Barbie Hunting

Today:

It’s 7:00 in the morning and I’m under the stairs with a flashlight wondering if my back will tolerate the bending, twisting, and reaching I’m about to do. There’s a green plastic trunk in the back under a blue plastic trunk with four heavy piano-moving blankets on top. I’m not sure what I’m searching for is worth it, but it only takes a second to decide. I’m going in. It’s Barbie season in America, and I want to see mine again. Find out if she has anything to say. She was born March 9, 1959, four-and-a-half months after me. We grew up together.

            When I get to her, she’s all dressed up. A little musty, but glamorous anyway. She’s ready for a cocktail party, or maybe she’s already been. Ken’s there too. He’s wearing the prince’s outfit from Cinderella. Clearly, they were acting in two different stories the last time I played with them. But I’m not sure, because I don’t think this is my Barbie. My Barbie was a blonde. This must be one of my sister’s. So, what happened to mine? I dig deeper into the trunk but there are no more Barbies. Two Kens, but only one of her. I wonder what that means? A part of me feels like all this digging is going to uncover something important. What could it be?

            I’ll think about it later.

            As I continue to dig, I discover all the other dolls in my trunk. There was a time in Scott history when the un-wanted, grown-out-of dolls were transferred to me. It might also be true that I snagged them before they went off to the church fair’s sale. But this morning, I’m quite taken by the international dolls – gifts, no doubt, from relatives who had traveled somewhere interesting. It was the natural present to give a little girl and there were five of us in six years. Our brother came along a year-and-a-half after me. I’m number 5. You’d think we’d be a girlie-girl household. But we weren’t. We were tomboys mostly. Climbed trees, played Capture the Flag, read books and Mad Libs, excelled at Parcheesi, came home for dinner after hockey or lacrosse practice, and listened to Harry Belafonte, Pete Seeger, and The Beatles in the living room. The international dolls were meant to educate. And they did.

            All this digging around in the back of my 4-foot-tall closet was brought on by last Wednesday’s matinee showing of Barbie in downtown Corvallis. I didn’t have any interest in going at first, but when my friend Suki’s daughter offered to fix the damage I’d done cutting my own hair with a beard trimmer these last three years, I accepted. The plan was to cut my hair, then head to Barbie with a few women friends. With the prospect of Barbie ahead of us, we decided to add a little pink to our hair. I got Manic Panic colors called Electric Watermelon, Pink Warrior, and Wildfire, thinking I’d choose just one when the moment arrived. Alas, it was suggested I try all three (simultaneously). All this in honor of a doll I grew up with.

            The movie was great. Go see it. It’s fun and nostalgic and silly, but it’s also important and telling. Towards the end there’s a monologue that’s worth a year of therapy. It’s spoken by the actor America Ferrera who plays the mother of a teenage girl who absolutely despises Barbie (at first, and until she understands her better). I’m not even going to try to paraphrase, but you can read the text here. As I was googling to see if the speech was out there somewhere, I wondered if there was a comparable speech that might explain (in general) the kind of psychological tightrope men live with in modern society. Sure enough, others are wondering the same thing. It makes me wish there was a vast collection of tightrope stories. Required reading for young people in all our schools. In other words, books.

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Barbie and Ken headed to separate parties

International dolls. My favorite was the woman with the sombrero on the right. I loved her hat because we had one like it made of straw. I liked wearing it. A sort of room of my own, a moveable hiding place.

These were my sisters’ dolls. The one on the far right was my favorite. I wonder if it’s because she’s smiling. I still think they’re beautiful.

Philadelphia TV personality Sally Starr and Jackie Kennedy. Jackie’s blue eye shadow was something of a mystery to me, but the thing I was transfixed by was the huge diamond ring on her left hand. I remember being mesmerized by how it changed when the light hit it. It’s still there, but she wouldn’t move her hand around to show you.

These were my dolls. The troll went everywhere with me. You can probably tell.

A few of Barbie’s outfits for nostalgia’s sake. Most of her shoes are missing, of course. From left to right: negligee (very sexy), evening gown, sari, interview attire, and Cinderella (reality vs fantasy)

And me, post Barbie.