Barbie Doll Nightmares

Last night, I had a nightmare. Donald Trump was president, and had just dictated in his State of the Union address exactly how women of America should look. “We only want blondes here! And if you’re over size 4, we’re putting you on a federal diet! Hahaha! Welcome to the new America!” Now, this dream has a LOT wrong with it (Donald Trump, racism, misogyny, weightism, to name a few), but I woke up feeling like the pressure of being a Barbie doll--when I would rather be Eleanor Roosevelt--was stifling. Girls today have such high expectations placed on their shoulders--not academic or athletic, but about appearance. Magazines, movies, TV shows, where is the girl who looks like a REAL American? Plastic is not something to strive for, and I want the media to finally start recognizing that.

Now, I love a good girls’ night in: popcorn, Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream, and a Rom-Com movie. However, I started noticing that the majority of the movies I was mindlessly watching didn’t pass the Bechdel test, and the superficial portrayal of women actually indirectly took away my power as a woman. Why are there so few women in powerful roles? Why is this acceptable? For this phenomenon, I mainly blame the media. However, this question is not simply about answering a statement but finding solutions for my generation and those to come.

This question is important to me because the future of one little 6-year old girl seems to weigh heavily in my hands. Every Monday right after practice, I babysit. At first, it was just a job; I cook dinner and keep a kindergartner entertained until bedtime. However, as my bond deepened with Daniela, I realized she was following my lead, repeating what I say or sharing my opinions. As we read Dr. Seuss and Pinkalicious together, I realized the importance of showing her what it means to be a woman includes protecting her from the biases she would obliviously read about in the years to come. I had a pretty good role model; Daniela’s mom is one of the toughest single parents I knew. Yet because she has to work during the day and attends school during the night, I am occasionally left as the surrogate caretaker. So, I try to avoid using “bossy” as a negative word, and make sure Daniela knows that no one has the right to judge her intelligence, even if she wears frilly pink dresses. I don’t want Daniela to reach my age and have to restructure her thinking to become feminist; I want equality, confidence, and respect ingrained in her mind and vocabulary.

03.07.16

“You’re something out of a dream,” she said.  

“Let’s get you home,” he responded, hiding his smile. The rain started beating down and he slipped his jacket over her shoulders. Everything was hazy for the both of them. She began to dance, twirling and jumping like a drunk ballerina. She paused to look at his youthful face, and the world kept spinning.

Rain dripped down their faces like tears. “I’m not your baby, you know,” she added, somewhat tauntingly. “I’ll never be that girl.” Brushing her lips to his, she got into the car and left him standing in the rain. He just smiled, watching the car, and her face, and the lights, disappear into the darkness.

She woke up the next morning body aching and a craving for cool, sweet water. Missed calls on her phone, unread messages. Surreal images of his face and the rain floated through her mind. Was it a dream? Then, she saw the blue jacket lying on the chair. It was still damp. She hid her smile, for no one in particular.

Opening up her notebook, a quote was scribbled in the corner. “The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up.” She thought about the night before. The rain. Drip, drip. The small smile. Cracked lips. The car as it rolled down the street. Away from him. Every detail overanalyzed, every image separated from one another.

Music drifted in through the open window. An old Motown song she used to hear as a child, when now-forgotten memories were still vibrant and playgrounds were adventures. Suddenly, she got a whiff of rosemary and lavender, like the bushes in the front yard of her childhood home. She remembered burnt cinnamon raisin toast, crystals stashed in dusty corners, pencil drawings on bedroom walls. A lifetime of memories, released by a few faint measures of The Jackson 5. She always hated the way things could get brought up by one small trigger. It’s paralyzing, she thought in disgust. In this world, there’s no real forgetting.

She glanced at her phone. Its multitude of pictures--selfies, blurry ones with friends, candid ones, screenshots--was basically a diary in itself. While she added bursts of thought to the notes section in her phone, the yellow leather notebook lay forgotten on the desk. Once used constantly, it took second priority to the LED screen that held so much information. Nothing was ever lost in the Cloud, except maybe bits of one's humanity. No real forgetting.

Yawning, she rolled over, pulling the gray sheets over her shivering legs. Time to go back to dreaming.