Good news for the women of television
March 30, 2009
Their stories are getting very interesting! (Apparently, the writers got my memo.)
It may seem as though I do nothing but watch television and movies. There’s a lot to write about because – I am pleased to say - women are being written rather well, in some cases. They’re increasingly dynamic. Unlike ”chick” shows where several characters add up to one ”real” woman, each character embodying a facet of the female psyche (think: Sex and the City, Designing Women and The Golden Girls, to name a few), some of today’s women have a little more in the mix: they’re allowed to be sexy and smart and confused and confident…all at the same time. What a novel idea!
Over the years, I’ve generally stuck to the programs on Showtime and HBO: Sex and the City, Deadwood, Secret Diary of a Call Girl, The L Word, which I wrote about two weeks ago, and Big Love, which I’ll probably write about in upcoming weeks. I generally avoid network television (I watch Damages, The Office and 30 Rock right now) because commercials are annoying and the content doesn’t usually interest me. Believe it or not, the lack of sex, violence and profanity that you might expect me to applaud given my reaction to Watchmen coincides with a reduction in substance. Unless the television show is about flying nuns, there should be a modicum of each to keep it real. (Think: Watership Down – bunnies with blood and guts…and fascism. Very interesting!)
I estimate that I watch between six and eight hours of television per week; and in that six or eight hours, I try to keep my feminist perspective honed. It might surprise you that The Office – very funny though generally devoid of topics for intense discussion – contained a golden nugget of feminist historical significance several episodes ago. I highly doubt that the writers were aware they’d created this landmark occurrence unless one of them was attending a college English literature seminar at the time… I just became aware of it during a second viewing of the episode last night.
Jim bought a house for his new life with fiance Pam, and he reserved for her the stand-alone garage as an art studio. When he surprised her with the house, he’d already set up the garage. He gave her just what every woman needs: creative independence. According to Virginia Woolf, every person should have ”a room of one’s own.” And this space must have a door with a lock and key. It must be hers and hers alone, Woolf advocated, apart from the spaces of home and work or home/work united.
Because Jim has given Pam this space for her unique liberty, she has no need to abscond with her creative ideas later on, the way that Edna Pontellier does in Kate Chopin’s The Awakening, a landmark feminist text. Edna – the quintessential oppressed wife and mother – recedes to the cottage behind her middle class American home to express herself through art after she meets a mysterious single women named Mademoiselle Reisz. Reisz plays the piano hauntingly, casting a kind of spell over Edna who subsequently becomes inspired to create the separation between herself and her family. She wants to make her own music, so to speak.
In the case of Pam, as a wife and mother, she’ll feel little or no need to assert her independence. All she has to do - in order to feel herself again - is step out her back door and cross the lawn to her makeshift art studio in the garage. “It gets great light,” Jim announced when he presented it to her, canvases, easel and necessary art utensils already in place.
Meanwhile, “over the hill,” and unarguably overweight office chum Phyllis is happily married to Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration. (In case you missed it, he does own his own business!) Phyllis is perhaps my favorite character on the show because her narrative arc shows that romantic dreams really do come true for nice women who aren’t the aesthetic ideal, but who wait their turn with thoughts optimistic. Bob once paid $1,000 for a hug from his wife at a charity auction (the top moneymaker)…and in a later episode, the happy couple abandoned their dinner guests (Jim and Pam, no less) for a sexscapade in the handicapped restroom. (Pam ate some of Bob’s French fries, and helped herself to a bite of his steak too! It just goes to show you that there are two kinds of couples in this world: those who enjoy sex in public bathrooms, and those who wish they did!)
These characters and their antics make me laugh so much that I re-watch episodes, often three or four times. But sometimes I need a little intrigue and that’s when I turn to Damages, starring the incomparable Glenn Close. Her character, Patty Hewes, is wicked to the core and a firecracker of an attorney to boot: in other words, she’s Snow White’s evil stepmother crossed with Alan Dershowitz.
