Alas, poor Barbie, I didn’t know thee well. But the acquaintance was painful.
Barbie the Doll, when I was a kid back in the 50s and 60s, was a symbol of “cool.” Girls who possessed Barbie, thereby imbibed some of her perfect-ness. At the time, perfect-ness was… well, Barbie: big boobs, polyester hair, super-human height, cool clothes, and Owning Barbie. And Ken. And the other dolls in The Group.
I really wanted a Barbie doll, at the age of 8 or 10 or so. Back then, I boosted the (wonderful but limited) entertainment value of living on an isolated farm in many ways. One of those ways was an active Alternate Life in the form of Play People—plastic cowboys, stray humanoid forms of the 50’s, and Things—which were, predictably, discards of older siblings. (Rocks and sticks were good, too.) I remember the loosely-stuffed puppet Howdy Doody had interesting relationships with the smaller, stiffer Rodeo Cowgirl doll, whose boots were particularly appealing to me. The boots didn’t fit Howdy.
My Alternate Play Life included drawing pictures of People Doing Things—a gratifyingly manipulative move which I segued into adulthood and a professional knack for Figure Drawing. (Remind me sometime to tell you about my Fairy Book, which was full of illustrations of ethereal make-believe Little People. Or not.) This was all before Alternate Play Lives were available on the Internet, so while some might feel that the 1950’s APL’s resulted in Creative Expression, it was, even then, absolutely looking for escape from boredom. It did produce immediate and far-reaching, concrete manifestations of that boredom, in the form of pictures and stories (witness la or le text before you). This kind of direct concrete result doesn’t always happen when you play X-Box (Right, Son? JUST being a genius doesn’t mandate physical results, I know.). Based on youthful experience, I speculate that Necessity might have to arm-wrestle Boredom as The Mother of Invention, I think, if we factor in Limited Facilities of Entertainment. Maybe.
Back to the Plastic People front, though: I was the original owner of a Betsy-Wetsy, the kind of doll you give a small plastic bottle full of water to, between her moulded plastic lips. The liquid immediately and predictably finds its lowest point, which in this case was the doll’s moulded plastic peehole. Even at the age of 4, I exhibited strong portents of my future Earth Mother leanings, and Betsy was surprisingly interesting in her eternal plastic dependency on me to rot out her soft plastic insides (if youre Jungian, I know I had you back at Howdy and CowGirl). Said Insides survived decades, actually. In homage to Betsy-Wetsy (and in tandem homage to our beloved family milk cow Betsy, struck and killed by lightning during a wild storm one black summer night), every inanimate object I have loved over my lifetime is nicknamed “Betsy.” Not Betsy-Wetsy, though, because she can never be replaced. This includes my car, a succession of guitars, and a succession of teakettles, as well as lawnmowers and hammers. Things I can rely on.
My lust for a Barbie had nothing to do with any future maternal success, though. Like all girls my age, which was prepubescent, I wanted Pretty Things. I wanted to be Pretty Things. Another APL plan that I heavily participated in was Reading Everything. I gradually realized that Heroines in books--and Heroes--are generally written up with the same prototype that Barbies and Kens were manufactured to fulfill: Pretty and Plastic. (A nice exception to this broad generalization was the old Tarzan books around the house. Tarzan was written up as a Dumb Brunette, ‘til Edgar Rice Burroughs sent him off to get educated in England. We all know the real fun in Tarzan was his primitive days with the much smarter Jane, whose looks were so-so, but that was moot since she was the only woman in the book. But I digress; my unwritten but upcoming novel, which will imprint on future girls living isolated lives the idea that People Are Not Plastic, is another story.)
In retrospect, though, I can accept Barbie, and even be proud of her. Her little plastic perfect self has escaped the confines of Mattel. They may have marketing rights, and they may physically perpetuate Barbie as the Perfect Woman for Pre-Teen Aspiration, but Barbie has become her Own Self. Plastic or not, she has been requisitioned by those of us who were there, at her birthing full-blown from the head of a doll manufacturing company (think Venus born of sea-foam, Minerva sprung from Zeus’s head, etcl, with the whole development stage bypassed). The iconic beloved/ maligned female representation has left Alternate Play Life status. Barbie has Left the Building of Make-Believe.
Real Women have adopted Barbie, and given her a whole new icon status. After a half-century (its so fun to use that phrase with perfect ownership—I Am History) women have made Barbie into Us. We no longer try to be like her. Instead, we have Re-Created Her in Our Image (have I just summarized my ideas about God again?). We have created (on our Internet APL Instruments of Creation, no less, so I take back what I said earlier, Son) among other reincarnations a Cougar Barbie, who has aged with a fierce sexuality and a fondness for alcohol and drugs. Barbie gets hit on the Internet version of Folk Tales her fair share of times, spoofed in endless forms.
