Not Just a Doll
The Barbie doll. Standing at 11.5 inches and made of plastic, this diminutive doll-woman created in 1959 has caused quite a fuss. Girls all over the world still clamor to possess their own, adult women might wax nostalgic and punk-minded females might remember proudly the Magic Marker tattoos drawn on theirs. But it is feminists who have kicked up the dust of debate when they accuse Barbie of being a symbol of everything that is wrong with society’s view of women.
They point out that her proportions, if she were an actual woman are impossible and as a result contribute to the trend of anorexia and low self-esteem. There was also the scandal about the talking Barbie who declared that math was hard. Detractors assert that Barbie is a terrible role model for girls. Though a self-described feminist, I have always been bored by that argument. Then I read this paragraph in Naomi Wolf’s book Promiscuities: A Secret History of Female Desire, “Barbie’s breasts and clothes seem to blunt her personality. In Barbie’s life, events were merely excuses for ensembles. Her story could really go nowhere.” These words aroused my annoyance and indignant fury. Her story go nowhere? Are you kidding? Did you have absolutely no imagination at all?
Despite my impoverished hippie upbringing, I still had Barbies. And I loved them. Though my younger sister enjoyed a great satisfaction in ripping the heads off my dolls, I still played with them anyway. Dolls have been made from wooden spoons, apples, twine, and even rags. The fact of how a doll is made is immaterial. It was not her L-curved elbows, abundant hair, and arched feet that inspired delight — it was her adulthood. As children, we were given the thrill of holding grown-ups in our snotty little hands, able to make them do whatever we wanted them to do.
Rebecca Deans created inventive sagas involving the political battles of “Queen” and “Clown.” Madelene Maleficarum, “loved Barbie. We always made extremely soapy plots, with everyone getting pregnant and then miscarrying. Why? I have no idea. It was great fun.”
I, along with my friend Kristin Westergaard, conjured up the evil oil magnate “Lord Drudge” who attempted to rule over all independent young women by masterminding situations where they were forced to be his slaves. Our Barbies were radicals with ridiculous names like Anastasia La Finestra who resisted, rebelled, and fell in love with handsome revolutionaries named Pierre (often another Barbie dressed in Ken’s clothes). These stories would last for days and sometimes weeks. They would be played out in bedrooms, attics, and shady backyard bowers. Soundtracks were created, castles constructed, and ramshackle pirate ships floated on the duck pond.
But of course it wasn’t just the exciting power plays of adults that appealed. Who wants to pretend to be a mother, with her feeding bottles and diaper changing, when you can make hot, (albeit genital-less) dolls have sex!
A girl I once knew had filled her large doll house (not the Dream House) with numerous Barbies, some Kens, and a G.I. Joe engaged in different sexual positions. Sixty-nine? Sure. Menage et trios? Of course. As often frustrating as it was mashing together hard plastic, or making my barbies kiss (as they had no heads), it did not deter me from concocting elaborate scenarios of carnal passion. Barbies — excuses for ensembles? Oh hell no. The fun was to get them out of their clothes.
But childhood passes so quickly and we were becoming adult women ourselves. Sex as a reality revealed itself in our own growing breasts, tender peach fuzz, and the beginning of the joys of masturbation — masturbation that was often actually achieved via Barbie. Perfect tools for orgasm, those long legs.
Despite these pleasures we began to outgrow our dolls of initiation. To ritualize this transition, a number of women, without external provocation, killed their Barbies.
One buried hers in the backyard in coffins she had made in her father’s tool shed. Another baked them in a casserole dish, accidentally setting fire to the kitchen. I threw mine off a cliff (I can only imagine that the fish were rather startled.) But most women I have spoken to were content with cutting off her hair and ripping off her arms. Thus, with Barbie happily destroyed, we got on with the business of becoming ourselves.
Is it possible that some of the body issues I had as a young woman stemmed from the unrealistic beauty ideal of Barbie? Perhaps. However, as there are so many other aggressive culprits out there in the world ready to tear into the flesh of young women’s self-worth, to so vociferously blame poor wide-eyed Barbie seems a little unfair. Especially, as many a girl hated Barbies and were easily able to reject her potentially harmful charms. Jennifer DeRuff was creeped out by Barbies. “Give me a book, a game, a craft, markers and paper — anything! Just not dolls!” she says.
I like a good book myself but at the risk of sounding like Camille Paglia or someone who doesn’t recognize the evils of marketing, I am weary and wary of the victimization asserted by certain members of our femme set. In honor of the joy that Barbie gave me, I would like to insist that girls are often far more fierce, imaginative, and inviolable then they are given credit for.
Side Note: I enjoyed Naomi Wolf’s book, and it is worth a read despite my disagreement with her stance on Barbies. This piece was originally published as part of the Sweet Spot Column for the SF Weekly.
And for gorgeous radical offerings, Denise Benividas: https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=1510882925835476&set=vb.100007413490345&type=2&theater