It seems that all the shows I like are wrapping up their seasons – or even going off the air permanently – right now: The L Word (cancelled), Big Love (hiatus), Damages (hiatus), etc. But the one I’ll miss the most – the most revolutionary program in television history, which I just finished watching on DVD in rapid fire succession with the final episodes purchased on Apple TV: Battlestar Galactica. Though it has no mainstream accolades to show for itself, CNN reports that the cast and writers of the show executed one final diplomatic operation at the United Nations before fading into the past. It seems that the struggle for the survival of the human race after its near-anihalation at the hands of renegade cylons (machines, or “toasters”) really struck a chord with post-9/11 political leaders. Like their 1978 shortlived predecessors, Battlestar Galacticans utilized their own expletives (“Frack!” “Mother Fracker!” ”Gods dammit!”) but found a way to stay human(e) in the face of near extinction. What can we learn from them?
Captain Kara Thrace and President Laura Roslin
For starters, we can learn that women have just as large a role to play in preventing the Apocalypse as do men. So there! The original series portrayed an ill-equipped elected civilian leader who led the human race to ruin with the help of a corrupt count, both male. In the 2003-9 re-imagined series, the civilian leader is transformed from a one-dimensional character into a force to be reckoned with: former Education Secretary turned “dying leader,” President Laura Roslin (Mary McDonnell). Though suffering from breast cancer for the greater part of the show’s four mammoth seasons, Roslin rarely lets her authority slide. She’s tough when it’s warranted and warm-hearted when she can afford to be. And her winter romance with Admiral Adama is one of the most thoroughly convincing love stories ever to air on television, despite Roslin’s failing health. (I think the original President Adar would have stayed in bed.)
The re-envisioned show also transformed the swashbuckling, womanizing Captain Starbuck (played by pretty boy Dirk Benedict) into the swashbuckling, seductress (I hate the word “slut!”) Captain (Kara Thrace) Starbuck (Katee Sackhoff). I’ve read comments by some women who don’t like this re-imagining because Kara Thrace is rarely feminine and mostly a hard-drinking, hard-punching sex instigator. “Why can’t she be a tough girl who is still a girl?” they wonder.
What do you want her to do? Put on make-up and knit a sweater? She’s a pilot who’s bunk mates with a bunch of other (male) pilots. She’s bound to be a little crass. She smokes cigars, drinks liquor and plays cards with the rest of the pilots…of either sex. It’s how they unwind after a long day of heroics and it sounds good to me!
I like Kara. I like both of these women because I think they work hard and make sacrifices without self-pity, proving that they have the right to be where they are. In the first few episodes, the qualifications that they bring to the table are questioned, first by a cylon skin job (one disguised as a human) and then by the Admiral, among others. I don’t remember anyone ever saying “because she’s a woman” – the show is too subtle for that. It was implied that the question arose as to how much of the burden these women can carry because of their sex. The answer: all of it! Kara Thrace could pilot a colonial viper after a few rounds of whiskey and Laura Roslin led the survivors of the twelve colonies to “Earth” after a few treatments of chemotherapy.
Even though Battlestar Galactica has ended, there may be an evil cylon or two left in the universe. I guess it will be up to Patty Hewes to…hire a contract killer to assassinate them…or sue them – whichever angle works out best in her favor.
A little about violence against women: Watchmen and beyond
March 20, 2009
Two of the top-grossing movies (#2 and #3) at the United States box office this past weekend (3/14-15) contain brutal (man on woman) rape scenes. It wouldn’t be such an issue if one of the two films didn’t trivialize rape to the point where ignorant viewers confuse sexuality and violence.