Recently I received an email manifestation of Barbie sitting on her perfect bedroom set, looking as old and bloated as one could hope for in any former Prom Queen, beer cans tossed on the perfect bedspread and romance novel in hand, with the title “Barbie doesn’t give a shit anymore.” That’s good to hear. Barbie has survived her epically overblown expectations of Forever Young with the same kind of spunk that William Shatner has. Shatner (whose Captain Kirk / Star Trek persona I also wanted to own) successfully and spectacularly evolved from his plastic perfect role as Captain Kirk. Who doesn’t love his contemporary dirty old man parody of his former Space Cadet self? I admire Kirk, and Barbie, for taking the mystique that was thrust on them, and re-incarnating with superiour humor and grace. This is truly a Great Ageing Model, in my book. Have your Day, then have Your Way.
So I was visiting my Mom on Mother’s Day. It’s a long trip to make, and I only do it twice a year. Every time I leave, she gives me things. Some things I love, like clippings from her garden or a bag of frozen homemade brownies. Some things I try to avoid, like my old Barbie Doll.
My old Barbie Doll was finally bequeathed to me when I was 15. This was bad timing. Mom had finally decided to give me a “cool” Christmas present, but it was several years past Barbie Fever, and none of the girls my age played with dolls anymore. Mom must have realized this on some level, which I can’t really bear to explore even now.
Be that as it may, as I was leaving my Mother's Day visit at the age of 58, she insisted I take Barbie with me, because “This is old and its worth something.” (Note to Jungians: upcoming essay on that one.) When I got the doll at 15, I was expected to sew the cool clothes myself, appreciate the doll, etc. I wanted to bury the doll even then for several reasons, but was saddled with Good Daughter issues I still carry. I dutifully stuck her on my chiffrobe, pedestalled on her Barbie wire stand. So I must have just tortured her; half-a-century later (my new catch-phrase) I look at my Barbie and uncomfortably note she's got ink-pen mutilations and missing polyester hair. (Essay)
Facing my sordid past, I did the Grown-Up Reformed Barbie and Kirk Right Thing To Do: I took it. I took the little plastic problem and put it in my suitcase, said “Thanks Mom” (because Mom’s have the right to escape the Past, too, I hope sincerely), and drove 600 miles away with it. Now, safe in my own world, I debate if I want to ceremoniously burn it, spray-paint it with gold and add it to a panorama of Wise Women, or maybe use it as a sometime model for a new Fairy Journal. The End of the Barbie Journey has not yet been revealed to me. But I Believe.
I still hate Barbie. But I’ve separated that into Then Barbie and Redeemed Barbie. Now, I see a badly-used but interesting personal reminder of Many Things. Which meditation on has prompted a whole text, not to mention some forgiveness and understanding.
Mom, I love you. But don’t make me take all my bad memories home with me.
 |
Barbie the Doll, when I was a kid back in the 50s and 60s, was a symbol of “cool.” Girls who possessed Barbie, thereby imbibed some of her perfect-ness. At the time, perfect-ness was… well, Barbie: big boobs, polyester hair, super-human height, cool clothes, and Owning Barbie. And Ken. And the other dolls in The Group.
I really wanted a Barbie doll, at the age of 8 or 10 or so. Back then, I boosted the (wonderful but limited) entertainment value of living on an isolated farm in many ways. One of those ways was an active Alternate Life in the form of Play People—plastic cowboys, stray humanoid forms of the 50’s, and Things—which were, predictably, discards of older siblings. (Rocks and sticks were good, too.) I remember the loosely-stuffed puppet Howdy Doody had interesting relationships with the smaller, stiffer Rodeo Cowgirl doll, whose boots were particularly appealing to me. The boots didn’t fit Howdy.
My Alternate Play Life included drawing pictures of People Doing Things—a gratifyingly manipulative move which I segued into adulthood and a professional knack for Figure Drawing. (Remind me sometime to tell you about my Fairy Book, which was full of illustrations of ethereal make-believe Little People. Or not.) This was all before Alternate Play Lives were available on the Internet, so while some might feel that the 1950’s APL’s resulted in Creative Expression, it was, even then, absolutely looking for escape from boredom. It did produce immediate and far-reaching, concrete manifestations of that boredom, in the form of pictures and stories (witness la or le text before you). This kind of direct concrete result doesn’t always happen when you play X-Box (Right, Son? JUST being a genius doesn’t mandate physical results, I know.). Based on youthful experience, I speculate that Necessity might have to arm-wrestle Boredom as The Mother of Invention, I think, if we factor in Limited Facilities of Entertainment. Maybe.
Back to the Plastic People front, though: I was the original owner of a Betsy-Wetsy, the kind of doll you give a small plastic bottle full of water to, between her moulded plastic lips. The liquid immediately and predictably finds its lowest point, which in this case was the doll’s moulded plastic peehole. Even at the age of 4, I exhibited strong portents of my future Earth Mother leanings, and Betsy was surprisingly interesting in her eternal plastic dependency on me to rot out her soft plastic insides (if youre Jungian, I know I had you back at Howdy and CowGirl). Said Insides survived decades, actually. In homage to Betsy-Wetsy (and in tandem homage to our beloved family milk cow Betsy, struck and killed by lightning during a wild storm one black summer night), every inanimate object I have loved over my lifetime is nicknamed “Betsy.” Not Betsy-Wetsy, though, because she can never be replaced. This includes my car, a succession of guitars, and a succession of teakettles, as well as lawnmowers and hammers. Things I can rely on.
