Before my daughter’s fourth birthday party one of the mothers asked if she might like a Barbie for a gift. I shuddered.
We didn’t own Barbies. I grew up believing that these dolls perpetuated a male-dominated society and sent the wrong message to young girls.
I was taught that no girl should aspire to look like Barbie. Role models should be empowering women like Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug (whose name I just loved to pronounce).
My mother marched for equal rights in the 1970s.She worked tirelessly for oppressed women and fought the good fight for equal pay in the workplace. She wanted me to aim high in the working world, dispel the myth that women couldn’t hold high-powered jobs, and shatter the glass ceiling.
As a result, I worked my whole career to earn the respect of my male colleagues, not to mention my mother. Even when I decided to buck family tradition for my new role as a stay-at- home mom, I did it quietly and without fanfare for fear of disappointing my mom (an entirely selfish and unfounded fear, as it turns out).
My mom was a bra-burning feminist of the ’70s, a die-hard career woman, a warrior, for Pete’s sake! What’s more: She would be at my daughter’s birthday party.
Clearly, I had to make a choice. With my mom at the party, I felt a sense of obligation to be true to the values and high moral standards of my own upbringing, where no Barbie dared cross the threshold of my youth.
On the other hand I could allow the gift of a Barbie, thereby allowing my daughter to make her own decisions about what a woman should look like, how she should behave and what kind of work she might want to do.
I labored over the decision, so afraid was I that one Barbie would lead to Glitter Nails, a drawer full of makeup, and one of those electric-light vanity mirrors (the very word sounded narcissistic). What would be next? Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty?
“No,” I finally said. “I don’t think she’s ready for Barbie.”
“OK,” the other mother said. “I’m not sure how I feel about Barbie anyway. She’s so … demoralized. But – my daughter loves her,” she added flippantly.
At the party my daughter opened up gifts that included wooden musical instruments, books, a tie-dye kit, our third Candyland game, and a cloth doll with no face so she could imagine its own features (a freaky little thing that gained an unsure grimace and a polite “thank you” from my daughter).
All politically correct, all in keeping with Grandma’s feminist bent.
Then came my mother’s gift. She laughed nervously.
“I hope you’re OK with this,” she giggled.
My daughter ripped open the bunny wrapping paper and screamed with delight.
“A Barbie!” she shouted.
“A Barbie?!” I shouted.
I looked at Beach Barbie with her pink bikini and matching sarong and then stared at my mother in disbelief.
“A Barbie?” I said again. “What about equal rights? What about male dominance? What about – her boobs,” I whispered.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said patronizingly. “It’s just a doll.”
