The Underrated Brilliance of Barbie

I was a certified “Barbie head” growing up. I was that girl who had tons of Barbies and was always on the hunt for more. My first—Black Barbie—is closest to my heart. I don’t remember when my mother gave her to me—I just remember owning her. She had an afro, wore a red leotard, and a long red skirt with a high split. 

She’s black! 

She’s beautiful!

She’s dynamite! 

That’s what the box said. And every time I held her, I believed. 

More Barbie paraphernalia followed along with a Barbie Dream Pool, a Dreamhouse, a van, and a motorized car. I was imagining a world where Black women were powerful and fashionable and enjoyed their lives. This is the woman I wanted to be. Barbie supported everything my mother and other women in my life told me I could become. 

And so, I secretly got down with Barbie until I was 13.

You’re going to the ninth grade in three months. Stop. Just stop.

I don’t remember when we gave away the container of Barbies, the Dream Pool, the Dreamhouse, the van, and the motorized car, but one day, they were all gone. 

Except for my first Barbie. When I traveled internationally for the first time, she was in my suitcase and later sitting on my dresser. One night I was bored. I looked over at her and wondered if I could buy another one, perfectly boxed. So, I logged into eBay, found her, and purchased her. When I arrived home from my trip, Black Barbie in the box was there. I placed her on my dresser along with the other Black Barbie who’d been unboxed for about 27 years. Both continued to travel with me as I transitioned from being single to married and later, into motherhood. 

*

“I took your doll out of the box, Mommy,” Ekaete said. She pulled the mint-condition Black Barbie up from the side of her car seat and smirked. “I freed her.” 

I closed my eyes and counted to 10. I’d been a mother for almost three years. I was almost completely wrapped in the idea that nothing truly belonged to me anymore. But this almost made me lose my whole entire shit on Gun Hill Road. 

My husband shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s just a doll, right?” 

No motherfucker, It’s not. 

I let it go, in the way that women—especially mothers—have to let things go. And life went on. The original Black Barbie’s head was torn off. I found her body in the bathroom one day. Head never found. 

The Black Barbie that was once in the box became part of my daughter’s naked Barbie gang that she threw in the bathtub or did aerial tricks with on her closet door. I discovered that Black Barbie was now selling for upwards of $500 on eBay. I had purchased her for $20. I closed my eyes tightly and told myself to let it go—she brought my daughter joy and that’s all that mattered, right? Right. 

*

I recently went on a mother-daughter date to see Barbie. As the opening credits rolled, Day-to-Night Barbie flashed on the screen. She was unbelievable. She wore a suit during the day and, in the evening, she just took off her blazer, turned her skirt inside out, and voila! She was ready for whatever the night had in store. 

“Oh! I had that one!”

It wasn’t exactly a whisper, more like a screech. I remembered, at that moment, that she 

and Oprah Winfrey made 1987 the year I realized the type of boss I wanted to be. 

My excitement annoyed my daughter, the Barbie emancipator, immensely. 

You’re doing the most right now. 

Chill out. 

Oh, my goodness. 

I could give two shits. This was more than nostalgia. It reaffirmed what I always knew about Barbie, but never articulated: she’s dope. 

When I think of all the ideations of Barbie and her crew, I see a transformation of possibilities for women. The doll that was once wearing a black-and-white striped bathing suit is now a full line of dolls portraying women of all sizes, shapes, and colors. She’s a doctor, a teacher, a dog walker, an artist. Barbie does what Barbie wants and that’s that. 

There have always been so many naysayers about Barbie—her body is too perfect; she is not truly empowering to young girls; she’s not a true symbol of womanhood.

I’ve always rolled my eyes at these arguments. 

All dolls are awkwardly perfect because…they’re not real. 

Great Shape Barbie allowed me, a chubby little girl, to consider the possibility of exercising. 

Barbie and the Rockers let me know that I needed to have fun with my friends and be creative. And you could do it wearing clothes that didn’t match if that pleased you. 

Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie reminded me that a great dress sets the stage for anything. 

True freedom is defining ourselves as we wish. One woman’s identity and ability to self-affirm her life and her choices have no bearing on others. Barbie—especially in this movie—is a symbol of what I want my daughter to believe about herself: she can ask questions and discover solutions; be fearless enough to face new challenges; remain aware that she doesn’t need a man to make her happy; and be able to define her own sense of beauty and agency (shoutout to Weird Barbie!).

My daughter is already a Black girl in a world that is constantly grappling with its understanding and acceptance of her. If she doesn’t believe that she is beautiful and dynamic, who will?