In Watchmen (#2) – which I’ll admit I walked out of after an hour because I was miserable and I’d been tricked into seeing it by some marketing geniuses who had fashioned a movie trailer that recalled the glory and action bliss of director Zack Snyder’s previous hit 300 – a scantily-clad female hero is nearly raped by another “hero” (and it is implied that she later fails in her attempt to fend off the same culprit with the same intent). He says all of the cliche lines: ‘No’ as in Y.E.S.? You wouldn’t put those clothes on if you didn’t want some action! (I’m reproducing those quotes from memory. They may not be entirely accurate…I’m not going to watch the film again to confirm them, even in the spirit of good journalism. No!)
I subsequently had a revealing conversation with a tween on The Internet Movie Database Watchmen message board. He told me that he was disappointed with the relatively “small” amount of violence in the film. He said that 300 was much more exciting because of its heightened levels of bloody action and because the rape in that movie happened on screen. He condemned the current graphic novel adaptation for failing to present the sexuality that the source material calls for (I’m paraphrasing – he was neither eloquent about his views, nor did he spell all of his words correctly!)
I responded that he needed to reconsider: “Are you clamoring in favor of a ‘real’ rape scene?” I asked. “Why would you want to see that?”
“I don’t want to see a rape,” he argued, adding that he just wanted to see “sex of any kind” in the scene where the Comedian beats up Silk Spectre and attempts to penetrate her with his penis before their interaction is interrupted.
I pointed out that “sex of any kind” in such a scene would constitute a rape. Rape isn’t really sexual. It’s really just violent.
Radio silence.
The critical reception of the film is mixed. There isn’t a mainstream feminist film critic writing as an authority on this issue, but I’ll turn to two mainstream critics who did address this man on woman rape/violence occurrence, however briefly.
You want to see the attempted rape of a superwoman, her bright latex costume cast aside and her head banged against the baize of a pool table? The assault is there in Moore’s book, one panel of which homes in on the blood that leaps from her punched mouth, but the pool table is Snyder’s own embroidery…Amid these pompous grabs at horror, neither author nor director has much grasp of what genuine, unhyped suffering might be like, or what pity should attend it; they are too busy fussing over the fate of the human race — a sure sign of metaphysical vulgarity — to be bothered with lesser plights. In the end, with a gaping pit where New York used to be, most of the surviving Watchmen agree that the loss of the Eastern Seaboard was a small price to pay for global peace. Incoherent, overblown, and grimy with misogyny, “Watchmen” marks the final demolition of the comic strip, and it leaves you wondering: where did the comedy go?
The theory I espouse from Lane’s review is that the creators’ blatant disregard for human (including female) suffering explains the overall desensitized reaction to the film. Rape is painful for the victim; it should be painful for the viewer too, especially when the viewer should identify with the victim. Claudia Puig of USA Today didn’t mention the rape (attempted or otherwise) in her review, so perhaps it didn’t bother her. Apparently, it didn’t bother Sara Vilkomerson at The New York Observer either (not to mention the fact that she used the word “gender” incorrectly in her review - arrrgh!). And Lisa Kennedy of The Denver Post liked the film.
Michael Phillips of The Chicago Tribune pitted the attempted rape in Watchmen against the onscreen rape in The Last House on the Left (#3) in his review of the latter film:
“The Last House on the Left” hinges on humiliation and vengeance, which makes it like most other modern horror titles. Its focus on sexual assault, however, puts it in a different, more primal league. The way director Iliadis shapes the key misery-inducing sequence, there’s no hype or slickness or attempt to make the rape palatable or visually “dynamic.” For that you have to go see “Watchmen.”
Sara Paxton in "The Last House on the Left"
Both films contain rape content (The Last House on the Left is about vengeance resulting from the act), but Watchmen presents this violence without a caveat. Instead, the film justifies the rape by (I’m told) making the Comedian repentant and by (I’m told, although it’s also obvious) structuring the story so that Silk Spectre’s heir apparent is conceived during the Comedian’s successful, albeit violent, conquest. The movie should have shown the rape and not just its unsuccessful precursor. And it should have condemned the violence. Instead, it delights in violence of all kinds. A pedophile therein doesn’t just kill a little girl…he leaves her bones to be chewed on by dogs. Isn’t the first half of that thought horrific enough on its own? Why must it be compounded?
