Mammy Doll: A Forgotten Treasure

Antique African American Dolls

While my hubby and I were in California on vacation last month, we stopped at an antique shop. Tucked away on a shelf I saw an old Black Mammy doll.  It was clearly an antique, in all silk, reclaimed fabrics, a bit worn and shredded (above, left).  She looked Caribbean, had many details, with toothpick? painted features, a silk green petticoat, ruffled knickers, headscarf, apron with pockets, contrast waistband tie, and holding a fully dressed baby boy doll who held a pouch and a note that said “I love you.” The shop owner pointed out another doll on consignment that was simpler, in striped cotton, and appeared to be more modern.  She had a tag on her from the seller who said the African American doll was made for the seller’s mother, when she was a child, by her Mammy.  That one could not have been earlier than the 1940s or ’50s, but maybe even as late as the ’60s (upper right.)

I immediately thought of my friend Ruby, who loves all things related to dolls, vintage fashion and patterns. She and I talked some time ago about these dolls. She said she and her people (she’s African-American) have mixed feelings about them. I decided to buy them for Ruby anyway.  I felt strongly these dolls have historical collectible significance, and who better to keep and protect them than those to whom the dolls have the most meaning, however mixed. I wasn’t sure how I would present them so she didn’t take it badly, but her birthday was coming up in a few weeks so I had time to think about it.

History Whispers

I was particularly drawn to the antique silk doll with the baby boy doll in her arms.  Every time I picked her up, I started getting images and impressions.  They were poignant, and often brought tears to my eyes. I realized I needed to write them down.

So one afternoon I developed a poem about both dolls as if they were each telling their own stories.  Here it is.

Kindness and Compassion

We are Kindness and Compassion
This is our story.

I Am Compassion.
I was born while my Maker’s people
Were still owned like property
My Maker had a baby boy
Who was torn from her
When he was still at her breast
She was sold to a man
Whose skin was lighter than hers
But he didn’t want her baby
He wanted her milk.
My Maker was required to nurse and care for the man’s baby Girl
As if she were her own.
And every day as the baby Girl suckled the milk from my Maker’s breast
That was meant for her own son
She wondered where he was,
If he was nursed by another mother
If he lived, if he was safe and well
Until he was a few years old
When he would be sold to a neighboring plantation
Surviving day by day
As he worked the fields
Until the day he died.
The Man’s Girl loved my Maker
For she showed the Girl Compassion and Love
That her own mother did not.
My Maker worked so hard
Rising before the sun came up
To take care of herself
Then caring for the household
Emptying and washing the chamber pots
Helping the Girl’s Mother clean and dress
Helping the Girl and her sisters clean and dress
Cleaning the bedrooms, making the beds
Washing, mending, and ironing their clothes
Sometimes sewing new clothes, tucking away leftover scraps.
And when the Mother told her to discard a stained or worn dress
That wasn’t too fancy
My Maker took it apart
And made a dress, or an apron, or head scarf for herself, saving the scraps.
She spent much time with the Girl
Feeding her, clothing her
Teaching her to talk
Teaching her to walk
Teaching her manners
Telling her stories of her own People
The Girl was afraid of the dark
She’d hear noises, shouts, sometimes screaming, or crying
She didn’t want my Maker to leave her at night
When she tucked her into bed
And so my Maker made me
To look like her
Because the little Girl loved her more than her own mother
And she made a baby boy doll
To look like her lost son
She tucked in my arms, with a note,
“I Love You”
It was a secret message, saying
I won’t forget you, Son
It was also a subtle message of conscience
To the Girl
To think about what had happened to her Son.
When she put the Girl to bed she hugged me
Charging me up with her Compassion and Love energy
And tucked me in next to her
So the Girl would be able to hug me
When she was afraid
And feel that love radiate.
It helped her sleep at night.
I was much loved
By the Girl
And later her sisters too
Until my dress was worn and torn, rotting away
From their tears and perspiration from holding me tight.
There are so many memories infused in me
I was outgrown but
No one could quite part with me
And so I was tucked away in a trunk and forgotten.

I am Kindness.
My Maker was not owned, she was paid.
So her pale skinned employer was proud of his fairness.
But it wasn’t fair
My Maker wasn’t really free
Not like my Girl’s family
She had to work much longer
Than her employer
From early in the morning
Until late into the night
When she would make a long, weary walk back to her house
On the other side of town
Where her own children were waiting
With my Maker’s own mother.
The Girl’s own mother spent most of her time
With her friends, at card parties, garden parties, cocktail parties, and club events
Out of Kindness for the unloved Girl
My Maker made me in her image
From bits and pieces of the mother’s dresses
And I was loved by a spoiled and sheltered but lonely little Girl
Who knew Kindness from my Maker
And tucked her in at night with me
The Girl and I could hear her mother and friends downstairs
I kept the Girl company and played with her
While the Girl’s mother ignored her and
My Maker was busy
Very busy, all the time
Ironing, cooking, cleaning, sewing, mending, canning.
Then the big War came
My Maker went away
My Girl cast me aside
I was laid in a trunk
To be forgotten
Just like Compassion

We were made out of Kindness and Compassion, for love’s sake
We gave and received love
But now no one loves us.
We remind our Makers’ descendants of their people’s pain, anger, injustice.
Our Girls’ descendants see us with embarrassment for their ancestors and look away.
But we hold so many memories
Never forget us
We are history’s survivors
Of different people learning over many generations to live in tolerant peace
They are slowly learning
Kindness and Compassion
This is our story.