I unwrapped the small box, hoping for a massive wad of cash. Opening the lid, a worn-out Barbie doll in a neon purple and green dress looked up at me. Not the grubstake I was praying for. “Thanks, Auntie.”
Standing in my brand new boutique, moments from opening the doors for the first time, I stared at the battered doll as my Aunt Beatrice grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Oh, don’t you remember that? Your first design.”
Hard to forget the pleated green skirt and draping purple sleeves, though I had tried. Growing up with two older sisters and three younger ones, dolls occupied most of my life. And while it seemed odd to many of the boys I grew up with, I didn’t mind. Dolls connected me with my sisters. And when they complained about the lack of functional and stylish clothes for them, I found my passion for fashion. So long fake pockets and hello modest wear that didn’t expose my beloved siblings to the less gentlemanly of humanity.
The concept boggled nearly everyone’s minds. My sisters leaned into engineering, nursing, and biology while I skipped college and poured all my efforts into an online clothing store. Many different designs over a few years. A lot of trial and error. A ton of awkward Christmases.
But I made it. I had my brick and mortar store with exposed brick walls and black laminate floors. Pale blue accents stabilized me amidst the girly pinks and reds of the clothes I had enjoyed drawing. Peppermint and lavender filled the spacious boutique, diffusers sending the scents from custom white built-ins. Behind a long counter, watching as my first employees adjusted the clothing on mannequins and wiped down round tables, I nearly plunged into tears. The only thing keeping me upright was the desire to maintain my image of composure and order.
A slight tug of my white bowtie, a casual brush of my violet button-up. A practiced hand flattening my thick dreads and I no longer resembled the weird boy who carried a doll in his backpack. Instead, I became a young Damon John. The fashion guru who knew exactly what a woman wanted. And no woman ever wanted the clashing neon of this Grant Carter original.
What even was I supposed to do with this monstrosity? Turning the doll in my hands, I remembered the vibrancy of her strawberry gold hair and pale skin. I’d rescued her from my sister’s modifications with sharpie and stick-on gemstones. The toys had a different impact than my parents expected. They were proud of each of us no doubt, but it took them a minute before they invested in my enterprise. Many sleepless nights at the sewing machine before making contracts with local seamstresses and suppliers. And tons of downcast mornings as I posted and crafted social content in an effort to gain some following. No one had said it would be easy, but I didn’t quite expect it to be so difficult.
The only constant encouragement had been Aunt Beatrice. Her 70’s fro and tight tops were a fashion nightmare, but she never cared. Bold patterns are her love language, as much as bold personalities. She loved the thrill of risk and trying something new even if it could hurt you. Pretty sure that’s how she lost most of her boyfriends.
Grinning in an orange plaid knit shirt with a patterned green ribbon working as a headband, her mocha skin glowed. “You were eight years old when you grabbed my handkerchief and your father’s ripped tie and made that little outfit. I knew you’d end up here someday.”
I smirked, fingers curling around the small waist. “Fascinating. I didn’t think this would ever be reality.”
She took my hand into hers, eyes fierce. “You may not have had the dream until seventeen, but the dream was still there. Buried deep in you is a need to design. And that purpose has been fulfilled ever since the first outfit you sewed.”
My, how did she possibly see so much in me? Yet, glancing at the doll, I remembered what I saw in the plastic toy. Neglected by my sisters, she wanted to be seen and to belong with the other dolls. Her wild personality needed color, but also structure. Her acceptance into the coalition of toys had been my emergence as the cool brother. The only brother, but still creative and fun in comparison to any brothers my sisters could’ve imagined.
This doll had been my first cause, a mission in letting women like my sisters express themselves in a meaningful way. Not to mention fixing some fashion and function atrocities.
“Sir.” Gracie approached the counter confidently in a belted turquoise dress with large stylized pockets. The color complimented her pale skin and blue eyes while amplifying the beauty of her dark layered hair. “Two minutes to open.”
“Thank you.” As she walked off, I turned to my eager aunt. “Showtime. Wish me luck.”
“No need.” Wrapping her arms around my neck, she whispered, “You’ve already made me proud. Made us all proud.”
I bit back the smirk. I’d disappointed so many of varying beliefs and opinions. Been called numerous names and given dozens of labels that didn’t describe me. Fact was, I didn’t fit the checkmark boxes that the world wanted to give. I was an original, one of a kind. Whether my family understood that was a mystery as they seemed to put more stock in “real jobs.”
Letting go, I readied an insincere agreement to her statement when I looked through the front windows. First in line at the door were my parents, followed by my sisters, a couple cousins, grandfather, and more. Every face I saw was family. And every face had a smile.