A black nurse once told me that my little boy looked just like a doll. He is blonde, blue eyed, with porcelain skin and a button nose. He did look just like a doll. “Wow, look at that! He’s just so perfect,” she said, and encouraged others to look at him.
I smiled, of course. On one level, it was just a fun thing for her to say. On another, it disturbed me incredibly.
A long time ago when I was a child and my maternal grandmother was a “snow bird” (traveling south for the winter and coming back up north for the summer), she bought me a doll. She often brought me a present when she got back from down south. It was a black doll with an orange and white crocheted bonnet and dress.
When she gave it to me, she apologized. “I hope you don’t mind that it’s a black doll. You see there was this woman at the booth where the dolls were being sold. She was saying, ‘Who would want a black doll? Why are you selling these?’ and giving the person grief about selling black dolls. So – I looked at her and I bought this black doll in front of her! I hope that’s okay.”
“Okay?” I said. “That’s awesome! I love it!”
So, when the nurse said that, I thought of my grandmother and the doll she bought me.
The reasons go well beyond that though. It wasn’t just that my son was white, obviously. I’m quite certain that the nurse saw white children all the time. She worked in a city that was majority white. My child was the one that looked like a doll so much so that it was unmistakable.
I knew why.
People that look like me and my oldest child, we have a fan club. We have a violent, obsessed fan club who sees us as superior. They love us so much that abortion was denied to us specifically, soldiers were encouraged to breed with us specifically, programs to assist mother-and-child were set up specifically for only us and dolls were made in our image.
This is far from ancient history.
I have been told that I am “good breeding stock” by a fellow scientist (in the same conversation where he complained that a mass grave was inconveniencing the construction of a Walmart in Germany). I have been complimented out-of-the-blue on the whiteness of my children by an elderly gentleman at a Taco Bell who added, “But I’m not racist, I have mixed grandkids”. The most intense encounter with this fan club was a rather long and surreal conversation with an older man in a suit I met at the mall who claimed that my son reminded him of his days in the “German youth” and who explained his “pro-white” ideology to me. At one point I said, “You do realize that we were on opposite sides of the war? That Germany occupied Norway.” To this, he gave the speech, “Europe is like a hand. The nations are its fingers. They are separate, but when we are threatened by outsiders, we make a fist.” When he clenched his out-stretched hand in the figurative “fist of solidarity”, it shook with conviction. My regret, to this day, is that I could not find the words in my brain at the opportune time to ask him, “Do I look like a Quisling to you?”
So yes, my boy looks like a doll. It’s unmistakable. He is the phenotype of the perfect “Aryan” ideal.
Screw you, my lovely genocidal piece-of-shit fan club; for making me wince when someone says my son looks “perfect” and reminding me of a history that sometimes I wish I could unknow.
After the occupation, the army left thousands of war children and their mothers behind. Embattled from the occupation, some of the Norwegian people took their anger out on them. The “mattresses” were blamed and brutalized for “enjoying” the increased status that being “good stock” for the occupying forces blessed them with. The “German-kids” were bullied and sometimes paraded around to be spat on. One of the more common practices was for the woman’s head to be shaved. It was not unheard of for the women and children to be sent to institutions where they were further mistreated, perhaps not unlike the forced labor of women and children by the Catholic Church.
If you have the stomach for it read the accounts of that time. Feel free to throw it in the face of any idiot who blames a woman for her own rape because she didn’t fight back hard enough and risk being killed, or someone who denies power-imbalance is a thing.
And when someone says, “Well that was over 70 years ago,” you can tell them that Mr. “German youth” guy is still walking around in the mall and that his lies are SO pervasive that my son’s social status as the “perfect” little specimen is undeniable even to the people that Mr. “German youth” guy refuses to acknowledge as human.
“Did you see that TV special about pet monkeys being treated like babies?” he asked. “That’s what they are. Monkeys in human clothing, pretending to be people.”
At one point, fortunately after I broke his tiny little heart by mentioning that my husband was a red head, he abruptly left almost mid-sentence. I looked behind me, and a group of young black men had just sat down near us.
Perhaps he was worried that they might over-hear one of the many times he looked around, leaned in, and whisper-shouted with his hand up to his mouth “PROOOOO – Whiiiiiite.”
There was a law in occupied Norway that forced people to sit by the occupying forces in public places. Now, they are the ones that feel the need to get up and leave.
Though I’d love to see his face if I told him that my second child was a red-head with a birth defect. Disappointed master-race fetishist groupie?
So sad for him. So fucking sad.