, of which there are less than 20 nationwide. And (this was the kicker) whether you wanted Samantha, Kirsten, or Molly—all the way down to Julie, Lainie, or Sage—the doll, one basic outfit, and a paperback book introducing her story would cost you around a hundred bucks.

It’s impossible to say how many little girls have cried themselves to sleep on Christmas Eve after their parents said NO WAY to a hundred dollar doll. For a manufacturer of old-fashioned, non-sexy toys, Pleasant Company (later acquired by Mattel) has received some pushback. Not just for the price (although Andrea Peyser went into major snark-mode over Gwen, a limited-edition “homeless” doll that sold for $95). American Girl is not just a toy line, but also an aid to female self-esteem with a commitment to diversity. Such a mission draws complaints like flies to raw liver, as Mattel discovered when they discontinued two ethnic minority dolls earlier this year.

To speak of the good: The dolls are wholesome and beautiful. The original American Girl dolls, which debuted in 1986, represented distinct historical periods with traditional costumes and accessories like chalk slates, ditty bags, and high-button shoes. The storybooks feature solid (if sometimes trendy) moral values, written by respected children’s authors. The overall ambiance is homey and old-fashioned, totally unlike Barbie or Bratz. And (full disclosure) I’ve always wanted one.

But lately, the trendy has overtaken the wholesome. The original doll-and-story combos were meant to communicate something about America as well as the girl. Today, it’s all about the girl—“Follow your inner star” is the catalogue tagline. Inside, a bewildering array of historical and contemporary characters are pictured with adoring owners, each accompanied by an inspirational quote: “A better tomorrow is mine to create,” “I’ll use my heart to heal others,” or “I always take time to respect the earth” (that’s Kaya, the Native American girl). Owners are encouraged to identify with their dolls by wearing matching outfits ($40–$80) and keeping “My Journey” journals. A “girl of the year” takes on a particular contemporary cause like arts funding or saving wild horses.

Now my inner Scrooge emerges. It’s not the price so much as the simpering moralism with which the dolls are sold (Barbie, by contrast, was introduced as a frankly material girl). American girls (the living, breathing ones, that is) are pandered to enough already in girl-power cartoons and comics, and they can probably find better role models than smiley-faced plastic. My granddaughter may well get an American Girl next Christmas, but I might destroy the packaging first.