The Twists and Turns of Barbie

My father was stationed in Germany in 1973, where he served as the Chief of Pediatrics. My family arrived in Landsthul mid-year. School was in session, and friendships had already been formed. My sister Cynthia and I created an imaginary world in our bedroom that centered around Barbie. This imaginary world became my refuge.

Unlike other girls on our post who had Kens, Francies, and Skippers, Cynthia and I only had Barbie. Our Barbie befriended stocky trolls with bulging marble eyes, faceless cornhusk dolls with rope belts, and the costume dolls our parents bought us on weekend trips to bordering European countries. The costume dolls wore richly embroidered dirndls and wooden shoes painted with tulips and windmills and were meant to sit on shelves and to sing “It’s a Small World” at a moment’s notice.

One year, a neighbor gave us a German doll named Eric. Eric was made of inflexible translucent plastic, which gave him a blueish, skim milk cast. He wore a blue European Speedo and carried a little white terry towel on his arm like a waiter taking a wine order. Eric stared intensely into space like a catatonic zombie. When Eric accompanied Barbie on her scuba diving expedition in our tub, his hollow limbs filled with water. Cynthia and I squeezed the water out of his pouty-painted mouth and pin dot pupils, which we lanced with a safety pin for a faster flow. When Eric joined Barbie and her entourage for dinner, we had to force his legs into a seated position. His legs reflexively splayed back out, forming a wide V. Given his anatomically correct features, my sister and I found this to be gross and hilarious.

Barbie, Eric, and their ragtag group of friends frequently piled into Barbie’s shoebox convertible. Unlike the real women I knew, Barbie enjoyed the power, prestige, and independence of driving. Barbie confidently navigated the highways that crisscrossed our bedroom, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other raised high in the air as if she were riding a bucking bronco at a rodeo. Eric was the navigator.

In my family, my father kept pace with cars on the Autobahn. My mother struggled to decipher the enormous map that draped over her legs and blocked the windshield. My parents erupted into heated arguments. In contrast, Barbie and Eric never argued. If Eric misdirected Barbie, Barbie calmly pressed an invisible button to transform the car into a TWA plane or spaceship that soared around the room.

My sister and I supplemented Barbie’s wardrobe of bellbottoms, sequined gowns, white nursing uniforms, and plastic wigs with micro mini-dresses. We cut large circles out of colorful fabric and punched in three holes— one for Barbie’s head and two smaller ones for her arms. We used the remnants to craft belts, headscarves, and bandeau bikini tops. Our Barbie was not merely a fashionista. She was a schoolteacher, a folk singer, a doctor, and a scientist.

As the older sibling, I had creative control over Barbie’s adventures. Cynthia and I rarely argued. One time, however, I staged a beauty parlor and accidentally sheered the hair off Barbie’s head so closely that it exposed the plugs. Her head looked like a pin cushion. We cried at the disfigurement. I tied a paisley bandana around Barbie’s head and reassured my sister that her doll now looked like a cool hippie chick.

We lived in Germany for three years. Cynthia and I cried when my parents informed us that we were returning to the States. We knew we’d have to start life anew. We cried even more when, in our new home in North Carolina, we opened the boxes my parents packed and discovered our Barbies were missing. Only the collection of world heritage costume dolls managed to cross the Atlantic. I was thirteen, too old to play with dolls, let alone start a new collection. I promised myself that when I had children, I would buy them every Barbie available, paint their rooms hot pink, and teach them to accessorize and drive.

I can’t underestimate how much I was inspired by the woman I imagined Barbie to be. I never became most of the things that my Barbie was, and I had sons, not daughters. But if I’ve become an independent and capable woman, flexible enough to navigate life’s twists and turns, I can, perhaps, credit Barbie.