That Time I Embodied Weird Barbie
My complicated feelings about a doll and a desire to be (k)enough.
This weekend I did something I never thought I would do: I dressed up as Barbie. I should clarify that I dressed up as Weird Barbie.
I have never been a fan of the toy. I much preferred stuffed animals to any sort of dolls. Stuffed animals were softer, cuter, cuddlier than a skinny, somewhat pointy, quite unrealistic imitation of a human. I surrounded myself with the plush variety of toys, eventually collecting over 200, so many that my dad built shelves around the top of my room to house them all.
As I grew, so did my disdain for Barbie, despite the fact that she seemed to accomplish much and should be a source of inspiration, right? After all, she first went to space in 1965. That was four years before the moon landing, 13 years before NASA accepted female astronauts, and 18 years before Sally Ride became the first American woman in space.
And perhaps this is why I have never been a huge fan of the doll. Perhaps she was meant to inspire girls. But to me, she was just too unrealistic. And that fact became even clearer as I researched my second novel.
The year Barbie first went to space was during the Baby Scoop Era, a time when an estimated four million unwed pregnant women were sent away to maternity homes, often to hide their “secret shame.” Some of these facilities simply sheltered women until they gave birth and sent them home with their babies. But others didn’t. Others coerced and forced these frightened and lonely girls to surrender their parental rights and relinquish their children without legal representation or understanding.
1965 is also the year that my novel, The Girls We Sent Away, takes place. It’s the story of Lorraine, a girl who has it all and dreams of being an astronaut, until she becomes pregnant and is sent away to a maternity home.
In a time when men and Barbie were going to the moon, these women remained grounded and hidden away. Some with no voice. No agency. No autonomy. And then they were sent home, sometimes with empty arms and instructions to act as if nothing ever happened, forget the last few months, and get back to normal.
To me, Barbie has always been an unrealistic representation of women, always making us feel inferior. So, when I heard about the movie release, I rolled my eyes. But then I saw the preview. The moment Weird Barbie offers Stereotypical Barbie the choice between a high heel and a Birkenstock, I knew I needed to see the movie.
A few days after opening, my husband, two daughters, and I filed into the theater (a place I swore I wouldn’t return to after Covid). As the story unfolded, I laughed. Hard. So hard that my daughters got embarrassed.
And I related. Her existential crisis and thoughts of impending death, her battle against cellulite, her flat feet that no longer fit comfortably into heels, this was a Barbie I could get behind.
As the movie continued, I laughed more. And harder. But then during America Ferrera’s monologue, something happened. In the words of my youngest, the sentiment watered my eyes.
Here’s just a portion of it:
It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don't think you're good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we're always doing it wrong.
You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can't ask for money because that's crass. You have to be a boss, but you can't be mean. You have to lead, but you can't squash other people's ideas. You're supposed to love being a mother, but don't talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman but also always be looking out for other people. …
You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It's too hard! It's too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault. …
I didn’t expect to tear up during the Barbie movie. I didn’t expect to laugh so much. I didn’t think I would buy the DVD the week it released and watch it multiple times. And I certainly never thought I would dress up as any version of Barbie.
But there I stood, at a neighborhood costume party, wearing a hot pink dress with my hair teased and scribbles across my forehead, telling everyone who listened that they should see the movie. Somehow this stuffed animal lover had become a Barbie evangelist.
Sort of.
Like America’s character, I would still like to see Ordinary Barbie. Because as fun as the movie was, the doll that was meant to inspire only showed what most could never achieve. It’s great that she went to space even before Neil Armstrong. But can she do normal things, too? Can she represent the downs as much as the ups? Can Barbie exist with nuance that is real life? How about giving her a bit of imperfection…and body fat? Maybe even some flat feet. And definitely a pair of Birkenstocks.
I know that toys are meant for play and fun and imagination. But they are also for world building. And I wouldn’t mind a representation that reminds us that we are (k)enough.
I’m trying something new! Welcome to my Substack where I’ll share reflections on things like storytelling, writing craft, my publishing journey…and sometimes cats. You’ll get behind-the-scenes looks at what’s percolating in my author brain.