Little Miss No Name

Little Miss No name. I can relate.

Little Miss No name. I can relate.

The story of Little Miss No Name

Every Christmas my mother insisted on reading the story of The Little Matchbook Girl to me. No matter that I cried and begged her not to, and had nightmares for weeks. No matter that it made me even more insecure. As many adopted people will tell you, gratitude is the key to control; we are often meant to feel forever grateful for being saved from a life in a burlap bag, lived on the street, in which we would die of exposure. Well, yes. I was always grateful but I could never be grateful enough. I did not choose to be born. I am a human being and as much as a biological child, I was prone to that nature part of the Nature vs. Nurture theory of how people are the way they are, according to Psychology 101.

I tried hard. I spewed the rhetoric. I told my friends I was so lucky and my parents were Saints! Did my little girl brain dream that up? Or perhaps was I made to always feel so grateful, and to always feel so guilty for being not how their conceptual Biological Daughter might have been?

Therein lies a big part of Adoptee Guilt.

This link about LMNN from sums it up fairly well, and I quote:

“The “Little Miss No Name” doll was launched by Hasbro in 1965 and discontinued soon after.  You will notice that her native garb is a brown burlap dress with two patches.  A large plastic removable tear streams from her left eye.  Her right hand stretches out plaintively, begging for — what?  A coin?  A sandwich?  Begging for the Mom who went away after saying, “Stay right here in the candy aisle, honey, Mommy’s getting into this big black van and will be right back”?

That is the mystery of Little Miss No Name.

I can’t feel sorry for them. But my heart melts for the Little Miss No Names who’ve Been Through It.

I can imagine shallow little girls in 1965, expecting a Barbie or other glamorous toy, opening their “downer” gift from Santa.  Hasbro did not release a Dream Roadster for Little Miss No Name.  They did not mold her feet en pointe to fit, Cinderella-like, a variety of high heeled shoes.

Miss No Name stands on her own two bare feet, alone, at about fifteen inches.

So what was a little girl to do back then?  EBay features several Little Miss No Names who have suffered hideous disfigurement in the name of beautification, their hair whacked and tortured in an unseemly manner.  Most of them are missing their tears, probably removed by little girls who imagined she’d feel better, when really she was thinking, “Gosh, now I don’t even have that.”

(Sometimes the eBay sellers will style Little Miss No Name’s hair, giving her Shirley Temple-like curls and such.

But Little Miss No Name is not mollified by such shallow, surface improvements.  Her problems run much deeper than that.)

Fun-loving Barbies pile into their roadsters and flee from Little Miss No Name.  And I imagine that any little girl who brought Little Miss No Name to a tea party wasn’t invited back.

But you know what?  I’d wager anything that if a university ran a big study, say, they’d discover that girls who got Little Miss No Name for Christmas are now much better people than the ones who got Malibu Barbie.”

Explore posts in the same categories: adopted family relations, Adoptee control Issues, Aggression toward adopted children, Emotional Abuse, Punishment for being adopted, The Unpayable Gratitude Fee for being adopted, Who am I?

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