Michelle, age four, white. Michelle, which doll is the pretty one? The white one. Raquel, age four, white. Michelle, which doll is the mean one? The Black one. Natasha, age four, Black. Natasha, which doll is the nice one? The white one. Kesha, age four, Black. Kesha, which doll is the ugly one? The black one. Kesha, which doll looks like you? The Black one. By the age of four, the seed of racism, self-hatred and inferiority is already subconsciously planted in the brain like sugarcane, like cotton, like cash crops that will benefit those who grow it more than those who sow it and don't I know it. As a father of a daughter who struggles to see herself on store shelves. These are little Black girl blues. You can find darker-hued versions of white dolls that look nothing like you, straight hair, straight nose, forcing parents to have to straighten things out, removing the kinks of self-doubt, becoming vigilant, parenting becoming militant, but only if they get it. Only if they understand the damage being done and the need to protect her identity by any means necessary. Birthday invitations included the postscript 'please no white dolls,' which created their fair share of conversations, protection seen as reverse hatred, the few dolls of a lighter hue that managed to sneak past our border walls who found themselves missing like Indigenous women in Canada. It's funny. This little thing called race, how it plays out from day to day and has us worshiping things that look nothing like us, where the dolls on store shelves are their version of Jesus, and these are the things that are always so much bigger, which is why she forgets cartoons but remembers every detail from Hidden Figures, and some will still see this as nothing. But I saw her desire to become a doctor after watching Doc McStuffins because representation matters. It matters to see yourself reflected in the society in which you live, not as a cliche or stereotype but just as normal and positive, and maybe, this is too much to ask when the fabric of our economic quilt just happens to be anti-Black. Periodically, I will ask, "If you could, is there anything about yourself that you would change?" At 13 years of age, her answer has remained the same: "Nah, I'm pretty awesome." "Yes, you are," I always reply, fist of pride held high beaming on the inside, emanating out, proud that there's one less Black girl who refuses to play and be shaped by society's dollhouse. Thank you.