It really scares me that my tween forum buddy craves more violence than Watchmen offers up; but it scares me more that he was allowed to see the movie in the first place, when – clearly! – nobody is helping him understand the dark material he witnessed. I keep promising myself that when I’m a parent, I won’t restrict my kids’ viewership on the basis of sexuality or language in film, but will censor violence if need be - if my children are as sensitive to it as I am. I probably should go and see The Last House on the Left so that I can make a fair comparison. I’ve read about all of the gory parts on KidsinMind.com and I once stomached the original 1972 mess. I’d like to have an intelligent discussion about violence against women with somebody in person or online; but, I realize that the target audience for both of these films is not me. And it’s not teenagers with feminist parents either. Perhaps that’s why there’s a lack of sensitivity and understanding out there when it comes to this topic: nobody is talking about it.
Violence against women in our American culture has reached a celebrated status: we love to know all about and judge the Rihanna affair. A CNN.com article about violence against an elderly woman in Saudi Arabia - sanctioned by the government, no less – reached “Latest News” status last week, but then was downgraded in less than an hour in favor of stories like “Boat made of plastic bottles to sail to Australia” and, in “Popular News,” “Oprah comments on Rihanna.” The Rihanna scandal is a circus. Violence against women is real.
The message this flip flopping sends to me is that we (the general CNN-viewing public) are only interested in violence against pretty, young women.
There seems to be some confusion out there that rape and violence are one and the same thing. I’m sure that Watchmen tween isn’t alone in his confusion about rape and sexuality. And I really can’t blame young viewers when cinema marketers are targeting movies at them that they can’t possibly understand. Their age group has been weaned on similar movies like Sin City, wherein all women are either prostitutes or exotic dancers except in the case of a lone female police officer (also played by Carla Gugino, the Watchmen rapee); but she’s still naked just like all of the other women and, in a particularly sadistic form of castration (read: weakening), her hands are cut off by a serial killer. She is therefore rendered powerless. (Is it just me or does Gugino need a new agent?)
When I left the theater in the middle of the movie – which skillfully manifests a bold and seamless apocalyptic aesthetic, I’ll admit – I read the Lane review on my husband’s iPhone, lamented that I hadn’t read it before I plunked down my 10 bucks, and subsequently went to visit the “real” characters of The Wrestler (loved it!). Unfortunately, that made me think about how many abusive males were nominated for Academy Awards in 2009: Mickey Rourke, Sean Penn, and – most recently – Josh Brolin have each been accused of assault.
I guess it’s okay, though. Brolin, like the Comedian, has been forgiven. (That’s sarcasm.)
Malin Akerman in "Watchmen"
When Watchmen let out, I wandered back down the corridor to find my husband but instead found a group of teens who “absolutely loved” the film. A pretty and – of course – terribly slender young woman stretched her arm behind her back to fondle the tips of her long blond hair. “Do you guys think that I could be Silk Spectre (2) next Halloween?” she asked her friends.
Great! Not only does she want to dress in next to nothing and masquerade as the anti-heroine, but she’s also responding to a lackluster performance by the world’s second blandest film actress, Malin Akerman (Kelly Preston gets my vote for number one). I wanted to drag her down the hall and force her to witness the depth in Marisa Tomei’s fine performance.
Also on the news radar last weekend was the brawl that broke out in the audition line for the upcoming new season of America’s Next Top Model. I wonder if Halloween’s Silk Spectre was the culprit of that “violence against women.”
Ladies, we really are our own worst enemies. We don’t need any help from Alan Moore or Zack Snyder if we’re beating each other up over who gets to be America’s Next Top “Insect.”
