In the lead up to Barbie’s silver screen debut, THREADS editor Benedetta reflects on the Mattel matriarch’s impact on the imagination, and agency, of generations of young women…

A timely quote. I have been playing this game with my friends, asking them to guess who said it. Someone guessed Michel Foucault, someone else George Orwell. Britney Spears was also mentioned. My favourite part of this silly little game is smirking at their baffled expressions, when I reveal that those very serious words were spoken by non-other than Barbie — or, more specifically, the Barbara Millicent Roberts of Toy Story 3.

With the Barbie movie coming out next year, “Barbiecore” trend on the rise, and social media platforms painted in Valentino pink, recently I have been thinking about Barbie a lot.

As the youngest in my family, I made my acquaintance with the iconic doll at a very young age. By four or five, I already had a small collection at my disposal: my older sister’s, who still talks about how I cruelly dismembered her favourite dolls. With time, however, desire for destruction slowly started getting replaced by a more pungent need to tell stories.

It has always been about clothes and storytelling; rapaciously going through a limited selection of small dresses, turning my mum’s tea towels into ball gowns or Greek tunics. Cold, immortal plastic turning into flesh; my flesh. I was their voice and mind, and I could be anything I wanted, wherever I wanted. Pacing up and down marble floors or running through endless fields. I could choose to be a fashion-conscious princess, or the warrior and worried queen of a decaying kingdom. Whole worlds on the brink of collapse that only I could save, wearing imaginary stiletto heels.

According to a new study carried out by the University of Cardiff, playing with Barbie dolls activates an area of the brain that is associated with empathy, regardless of whether the kids play alone or with other children. “We use this area of the brain when we think about other people,” explained Dr. Sarah Gerson. “Especially when we think about another person’s thoughts or feelings. Dolls encourage them to create their own little imaginary worlds, as opposed to say, problem-solving or building games."

Looking back at those hazy afternoons spent playing on the floor of our old living room, I smile at the realisation that those dolls might be the reason why I’m doing what I’m doing today; what ignited my interest in fashion and passion for writing.

Everything I was learning in school, I would then pour into the fictional stories I was constructing at home. It was all malleable storytelling material. All that knowledge being absorbed by a young, always-parched brain: names, places and facts that fuelled my imagination. I would return home impatient to immerse myself in those worlds nobody else had access to.

Then, as adolescence hit and enveloped me, I forsook the doll for good. Not only did I stop playing, but I felt this obligation to wear a tight and sombre tunic of being. My wardrobe now consisting of a monochromatic range of oversized t-shirts to cover a body I was still too unfamiliar with, made of blurry lines that had been intersecting and overlapping without my permission. And I was too embarrassed to admit that I used to play with and love Barbie as much as I did. I was under the impression that I had a choice to make, and rather urgently. Choose who I wanted to be, what I wanted to do, and stick with it for the rest of my life.

I guess it’s that peculiar form of seriousness that belongs right with the mood swings and body hair. An odd kind of seriousness that one can hold onto, for safety, replacing a parent’s hand and fuzzy blankie. A constructed seriousness, that tasted of whatever flavours adulthood was supposed to taste like.

Similarly, Barbie had been appointed one fixed identity and series of traits for a very long time. For decades, the doll was exclusively known as the white, blonde, and blue-eyed beauty. Skinny; oh-so-skinny, as teenage me used to think with resentment, almost feeling betrayed by an old friend.

In fact, it took Mattel quite some time to understand the cruciality of including a more diverse range of body types, skin tones, hair textures and, more recently, also dolls with disabilities. “About time,” one might say. I certainly hope that the company will keep on striving for and championing inclusivity and diversity, so all children can feel seen and represented, which should be a top priority. And to honour Barbie herself, as I am quite sure she would scowl at the idea of being reduced to a one-dimensional character.

But I find that there’s also a seriousness intrinsic to her world, which is often overlooked or discarded, the same way fashion is often seen as vapid, frivolous. Useless, whatever that means. Extra flavour without the substance. It is no surprise that the word softness, for instance, is often still perceived as a weakness, or used in a derogatory way, given its association with the word feminine. You can call it the Midas touch of femininity: everything it touches turns into glittery, slightly intoxicating vapours. Nothing to be taken seriously.

However, I do believe that Barbara is dead serious about being whatever she wants to be, or being more than one thing at the same time; an athlete, a doctor, a baker, a butcher and a candle-stick maker. Strong, soft, feminine, and masculine.

Barbara has never had to wear just one outfit. No one, walking into adulthood, should ever feel obliged to pick one thing to put on for the rest of their life, whether a flattering dress or a scrub or sweats. To choose between an erratic joy or comfortable stability. Being too quiet or too loud. Too soft or not soft enough. Maternity wear or business attire. And now, in some places, maternity wear or a somber black dress picked by someone else. Women’s beliefs and moral compasses brought into question and shattered into pieces, by strangers who have never lived inside their bodies, and never will.

As an adult, I’ve come to the realisation that our bodies, with all their quirks and desires, don’t always belong to us, but to whomever can abuse their position to vomit their thoughts on our bedazzled shoes. Personal thoughts transformed into inexorable truths. Bodies, not made of plastic but real, warm flesh, treated with the same arrogance and self-righteousness with which 4-year-old me treated my sister’s Barbie dolls; exerting ownership over them, their immortality mine to play with, even to end, if it pleased me and fit the narrative I had constructed for them. 

Lately I have been contemplating the idea of buying myself a Barbie doll, mainly to see how my former favourite toy and storytelling device has changed, and also for my future child(ren). I will gladly watch them construct and consume their own worlds of words, stories and names; fiction, homework and historical facts fuelling their imagination. And I will let them believe that they can be whatever they want to be. After all, that’s the very same promise that Barbie made to the bright-eyed child I once was, and miss desperately, twenty years ago.

Even if some days it is particularly hard not to stop and wonder whether it was nothing more than an empty promise…

credits

words — benedetta mancusi

design — karina so.