Material Girls, American Girls, and My Best Friend Addy Walker
Let’s be real—this whole franchise was marketed as “for girls,” as if gender is a pink sticker on a lunchbox. The 90s were peak binary, aggressively gendered, and, in hindsight, a little bit embarrassing. Kids of all genders deserve to see themselves in the stories they play. Today’s American Girl line finally has more than “just girls”—there are dolls for all identities, and, honestly, that’s the only direction worth moving. Because at the end of the day, everyone wants to see themselves represented in the social hierarchy of capitalist venture-ism and pop culture consumerism (as cringey as that sentence is to write).
Is this not how everyone pre-games weddings in Chicago? Mind your business. But also while you read and
Here’s the truth:
No offense to Samantha, Kirsten, or Molly, but their stories felt like reruns—cute, sure, but nothing new under the sun. The only thing Molly had that I wanted was those glasses. Even as a little kid, I was obsessed with history. I needed a story that didn’t play nice or tie up with a velvet bow. So I picked Addy Walker—the only doll with a backstory that felt bigger than the catalog. The only American Girl who made me feel like I was holding something real.
And honestly, once you’ve met Addy, the other dolls start looking a little...well, basic.
Which is wild, because Kit was thriving during the great freaking Depression. But still—she was white in the Great Depression. Like, damn, so was my great-grandmother. Not to discount the individual experience (I value all perspectives; archival and intersectional research is the heartbeat), but the palette was pale. My younger sister had Josephina—sun-kissed, yes, but AGD’s closest thing to “not white” for a minute. There’s a photo of me—Christmas morning, hair wild from sleep, snapped the moment I took her out of the box.. my little face is so excited.
She was beautiful. She was my first hand picked friend.
My first American Girl doll wasn’t just a toy—she was a test, and a kind of compass. Her name was Addy Walker: the only Black girl in the original lineup, and the only one whose story started with survival, not a birthday party.
I chose Addy because she felt real. Her story didn’t need gloss. While other dolls picnicked or dreamed up clever ways to “make do,” Addy ran for her life. She was separated from her family by slavery, forced to survive in a country that wanted her gone. And yet, there she was—alive, dignified, and, somehow, mine. I felt closer to her each sentence I read in her books. I felt like I wished I could have been there with her in her books.
If you grew up with American Girl dolls, you know that even having one was its own kind of privilege. My sister and I were lucky. But as a kid, I never saw it that way. I just wanted Addy. I never thought about why I could pick her—only that she was the one who captivated me. Sometimes, other girls seemed puzzled by it. “Oh, you have Addy Walker?” I’d always answer, “Yea, I just like her.” It was the truth, but sometimes it felt a little lonely—loving something that others seemed trained to overlook.
Looking back, I realize it was probably that same privilege—the ability to choose Addy, to even see her on the shelf—that shaped who I’m still becoming. My mother always picked what mattered, and maybe she saw, even then, the value in a story that wasn’t just about overcoming obstacles, but surviving a history most people would rather forget. She gave me Addy for Christmas, and gave me something more: the sense that stories matter, and so does who gets to tell them.
It took years—and a friend named Matt, one of the only people I knew who truly loved dolls the way I did—for me to feel seen in my choice. Matt understood Addy’s worth instantly, no explanation needed. We met in high school, and years later, he stood beside me as a brides-man at my wedding—a living reminder that sometimes, the rarest recognition comes from those who see what others miss.
Decades later, I watched Black Barbie, the documentary about the fight for Black dolls to exist at all, and it rewrote what I thought I knew. It’s one thing to write in your own Google Doc about being white and choosing a Black doll; it’s another to hear, on screen, how many Black girls never even had the option. I chose Addy because I could. But for countless others, choice was never on the table. Black Barbie made me realize that seeing yourself in history, in plastic, in possibility—isn’t a given. It’s a privilege.
Addy Walker’s story was packaged, franchised, and sold to families who could afford a lesson in American history—irony layered on irony. Enslavement and survival rendered collectible, then available only to those who could pay. Can you imagine being a Black girl who never had the option to hold a doll who looked like you? Who never saw yourself as the hero of your own story? If that doesn’t say something about America’s selective memory—or what it’s willing to sell—I don’t know what does.
I’m grateful for Addy, for my mother’s intention, and for the way that story shaped me. But I’m haunted by the knowledge that, for so many, even seeing yourself in history was a luxury. American Girl, for all its branding, only mattered because of stories like Addy’s—stories that forced us to look harder, ask questions, and notice who was missing from the lineup.
If American Girl wants to matter again, maybe it’s time to showcase the real ones—the dolls who tell the stories America still tries to forget.
Addy wasn’t just a doll.
She was the only one who had to survive to be here at all.
And she taught me to notice who never got the chance.
About the Author
Emily Steinhilber is a strategist, writer, and lifelong student of musical and cultural storytelling. Raised by a jazz musician in Chicago and now based in Seattle, she writes about memory, music, and the politics of play—from Barbie to Billie Holiday. A summa cum laude graduate of Washington State University’s Edward R. Murrow College of Communication, Emily’s work is obsessed with the emotional architecture of music: how it moves us, gathers us, and builds meaning across generations.
She is the creator of For Emily, By Emily—a live music series and Substack documenting curated sessions, artist reflections, and the evolving role of listening as a creative act.
Find more of her work and stories, past and present, on Substack and beyond.