Farewell to The L Word: “this is the way that we live”
March 12, 2009
I have many topics to rant about these days (misogyny in the Watchmen movie, the debate over castration of sex offenders in Europe, Campbell Brown’s ludicrous claim that her opinion-based “news” broadcast on CNN contains neither bias nor bull, the Rihanna scandal, etc.). Isn’t it a lovely time to be a woman! (It’s raining out and I’m entitled to be grumpy!)
After last Sunday’s broadcast of the final episode of The L Word, it got less lovely, I’m afraid.
The show’s creators claim to be astonished that so many straight women have feverishly tuned in to watch the lives of Los Angeles lesbians unfold over the past six seasons. Why? What other television programs do we have that are devoted entirely (and seriously) to women? Other shows about women often depict lives that revolve around men. Not The L Word.
True: the show does have its schmaltzy moments. It’s gone out with a bang: the “Who Killed Jenny Schecter?” bang. But it has also given us a lot to chew on over the years when it comes to the difficult challenges that face all (or many) women, gay and straight. I’d like to pause for a moment of silence in memoriam, and then tell you what this heterosexual woman learned from The L Word, and why she will miss it.
The L Word gained notoriety early on rather than being swept under the rug owing to some pretty impressive star power. Many actors worry that “playing gay” will land them in typecasting hell. But once the beautiful – and surprisingly soft spoken despite the often harsh tones employed by her character – Jennifer Beals signed on to play Yale-educated, interracial art connoisseur Bette Porter, all of the rest of the chips fell into place. Beals - perhaps best known for the movie Flashdance (1983) - brought poise and intelligence to this keystone role. I love that the creators adapted some of her most interesting attributes for the character: Beals is a Yale graduate with interracial heritage.
Before long, actresses like Margot Kidder (iconic for her role as scrappy reporter Lois Lane in the Superman films) and Kelly Lynch - and even cultural heroines like Gloria Steinem - were making cameo appearances on the show. And by the end of its six seasons, controversial, full-figured comedy actress Cybill Shepherd, out and proud lesbian funny lady Jane Lynch, and Oscar winner Marlee Matlin (playing the first deaf lesbian romantically involved with a hearing lesbian in television history) were regulars. Throughout, Bette, Tina, Shane, Alice, Tasha, Max, Helena and Jenny would meet and eat at The Planet, owned by Kit (Pam Grier – renowned tour de force black American actress). (If any of those descriptions sound insulting, I assure you that they are all reasons to be proud in my book!)
According to its before-the-finale special, The L Word challenged many of the stereotypes heterosexuals believe about lesbians: they hate men, they wear flannel shirts and Birkenstock sandals everyday, and they experience “lesbian bed death” the longer they sleep together. Because some of the sex scenes have been very explicit over the years, the show also lifted the veil over female same-sex sexuality. I confess that I often found the career and friendship exploits more enticing than the steamy love scenes, but it was definitely interesting to learn and understand the mechanics of a sexuality that I haven’t personally been privy to.
The L Word brought lesbians to a mainstream audience, and with “Les Girls” came some of the most important revelations for women in television history. I cried with Alice when her best friend Dana died from breast cancer. I looked with horror upon Dana’s amputated breast, clearly shown for all the world to see. We never get to look at breast cancer that way. We never get to see that butchery to women’s bodies.
Similarly, it’s also uncommon to spend time with a female character who identifies as a male and works toward transitioning from one sex to the other. Bravo to actress Daniela Sea (Moira/Max) for portraying this difficult life alteration with dignity and honesty. I cried for him every time he had to look in the mirror and see himself wearing a “costume,” the female body he was born with.
Kudos to the show for bringing smart alec Alice into our lives. I related to her desire to ”figure out” the world we live in by creating “The (Sexual Connection) Chart,” forcing the issues, pushing people’s buttons and speaking her mind. Come to think of it, I need to get myself one of those “I Love Alice” tee shirts from the show’s online store so I can wear it with pride: gay pride and feminist pride. (That’s right! I’m a straight woman with lesbian pride.)
