R.I.P. Barbie
Seems like nobody is talking about the Barbie movie so I thought I’d start the conversation.
I jest!
In all seriousness, this past week has been full of personal participation in and/or observation of many messages and conversations between friends and family regarding this film. People I love, adore, and respect all have a mix of sentiments about the theme, main synopsis, basic interest, indifference, obsession, etc. with Greta Gerwig’s take on all things pink and Mattel!
Spoiler - this essay is not going to include my intimate individual or private Warner Bros. Production analysis. There is no way I could even try to keep up with the social media outpour of viewpoints in connection to Robbie, Gosling, patriarchy, flat feet, and Weird Barbie. I can only write about the tears that pooled out of my eyeholes after this film was over. All I could think about on the ride home was my own experience with this doll and all the whys and hows of how having this doll and her buddies possibly kept my 7-year-old body from crumbling into a million pieces. After hearing and reading a lot of the commentary that is out there I can already hear the judgment or support - either way doesn't matter, this is my memory and my experience.
After we lost my mom I would go into my room and shut the door and bury Barbie! I buried her A LOT! I buried her in my closet, under my bedspread, in my shoes, in my drawers, in my pillowcase, and under a plethora of stuffed animals. Sometimes my dad or my aunt would peek into my room, see the extensive funeral arrangements, and then awkwardly shut the door. I buried Barbie for quite a long time. I knew I recovered somewhat or at least crawled out from my chrysalis of despair when I decided to curl Barbie’s hair, became distracted, and melted her face off!
I did not understand at age seven how death worked or why it exploded into my life; all I understood was my mom was gone. I did get that. So I was given the space and privacy to grieve and be absolutely alone in my sadness and, from an observer’s eye, my shady and cryptic routine. No one tried to stop me from burying Barbie; no one tried to play Bury Barbie with me; I did not have to explain myself or listen to anyone tell me how to find closure with Barbie. When I shut the door it was only us - plastics and purgatory. Jeez, this would definitely make Robbie’s Barbie cry - if I’m not careful this will turn into a scrutiny of the film - let’s get outta here!
I can not tell you how to feel, BUT do not feel I am saying one needs time with a Barbie to work through mental health issues - I am NOT saying that; However, the point I am trying to make is that I had privacy in my pain and the solace in which to grieve. I think of my kids and my students. Do our children have space to feel authentically in a world of noise and phones and social media posts that may inevitably cause conflict in comparisons? As a mom and teacher, I sometimes have this guttural instinct to want to fix the problems of those I love and for whom I care and support. Like most of us, I too see the world healing and celebrating, grieving and suffering through the spinning wheels that are our Instagram and Snapchat accounts. It has become completely normalized that we critique ourselves and our progress in life to those around us. After some hours alone in my room daylight may have turned into night, but the sunset is the only thing I saw. We had one landline with a thousand-foot cord attached to a wall and it was always busy anyway. No one knew what I was up to and I do not remember feeling as if I was in a race to get better. I just missed her and needed time to forgive the world for making mine messy.
Creativity in closed spaces is where I land; creativity doesn’t have to look pretty or poised. It can look like a Barbie funeral freak show as long as we are the directors of our own script.
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If you want to read more essays like this Puddle Splashing is coming up on its one-year launch anniversary - you can order & purchase copies through my website and find books to purchase on Amazon and all local Madison bookstores.
Essay Photo by Lillian Grace on Unsplash