BARBIE & I
In “Barbie and I,” Ceonna M. reflects on her lifelong relationship with dolls—from childhood afternoons spent reenacting Barbie’s Swan Lake to rediscovering the magic of doll collecting during the pandemic. Through Barbie and Bratz, she explores how Black womanhood, self-image, and joy evolve within a culture that often tries to define them. What begins as nostalgia unfolds into a meditation on identity, representation, and finding power in play.
I was pensive about what I wanted to write about. Should I submit something that’s a little too honest? Or something that pisses me off? None of those really felt like something I wanted to spend time writing about outside of my journal. At the very last moment, an idea came to me: Barbie. So, as I sit here with my lukewarm mint tea, mid-acne breakout, in my messy apartment, I’m going to explain to you my relationship with Barbie.
Like most children since the ’60s, Miss Barbara was introduced to me via plastic dolls and enchanting movies. I loved spending hours with my cousins and siblings, rewinding tapes of Barbie’s Swan Lake. We’d play dress-up and reenact Barbie’s adventures. The best part would be spending hours making our dolls act out Love and Hip Hop-esque storylines.
As we grew older, of course, we stopped playing with our dolls, and things became less enchanting. Barbie became less relatable. While Barbie could speak to animals and make friends, I was being picked on and isolated. I had to live in the real world, and the real world was teaching me the exact opposite of what Barbie had taught me: Be kind. Believe in yourself. I could be kind, but believing—I didn’t know about all that.
Fast-forward to freshman year of college: I decided to minor in Gender and Body Studies. Gender and Body Studies is an interdisciplinary field that focuses on understanding the body in relation to gender, religion, politics, and more. One of my classes focused on the gender expectations communicated to young girls via media. Barbie, as well as other doll lines such as Bratz, were mentioned. I listened to my classmates explain the insecurities that Barbie’s cinched waist, blonde hair, and blue eyes had given them. Others claimed that Bratz dolls were overtly sexual and made them uncomfortable. Neither doll line felt realistic to them. Everything they said was true for them, and I won’t take that away from them—but my opinion was different. Well, not different. More like a “yes, and.”
I couldn’t completely agree with Bratz’s unrealistic looks because just about every Black girl I know looks like a Bratz doll—which is intentional. Bratz, much like many popular things, borrows (or gentrifies) the aesthetics of working-class African American fashion and features. Bratz was also one of the first doll lines I’d known that featured dolls from multiple ethnic backgrounds. It was one of my first interactions with people from other backgrounds. As a child, I always appreciated the Bratz’s dedication to each other and their passion for fashion.
On the other hand, I could also understand the claim that Bratz dolls felt sexualized. However, I think it’s important to keep in mind that Bratz dolls, like many young girls, could not help being overly sexualized for their “sexy features” like bedroom eyes or big lips. In that sense, are the dolls inherently sexual? Or do we, as individuals, project onto them and they become sexual? If so, who is at fault? Is the fault, if any, societal or personal?
I had a similar opinion about Barbie. Were her measurements impossible and very anatomically incorrect? Yes. But as a child, it meant more to me that she was a pilot, an astronaut, a mermaid. It mattered to me that she was a great big sister, a loving friend. Her character spoke to me more than her other aspects. I never aspired to look like Barbie (especially when I already had dolls that represented me). However, like I mentioned before, I am also aware and agree that, in the larger scheme, dolls have been harmful to the psyche of young girls and women. After this discussion, I didn’t think about Barbie or Bratz again unless someone complimented me by saying I looked like either doll—until COVID-19.
For many people, COVID-19 was devastating and alluded to the end of the world as we knew it. In the same instance, without the daily illusion of self that we create to socially survive, individuals were able to reacknowledge interests that were otherwise buried under the heaviness of adulthood. For me, it was dolls. I didn’t gravitate to Barbie at first. At the time (2020-ish), there was a boom in the diversity of dolls. Whole sections of store aisles were filled with brown dolls with ethnic features. HbcuYou Dolls, Cave Dolls, and Fresh Dolls were some of my favorites. I even saw revivals of some of my other favorite doll lines like Bratz and Monster High. After getting essentials, I’d spend a decent amount of time meticulously admiring dolls. I felt a spark of joy that I had thought was extinguished years prior. I decided not to let it go out again.
It was easy to fall back in love with dolls. I’ve always been enamored with the way dolls mimic reality and the amount of effort designers use to get them just right. I’d gone from admiring to checking out, and that’s how I started collecting. At the moment, I have close to 30 dolls of all shades of brown, pink, and green (and one Marilyn Monroe doll—I have no clue how I even got her).
Now, back to Barbie. A little later that year, I took a trip to Vegas. While looking for things to do, I saw that there was a Barbie exhibit. Entry was affordable, and I had the opportunity to learn about the history of Barbie (I am a nerd and will learn about the history of anything), so my mom and I went. Just like when I was a kid, I got lost in the shades of pink and tiny purses. Just like me now, I got lost in the historical aspects. I saw rare dolls designed by celebrity stylists, the first African American doll, and dolls created at pivotal moments in American history. By the end of the exhibit, I had bought two new dolls. When I got home, I started to re-consume Barbie’s products and movies. My friends and family started giving me Barbies for graduations and birthdays. Just like that, Barbie had once again become a pivotal part of my life.
One afternoon, I noticed something while I was looking through vintage Barbie ads. In many forms of Barbie media, she is pictured surrounded by friends and loved ones or doing something for herself. She has Ken, but Ken is an afterthought. He is not the star of her sky—she is. I realized, for me, Barbie represented a life that I had not been shown growing up. I grew up in the inner city in a one-parent household. I didn’t see my mom or aunts care for themselves; they were too busy making sure the lights stayed on. They knew how to hustle. I learned how to always make a dollar out of a dime, but I had no clue how to relax. So, I had to find it myself.
In Barbie, I could find something else, even if it wasn’t exact. Now, I encourage myself to pursue my many passions—writing, painting, dancing, or whatever else comes to mind—because Barbie has hundreds of jobs. I am dedicated to finding meaning outside of romance because Barbie does. And I always need a nasty shoe–purse combo because that’s what Barbie does. Most importantly, I prioritize my peace because that’s what really matters.
I’m a firm believer that sometimes you aren’t aware of your options until you see someone else do it. I couldn’t find it in real life, so I found it in my emotional-support plastic buddy. I have since slowed down on doll collecting. I am satisfied with my collection, but more importantly, I am busy making sure that my fantasy becomes my reality.
