(A Simple Tale…)

My favorite doll growing up was a Chinese doll. Not in today’s sense of a doll made in China - she was made in France and would probably be worth a fortune today if I hadn’t, very inexpertly, cut her hair (she does look a little evil now, but remember - she used to have bangs*). She wasn’t a collector doll either, to be stood on a shelf and brought down only for the obligatory 6-monthly dusting. No, this was an honest to goodness, full size, ready-to-play-with doll who just happened to have tanned skin and Asian features. 

I loved her, very probably because she was different. And I still remember the day I decided to give her a name. I must have been quite old, I think around six, but if she already had an identity I had decided it was unsatisfactory. She needed a Chinese name. 

(Was it around this time that the Chinese government was sending out propaganda posters to foreign schools? I vaguely remember one which looked like it should be an introduction to life in the People’s Republic, but upon closer inspection was just a bunch of poorly reproduced photos of various PRC politicians, with captions singing their praises. Yes, I went to that kind of elementary school -  if there was a bare wall they would fill it with anything that came to hand).

I have vivid memories of following my parents around the house pestering them for a list of Chinese monikers. Actually, I can clearly see myself following my mother into the bathroom and my father the length of our very large yard, including through a heavy gate, all the while insisting that they must have a name for my doll. And they just couldn’t come up with anything to my liking. 

I should note that at this time we lived in a rural area where there were plenty of white and brown skinned people but very few of any Asian variety. My parents, though fairly well travelled, had very possibly never met anybody Chinese, at least not for long enough to be on first name terms. And I have to assume (to be fair to them) that they did try to fob me off with the standard fare, such as Lily or Willow or Jade. 

(A few years later we moved to the city, to an area where the mix was about 10% Chinese, but there, inexplicably, all the girls were called Jenny).

No, more likely the issue was with me being a persnickety child. Nothing would do. 

Until finally, my father, exasperated, yelled out “Mao Tse Tung”. And then, I could not be dissuaded from using this very Chinese sounding name, even through talks of  repression, cleansing and famine. That’s just the kind of kid I was. And that is how I came to have a girl doll called Mao Tse Tung. 

(*English speakers: that means a fringe. Yes, I always used to wonder what Laura Ingalls Wilder was going on about too. All those girls with bangs on their head, what on earth was the matter?).