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Key points
- An icon but never an iconoclast, Barbie followed fashion, obeyed rules, and did as she was told—sometimes.
- Fantasies about childhood objects continue into adult life, even if they alter as we age. Adults love Barbie.
- Writer Elizabeth Janeway defines power as "the ability not to have to please." We wanted to make Barbie happy.
- The original attraction of Barbie was that she didn't reflect a child's past but showed a girl’s future.
First introduced in 1959 at New York’s toy fair, Barbie gained notoriety, after flopping in her debut, by being aggressively advertised by The Mickey Mouse Club.
I imagine Barbie was in a situation similar to one of my first fan-girl focuses, Annette Funicello, a star of the Mickey Mouse Club. I imagine Barbie thinking, “Draw your eyes upwards! My beautiful eyes and enthralling expression are on my face!” Like Annette, Barbie had great boobs, but we weren't supposed to pay attention to them. Thus little girls learned, subconsciously and under the pretext of play, how to repress the mixed messages we would be hearing about our own body images for the next 50 years.
Millions of American girls paid attention once we were fully introduced to Barbie. We developed a crush on this doll, and our parents paid cash.
I was one of those little girls. I loved my Barbie Doll. I was 5 years old when my first Barbie arrived, and, although I knew nothing of her heritage or iconography, there was one thing I knew: I adored her.
I also wanted to become just like her, even if didn’t have a clue what that implied.
More Vegas model than crying infant, she looked like she wanted a bottle of Scotch more than she wanted a bottle of milk. She was a babysitter, earning money and talking on the phone with her boyfriend Ken; she wasn’t the baby being sat.
The original attraction of Barbie was that she didn't reflect a child's past but showed a girl’s future.
To put it another way, Barbie was the embodiment (the buxom, bubble-headed, bathing-suited version) of the most intriguing part of our lives as women rather than an iteration of our awkwardly diapered past.
Always an icon but never an iconoclast, Barbie followed fashion, obeyed rules and did as she was told—-sometimes. The shyest, oddest, and mangiest little girl still had some secret power over her perfect Barbie, however. As much as she adored her, she could cut Barbie’s hair, chew on Barbie’s hands and feet, or whisper swear words in Barbie’s tiny ear. She could kill her Barbie. Beheading was popular, as was dropping Barbie from a great height. Or drowning her, as long as Barbie's hair didn't get messy.
And then the little girl could resurrect her, without Barbie being able to tell.
But what if Barbie could speak? What if she could tell our story, and not her own?
What would your Barbie say? Given that "The Barbie Movie" is coming out soon, we'll be hearing exactly what great writers and directors think Barbie would say. And I intend to be in the front row, rapt and taking notes.
And yes, while I realize that talking Barbies have been around for several years, I nevertheless have fantasies about what individualized talking Barbies might say.
Fantasies about childhood objects continue into adult life, even if we alter our wishes about them as we age.
I want Barbie The Scrivener: All she’ll say is, “I would prefer not to.”
Maybe Barbie could say some inspiring words that would help shape the lives of the next generation. I asked some of the smartest folks I know what their Barbies would say.
Marisa, taking the fiscal angle: “Let’s have fun learning about interest rates while discussing the possibility of globally responsible investments!”
Patti, taking the physical angle: “May I please have some genitalia?”
Heidi, taking the practical angle: “Will you please stop throwing my clothes all over the floor, and please pick up your stuff, too?”
Robin, taking a gender-on-a-continuum angle: “I’m Ken.”
Rick, taking the literary angle and the angle Barbie might take if she doesn’t follow Marisa’s trajectory: “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
Hope, taking the it’s-not-that-I’m-bitter angle: “Why do you love that Little Pony more than me?”
Maria, taking the adult angle: “I’m 64 years old. Please call me Barbara.”
Wendy, taking the equity angle: “Equal pay for equal work.”
Hugo Ben, taking the political angle: “It’s possible that I was made by an impoverished child worker in unsafe factory in a third-world country.”
Marti, however, takes a more generous angle. Her Barbie says “Thank you for being my voice all those years ago. I knew you’d turn out to be just fine.” (I might even trade-in my Barbie The Scrivener to hear that every day.)
Cultural critic Elizabeth Janeway defines power as "the ability not to have to please." Barbie was a toy we were trying to please: We bought her clothes, we wanted to give her a nice dwelling, we wanted for her to have access to a good job. The ur-Barbie gave a sideways glance, not making eye contact, looking as is she's was hoping for a Marlboro Red. She wasn't interested in what we had to say but only in what we had to give her.
The later iterations of Mattel's Barbies became wider-eyed, more gooey-expressioned, more apparently innocent. They started to smile a little. They hinted at friendliness. They had a sparkle in their eye. They wanted us to like them and to be our BFF.
They were disposable.
Having lost the power of their indifference, the newer and nicer Barbies became replaceable.
The older, original Barbies kept their value and their formidable hold on our collective imagination.
