The Youngest Doll

Early in the morning the maiden aunt had taken her rocking chair out onto the porch facing the cane fields, as she always did whenever she woke up with the urge to make a doll. As a young woman, she had often bathed in the river, but one day when the heavy rains had fed the dragon tail current, she had a soft feeling of melting snow in the marrow of her bones. With her head nestled among the black rock's reverberations she could hear the slamming of salty foam on the beach mingled with the sound of the waves, and she suddenly thought that her hair had poured out to sea at last. At that very moment, she felt a sharp bite in her calf. Screaming, she was pulled out of the water, and, writhing in pain, was taken home in a stretcher.

The doctor who examined her assured her it was nothing, that she had probably been bitten by an angry river prawn. But the days passed and the scab would not heal. A month later, the doctor concluded that the prawn had worked its way into the soft flesh of her calf and had nestled there to grow. He prescribed a mustard plaster so that the heat would force it out. The aunt spent a whole week with her leg covered with mustard from thigh to ankle, but when the treatment was over, they found that the ulcer had grown even larger and that it was covered with a slimy, stone like substance that couldn't be removed without endangering the whole leg. She then resigned herself to living with the prawn permanently curled up in her calf.

She had been very beautiful, but the prawn hidden under the long, gauzy folds of her skirt stripped her of all vanity. She locked herself up in her house, refusing to see any suitors. At first she devoted herself entirely to bringing up her sister's children, dragging her monstrous leg around the house quite numbly. In those days, the family was nearly ruined; they lived surrounded by a past that was breaking up around them with the same impassive musicality with which the crystal chandelier crumbled on the frayed embroidered linen cloth of the dining-room table. Her nieces adored her. She would comb their hair, bathe and feed them, and when she read them stories, they would sit around her and furtively lift the starched ruffle of her skirt so as to sniff the aroma of ripe sweet sop that oozed from her leg when it was at rest.

This is an excerpt from a short story by Puerto Rican Writer Rosario Ferre, called "The Youngest Doll". I read this story when I was a senior in high school and it inspired me to write folktales and magical realism stories: Making the ordinary surreal; magical. Rosario Ferre's books and short stories are full of depth, weaving metaphors and similes in her prose which reflects the struggles that all women face trying to have their voices heard. The doll symbolizes how men view women, as dolls, trophies they can show off in society. Ferre is a feminist, storyteller and poet who uses her words to to protest against the illusions and models of perfection we all try to live up to in our cultures. She heightens the senses with vivid images through her words; you can see, smell, and taste what the character experiences.

Ferre translates her own stories from Spanish to English because she doesn't want to loose the true meaning of her words, which usually happens when a foreign piece is translated into another language; pieces are missing. Though Ferre has written many books and stories, this one stands out, because it was part of her short story collection of the same name, that sparked controversy in Ponce, Puerto Rico where she raised. Women in Puerto Rico hated how she represented women's sexuality, and condemned her for basically speaking her mind on such a "taboo" subject. This lead to these pious women burning copies of her books their backyards. Little did they know that by burning her books, more people wanted to read them.

Anytime I have writer's block, I read "The Youngest Doll". It helps me to relax, yet makes me view my surroundings differently. My pen ripples, the walls of my room shimmers like glass, I look at the palms of my hands and no longer see lines, but road signs, mountains, valleys.


Check out other stories and books by Rosario Ferre: Sweet Diamond Dust (book),The Fox Fur Skin Coat (short Story),The Dust Garden (short Story), and Eccentric Neighborhoods (book).

Here is also a website where you can view the stories: http://www.thefreelibrary.com