I cried with Bette and Tina when they took their daughter Angie to the hospital with a high fever and the receptionist demanded that they decide which parent would represent Angie because the receptionist couldn’t comprehend one child having two mommies. I sympathised with Jenny when she sliced open her skin on the bathroom floor (as she’s done since childhood) and Shane found and comforted her. I cheered for Kit when she and Helena bought back The Planet and threw that witch Dawn Denbo out on her butt! I’m cheering now even though I know it’s time to say “goodbye.”
But the most important moment I experienced while pondering The L Word was to finally understand the politics behind the lesbian identity. It used to bother me when people (children) would tease me for my feminist ideals saying, “You must be a lesbian!” Why must I be? Not all lesbians are feminists and not all feminists are lesbians.
In late 2007, while writing an MA English paper on warrior sex and gender in an epic poem, I realized that I actually am a lesbian: I am a metaphorical lesbian. It dawned on me that, just as lesbians fight to be taken seriously as individuals in a world that applauds beauty and simple-mindedness in women and validates strength only in women who stand behind their men, I too fight to be taken seriously as a woman: just me, not me in relation to my husband or father, not me in relation to femininity. I refuse to model myself after a feminine ideal that isn’t natural for me. As a queer theorist, I reject the notion that sex and gender must always go hand in hand.
I wrote:
The “metaphorical lesbian” has been established, first by Bonnie Zimmerman in her essay “Lesbians Like This and That: Some Notes on Lesbian Criticism for the Nineties,” and then again by Elizabeth LeBlanc in her essay “The Metaphorical Lesbian: Edna Pontellier in The Awakening.” There is a political component to lesbianism that hasn’t always existed for gays. Historically, gay sex has been acceptable for free men, so long as they were in the active role of penetrator. This active role is associated with masculinity, while passivity is associated with femininity. According to Freud, it “is clear that in Greece, where the most masculine men were numbered among the inverts, what excited a man’s love was not the masculine character of a boy, but his physical resemblance to a woman as well as his feminine mental qualities – his shyness, his modesty and his need for instruction and assistance” (10). Kirk Ormand refers to some women of Ovid’s poetry as “impossible lesbians” because, with two female and thus passive participants, sexuality is at best limited and at worst unachievable. Lesbians therefore have something to prove: they must proclaim their active and yes, masculine, nature, and furthermore, they must convince the world that this nature is acceptable or even “normal.” “Because ancient Rome perceived sex as essentially predicated on an asymmetry of power, one of the two parties must be active and, if a woman, therefore monstrous” (Ormand 85). Lesbianism, as a political force, is thus parallel to feminism because both movements seek to achieve acceptance for socially unacceptable women: the active/masculine woman or metaphorical lesbian.
I never could think about lesbians without stereotypes until I got hooked on The L Word, and thus I certainly could not think about myself in relation to them. If someone accused me of being a lesbian today, I’d tell them, “Yes, I am.” Like “political lesbians,” I refuse to be defined by my relationship to men: daughter, wife, etc. I refuse to be compared to the feminine ideal and found lacking. I am a masculine woman. I wear dresses and boots. I’m pretty and tough. I’m not afraid to stand up for people and animals who can’t stand up for themselves…just like Alice!
I’ll miss the girls. I really liked them all…except for Jenny…but everybody is missing her these days anyway.
Barbie: heroine or villainess…is it that simple?
March 5, 2009
As a feminist, I’m supposed to hate Barbie. She’s the one who you’d think blighted my otherwise cheerful adolescence – turning me into the once nearly anorexic mess that now, to my dismay, wears a size 10. Barbie is the suspected harbinger of low self-esteem. But I’ve got news for you: Barbie didn’t do anything to me. I never wanted to look like her. I never compared my roundness to her willowy frame. I never allowed her seemingly perfect appearance to challenge my wonderfully imperfect appearance. I never threw up my lunch so that I could squeeze into smaller clothes and pretend to be the blond beauty.
