Fear Of Barbie

by John Christmann

I have a confession to make. I am afraid of Barbie. This is not easy to admit; after all, a grown man should not be afraid of dolls.

But Barbie is much more than a doll, she is an American icon. She is revered for capturing the imagination of millions of young girls even while being condemned for reinforcing sexist stereotypes. Over the years Barbie has been introduced to the world as a fashion model, a nurse, a lawyer, an astronaut, a paleontologist, and, prophetically, a presidential candidate. But underneath the successful career clothes, Barbie is still cast as a wholesome, curvaceous babe. And it is doubtful that we will ever see a re-tooled Julia Child doll in a frumpy apron, just as we will never see a special edition Paris Hilton Barbie dressed as a neurosurgeon, a plumber, or any other identifiable profession.

Even in the enlightened age of the twenty-first century, Barbie remains a lightning rod for all qualities woman. This can only mean trouble for a man like me with a daughter who still likes to play with dolls.

My daughter has six Barbie dolls in a collection gifted by unconcerned relatives. Most of the Barbies are blond. Three are princesses, one is a surfer chick, one is a rock star, and one is a businesswoman. Sometimes they look like girls I dreamed about when I was in high school. Sometimes they look like Britney Spears battling paparazzi outside the Betty Ford Clinic. None of them ever seem to be fully dressed, and they are often resting about the house in unnatural poses. I routinely cover them and reposition their limbs in more lady-like poses because, well, I don’t want to feel like Hugh Hefner hosting the Barbie Playboy Collection.

My daughter sometimes asks me to play Barbie with her.
“Daddy,” she directs me, “first put on Barbie’s dress.” Barbie is stark naked and I am self consciously struggling to snap a tight fitting ball gown over anatomically improbable curves.
“OK Daddy,” she says, “now you be the prince and Barbie will be the princess.” Soon I find myself professing undying love and devotion to a six-inch piece of molded prosthetic plastic with cleavage.
“Daddy,” she says with finality, “now it’s time for Barbie to go to bed. You need to put her PJs on.” I can only imagine what this entails.
“I have a better idea,” I interrupt like a wicked witch, “why don’t we build a castle out of Legos and lock Princess Barbie in the tower.”

I realize that Barbie is just a doll, and that I am only indulging the innocent fantasies of my young daughter. But I can’t help imagine what another adult might think if they observed me slipping Barbie into a fuzzy pink nightie with matching slippers. I am sure to be condemned as being vulgar, rakish, amoral, or even worse, a Congressman. Certainly no one will accuse me of furthering the cause of women.

I blame this irrational fear of Barbie on the women’s movement. In my formative years, which clearly I am still living, I was pretty much run over by feminism. This doesn’t mean I was insensitive to the sexual and social injustices suffered by women, it just means I didn’t quite grasp the rules of engagement. I remember once opening a heavy door for an ardent feminist in an act of chivalry. She promptly called me a male chauvinist pig. Years later I was abruptly called a pig again by an attractive young professional who was appalled when I did not jump to open a door for her. I asked my wife to explain this womanly contradiction in a way I could understand.
“It’s simple,” she told me playfully, “you are a pig.”

Over time I have become adept at avoiding the pitfalls that can brand men instantly as insensitive swine. But a few searing reproaches from offended women lodged deep in my subconscious remind me that no matter how understanding I am of the opposite sex, I am always a fry pan away from becoming bacon.

Of course my daughter is much too young to understand the anatomical and social politics of Barbie. Still, I don’t want the Barbie doll figure to be her ideal, even though the magazine covers at the grocery store reinforce it everyday. Likewise, I don’t want her aspirations limited to that of a fairy tale princess, even though I willingly indulge her fantasy everyday. My role, as I see it, is to help my daughter be all she can and lock the doors when the boys show up. I can’t teach her how to be a woman, but I certainly can help her to live up to her potential and earn all the respect in the world that she deserves. And when the tough questions of womanhood arise, I will tell my daughter what all responsible Dads tell their daughters: “Go ask your mother.”

In the mean time, I try not to let my phobia influence my daughter. I play the games she wants to play regardless of the outward appearance. I let Barbie exist in my daughter’s imagination, not someone else’s.
“Barbie can be whoever you want her to be,” I tell her.
My daughter laughs at this. “She can’t be a Daddy!” she says.
I ponder this as an enlightened man in an age of Rosie O’Donnell.

Maybe my fear of Barbie isn’t so irrational after all.