These are an eight-year-old girl’s dolls — one left out in the sun at a music festival and one carefully sheltered from it.
The girl is not Caucasian.
Her parents are. It’s a beautiful moment. Individual identity, and the compressions and erasures (and, more positively, common ground) it makes on language and identity, are the new common tongue of the global diaspora. A passion for aliens might just be its mirror. The doll makers are shaping this territory. They are, in effect, giving us the future of writing.