Barbie for President 2000
She’s not real…she’s plastic. And if Barbie sprung to life, reportedly she’d topple over because her boobs are too big for her frame and her feet are too small for her weight. Additionally, she only has room in her diminutive midsection for half a liver and a small portion of her intestines. It wouldn’t be long before Barbie would die a miserable death from malabsortion.
Barbie has always been a blank canvas for me; a place to project my hopes and dreams on a small stage. For all the girls who – like me – wanted to be ballerinas when we grew up (however chunky we might have been whilst engaging in this fantasy), Barbie has many a ballerina costume. For girls who dreamed of exploring outer space, there was “Miss Astronaut” Barbie (1965). For all the girls who – like me – wanted to be the first woman president, Barbie corporate suits were available in different colors and styles. And in 1992, Mattel released its first signature “Barbie for President” doll, which has gone through several transformations over the years. Sure, “Beach Blast Barbie” isn’t nearly as challenging or redemptive as the American Girl dolls with their anti-bullying and anti-racism messages, etc. Barbie is just a hanger for pretty clothes and accessories. Little girls (and some boys) like to dress and accessorize that hanger.
While early attempts to fashion Barbie after interesting career women resulted in traditional female job dolls (singer, ballerina, nurse and flight attendant), by the 1980′s - courtesy of the advancements of real women in the real workforce – Barbie had become a television news anchor, a UNICEF ambassador, a teacher, a soldier and an aerobics instructor. That was great news for girls (and some boys) who wanted to take the career fantasy a step further. Barbie had the career clothes (over 100 different careers in 50 years), and consequently you could pretend – by projecting, imagining or playing – that you’d get your dream job when you grew up. (Take a look at Time‘s photojournalism Barbie history exhibit HERE.)
Barbie AND her wardrobe give children fuel for the imagination, just like any doll. Baby dolls help you pretend to be a mother (or father), for instance. Barbie helps you project your fantasies about future opportunities. You dress her up and do her hair…then you stuff her in a box somewhere until you get a new plastic outfit to daydream about, and you start all over. Barbie offerings have evolved and now come in many different hair and skin shades. (Perhaps there’s even a Barbie or two in the White House these days, though I haven’t been able to find evidence of either a predilection about or aversion to the toy on the part of “Mom in Chief” Michelle Obama.)
Of course, I knew Barbie in the 80′s and 90′s when her wardrobe was almost entirely plastic - tragically- though I was still drawn to its sparkle and glamour. Just when I was starting to think my mother and I have nothing in common, I inquired about her experiences with Barbie and – sure enough – she had a Barbie doll for the pretty clothes too: “Part of the appeal for me…was that they were these beautiful little fabrics and they were store-bought,” my mother confessed.
“My mother made all my clothes,” she continued to explain. “They were very serviceable. They were very useful. I wore brown tie shoes, leather oxfords, to school…nothing frivolous! These Barbie clothes were – to me – so exciting because they were colorful and they were store-bought.”
I’ve seen her Barbie (she still has it) and it’s lovely. She bought it in 1963 (Barbie was just about 4 years old then and still a novelty). Mom’s Barbie has a stylish 60′s brunette bubble haircut (retail value in those days was $2.99) and about ten pristine outfits (retail value $1.50 and up). But, aside from the shoes, there’s no plastic in sight for 1963 Barbie. In the early days of Barbie, clothes were assembled with real thread (instead of glue) and made of cotton and polyester (instead of shiny paper-like fibers).
My mother – long blond braids in tow – would trot down to W. T. Grant’s department store on a weekly basis to check out the new shipment of Barbie outfits that arrived. Once, she bought the flight attendant ensemble, complete with overnight bag and wedge cap. On another occasion, she purchased the backyard cookout set, with chef’s apron and barbecue utensils (metal with wooden handles). She had the peignoir nightgown and matching pink slippers, as well as “glorious!, the ballerina outfit!” Devastated was she that Grant’s never ordered the bridal ensemble. Or, if it had, another hopeful tot swept it up before she could set eyes upon its elegant cream chiffon layers.
