As a young girl, my sister and I constantly found ourselves getting lost in a fantasy world where only we and our dolls existed. In the summer of 2012, I got Taylor during a day spent in my grandpa’s apartment in Brooklyn. I saw the doll sitting on a dusty shelf, she was in brand-new condition, still wearing the original pink and brown striped dress she came in. I don’t know where or why my grandpa originally purchased a Barbie, but my sister and I pleaded for her to come home with us. She was my favorite thing, always by my side. Years later, as I grew up, this doll began to have a new meaning. In 2020, approaching my fifteenth birthday, I decided I wanted a Quinceañera. I wanted a day to celebrate my heritage and family. Unfortunately, after months of tireless planning, the party was ultimately canceled as we began to enter the peak of a global pandemic. Nevertheless, my mom made sure to gift me my last doll, mi ultimá muñeca. 

As part of the ceremony, it is tradition for the quinceañera to be gifted her last doll or ultimá muñeca. The last doll is typically made of porcelain and is gifted as a symbol of transition from childhood to adulthood. My mom, however, took this tradition and turned it into something special. My mother gifted me my doll with a custom version of my dress — a delicate dress made of pink tulle. The dress is strapless, the top has white floral lace embellishments with a long puffy skirt. The back has a corset made of ribbon, with small pearls and gems glimmering throughout the dress. 

The doll is a symbol of my childhood– an artifact from the most precious and innocent moments of my life. A faded smiley face drawn on her cheek from my sister and I’s failed attempt at giving her a tattoo. Her botched haircut from the days we swore we were hairdressers. Her body, which my sister replaced with a newer version after her old one was broken, with an arm and leg taped on. She, admittedly a bit morbidly, took the head off the old Barbie and put it on the new one, but she would’ve done anything to make me happy. Taylor watched every stage of my life. She sits on the top shelf of my bookcase, in front of my framed newborn footprints and next to my vinyl collection. She watched my bedsheets change from pink Disney Princesses to white minimalist and saw the decorations on my wall change from pictures drawn with my friends to posters of my favorite artists. She watched me go from picking my outfit out for third grade picture day, to packing up to move into my first college dorm. Taylor is my days of being a little sister growing up with her big sister. Young girls dreaming of all the possibilities life holds. 

The dress symbolizes family, representing the bond between her mother and daughter. My mother is the strongest and most caring woman I know, and this is a reminder of everything she’s done for me. A reminder of how she spent months planning a party for me, pushing through all obstacles to ensure I had my day. One small item represents a lifetime of love and security. A lifetime of support through everything, and sacrificing what she wanted so I could be where I am today.

The dress is one small piece of a big and beautiful culture. Our Latino heritage is something that has always brought my family together. The language served as the only means of communication to my grandparents, the upbeat music filled the rooms of family gatherings. The food being an outlet for my mother and grandmother to reminisce on their childhood and the food their moms made for them. My Latina background is something my mom has always taught me to be prideful of.

To many, this is just a doll—a simple toy played with as a child that is eventually put to the side and forgotten. To me, it holds a lifetime of stories and memories. I hope for the stories it holds to continue beyond me. I hope to have a daughter who will share this same love and joy as me— someone who is proud of her culture, the family she came from, and the person she has grown into.