My lust for a Barbie had nothing to do with any future maternal success, though. Like all girls my age, which was prepubescent, I wanted Pretty Things. I wanted to be Pretty Things. Another APL plan that I heavily participated in was Reading Everything. I gradually realized that Heroines in books--and Heroes--are generally written up with the same prototype that Barbies and Kens were manufactured to fulfill: Pretty and Plastic. (A nice exception to this broad generalization was the old Tarzan books around the house. Tarzan was written up as a Dumb Brunette, ‘til Edgar Rice Burroughs sent him off to get educated in England. We all know the real fun in Tarzan was his primitive days with the much smarter Jane, whose looks were so-so, but that was moot since she was the only woman in the book. But I digress; my unwritten but upcoming novel, which will imprint on future girls living isolated lives the idea that People Are Not Plastic, is another story.)
In retrospect, though, I can accept Barbie, and even be proud of her. Her little plastic perfect self has escaped the confines of Mattel. They may have marketing rights, and they may physically perpetuate Barbie as the Perfect Woman for Pre-Teen Aspiration, but Barbie has become her Own Self. Plastic or not, she has been requisitioned by those of us who were there, at her birthing full-blown from the head of a doll manufacturing company (think Venus born of sea-foam, Minerva sprung from Zeus’s head, etcl, with the whole development stage bypassed). The iconic beloved/ maligned female representation has left Alternate Play Life status. Barbie has Left the Building of Make-Believe.
Real Women have adopted Barbie, and given her a whole new icon status. After a half-century (its so fun to use that phrase with perfect ownership—I Am History) women have made Barbie into Us. We no longer try to be like her. Instead, we have Re-Created Her in Our Image (have I just summarized my ideas about God again?). We have created (on our Internet APL Instruments of Creation, no less, so I take back what I said earlier, Son) among other reincarnations a Cougar Barbie, who has aged with a fierce sexuality and a fondness for alcohol and drugs. Barbie gets hit on the Internet version of Folk Tales her fair share of times, spoofed in endless forms.
Recently I received an email manifestation of Barbie sitting on her perfect bedroom set, looking as old and bloated as one could hope for in any former Prom Queen, beer cans tossed on the perfect bedspread and romance novel in hand, with the title “Barbie doesn’t give a shit anymore.” That’s good to hear. Barbie has survived her epically overblown expectations of Forever Young with the same kind of spunk that William Shatner has. Shatner (whose Captain Kirk / Star Trek persona I also wanted to own) successfully and spectacularly evolved from his plastic perfect role as Captain Kirk. Who doesn’t love his contemporary dirty old man parody of his former Space Cadet self? I admire Kirk, and Barbie, for taking the mystique that was thrust on them, and re-incarnating with superiour humor and grace. This is truly a Great Ageing Model, in my book. Have your Day, then have Your Way.
So I was visiting my Mom on Mother’s Day. It’s a long trip to make, and I only do it twice a year. Every time I leave, she gives me things. Some things I love, like clippings from her garden or a bag of frozen homemade brownies. Some things I try to avoid, like my old Barbie Doll.
My old Barbie Doll was finally bequeathed to me when I was 15. This was bad timing. Mom had finally decided to give me a “cool” Christmas present, but it was several years past Barbie Fever, and none of the girls my age played with dolls anymore. Mom must have realized this on some level, which I can’t really bear to explore even now.
Be that as it may, as I was leaving my Mother's Day visit at the age of 58, she insisted I take Barbie with me, because “This is old and its worth something.” (Note to Jungians: upcoming essay on that one.) When I got the doll at 15, I was expected to sew the cool clothes myself, appreciate the doll, etc. I wanted to bury the doll even then for several reasons, but was saddled with Good Daughter issues I still carry. I dutifully stuck her on my chiffrobe, pedestalled on her Barbie wire stand. So I must have just tortured her; half-a-century later (my new catch-phrase) I look at my Barbie and uncomfortably note she's got ink-pen mutilations and missing polyester hair. (Essay)
Facing my sordid past, I did the Grown-Up Reformed Barbie and Kirk Right Thing To Do: I took it. I took the little plastic problem and put it in my suitcase, said “Thanks Mom” (because Mom’s have the right to escape the Past, too, I hope sincerely), and drove 600 miles away with it. Now, safe in my own world, I debate if I want to ceremoniously burn it, spray-paint it with gold and add it to a panorama of Wise Women, or maybe use it as a sometime model for a new Fairy Journal. The End of the Barbie Journey has not yet been revealed to me. But I Believe.
I still hate Barbie. But I’ve separated that into Then Barbie and Redeemed Barbie. Now, I see a badly-used but interesting personal reminder of Many Things. Which meditation on has prompted a whole text, not to mention some forgiveness and understanding.
Mom, I love you. But don’t make me take all my bad memories home with me.
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