At the Barbie movie, I wear pink under a black and white polka dot blazer. Ken wears a black shirt and white fur coat when the patriarchy rules. When the patriarchy rules, I feel uneasy wearing pink. My younger sister always got the pink clothes. I was the smart one in blue, and she was pretty in pink. My sister is smart too. And she tells me I am beautiful. Whenever a woman tells me when she started puberty, I tell her: I was fifteen when I started puberty. I still played with Barbies. I still played with Barbies until the next year, when I had my first boyfriend. The year I had my first boyfriend, I stopped playing with my Barbie dream house. My Barbie dream house was a discarded sunscreen display. My sister and I would bring it to the beach to play. A boy I liked found me playing on the beach; I was embarrassed to be caught organizing my house. I still organize my house before I play: my clothes in the closet, shoes lined up, bag packed and ready. In the closet, I store my oldest child’s outgrown Barbies. My oldest leans their head on my shoulder as we watch the Barbie movie. As we watch, unmatched Barbie shoe earrings dangle from her ears. We sit in a sea of pink in solidarity. At the Barbie movie, I wear pink under a black and white polka dot blazer.