Not only did my grandmother make my mother’s clothes, she made her lunches too. And every day my mother would return home in the middle of the day for soup and sandwiches a la Grammy’s warm wishes. The family was well enough off so that Grammy could spend her days at home, but – with four children, one of them deemed “special needs” – money was not wastefully spent on toys outside of Christmas and birthday giving.
Mom wanted a Barbie. She wanted to project the same way I did. She wanted to dress the doll up and envision her own ascension to the realms of stylish and sophisticated careerdom. She wanted Barbie so much that she had to work for it: she worked in the school cafeteria, hosing off lunch trays and stacking them for reuse. But the payment was free hot lunch for each week she worked…not money. Mom, and her similarly blond-tressed friend K****, were the two school children entrusted with this task; and, for K****, free lunch was a necessity. Mom, on the other hand, still travelled home to eat. Grammy – fairminded as she was – coughed up the $1.50 that hot lunch was worth as an allowance…and, after two weeks, Mom had enough to buy the brunette Barbie of her dreams.
Peaches 'n Cream Barbie
Barbie must have meant as much to me, though not on a pecuniary level. I remember chewing the rubber feet on a friend’s Barbie once when I was about 6 years old in exchange for whatever unforgivable injustice she had done to me, knowing that the doll’s desecration would vex her. And when a cousin and I were gifted slightly different ”Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie(s)” for Christmas one year, I threw an elaborate temper tantrum convinced that there was some conspiracy that resulted in my cherubic cousin getting the prettier of the two dolls.
I guess I thought – for a fleeting moment – that pretty Barbie’s were only for pretty girls and that maybe my less pretty doll was a reflection on my being the less pretty cousin.
The drama subsided, however; I loved the PRETTY Barbie I’d received, and I had other dolls over time. As far as I can remember, I never felt bad about myself just looking at and playing with the Barbies that I did.
It would seem that either my experience was unique or a West Virginia politician has come up with a corny way of making headlines. Democratic Delegate Jeff Eldridge has proposed a state-wide ban on Barbie doll sales claiming that “such toys influence girls to place too much importance on physical beauty, at the expense of their intellectual and emotional development.” I don’t know about other women who played with Barbies in their youth, but I feel intellectually and emotionally developed.
If parents are concerned about body image and emotional development when it comes to Barbies, then they need to explain the facts: Barbie is disproportionate and thus physically impossible. And while they’re at it, they should explain that actresses and models on magazine covers are airbrushed and have full-time personal trainers and nutritionists to guide them to their svelte shapes. Looking at magazine covers did more to damage my fragile ego than playing with a doll – any doll – ever did.
And – speaking of parents - the heaviest shrapnel fire that rained down on my body image came from my dear mom and dad (sorry Mom!). They taught me to fear/loathe food and made me self-conscious about being overweight, just as their parents had done to them. Mr. Eldridge, before you ban Barbie, you should make sure that you’re not telling your 6-year-old daughter that her delicious ice cream sandwich will make her undesirably fat or that she’s predisposed to obesity. Don’t parade her by McDonald’s whilst telling her that Big Macs are “the devil.” Don’t hide “naughty” snack food - like chips and candy – on an unreachable shelf and tell her that she can’t have those things. If you do, you’re worse than any Barbie doll. By forbidding the chips and candy, you’re saying that success in life is tied to physical perfection and are therefore robbing your daughter of the promise that she can be the first woman president if she wants to. Barbie, at least, offers her that fantasy.
Barbie is 50…but from afar she doesn’t look a day over 25. And if you look closely, you’ll see that she isn’t nefarious, scheming to undermine your self-esteem.
She’s just plastic…and glitter…and imagination!
3 comments