A Gift of Paper Dolls
J. Quinn Brisben
Growing up in a new millennium
You will nevertheless be bound
By memories of the construction
Of gender, class, “race, milieu, and moment,”
And an infinity of shared memories
Which you must somehow make your own.
It is progress when you learn to hold
The scissors properly and cut along the lines
And color with even discretion between them:
Becoming your great-grandmothers when you
Deck them out in middie blouses, and further
Back in sunbonnets, mobcaps, wimples,
And chaplets of extinct white flowers
So luring to redolent mammoth hunters.
Play with your mother’s nursing uniform
Or your aunt’s badge and boots and the
Glock nine-millimeter she cleans so carefully,
Or make your doll a star with your father’s
Fringed and studded black leather jacket,
Each flying strand separately pasted on,
Or his proud engineer’s bib overalls.
Find a charcoal crayon for the business suit
With Joan Crawford shoulders, and bright red
And turquoise for Grandma’s tango outfit.
You can put absolutely anything on top of
Those white utilitarian undergarments.
Accessorize with scalpel, Uzi, and palm pilot.
Wear Hong Kong split skirts, chadoors, jeans.
Imagine your doll borne screaming skyward by
Fearsome Kong. Practice being Kong yourself.
And climax with your great-aunt’s 1940
Ziegfeld staircase fantasy with Hedy Lamarr
Blank faced descending with stars on diaphanous
Sleeves and in her crown meditating on
The player-piano anti-jamming radio device that
Will glorify her in post-paper doll years.
