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Written by Andrea Seiden

Published: 25 July 2023

Created: 25 July 2023

Last Updated: 25 July 2023

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Long before the Barbie movie and giggling women dressed in pink from head-to-toe, I loved Barbie. I have always been unapologetic about my relationship with her. Growing up, it never occurred to me that she was shallow, materialistic, or too perfect, as some feminists complained. To me she was genuine— a capable woman, role model, superhero, and friend. Unlike my mother, she had her own apartment, killer wardrobe, and career. What’s more, she knew how to drive.

In 1973, my father, a doctor in the US Army, was stationed in Germany, where he served as the Chief of Pediatrics. When our family arrived in Landsthul mid-year, school was already in session, and friendships had already been formed. The imaginary world I created with Barbie and my sister in our shared bedroom was a safe place—a refuge for me.

Unlike the other American girls on the post who had Francie, Skipper, Ken, and Barbie, my sister and I did not. To round out our Barbie fantasy world, we included stocky little trolls with bulging marble eyes, faceless cornhusk dolls with rope belts, and the costume dolls our parents bought us on our many weekend trips to bordering European countries. These dolls, which wore richly embroidered dirndls and wooden shoes with little painted tulips and windmills, were not meant to be played with. Instead, they were supposed to sit on a shelf, ready to sing out at a “It's a Small World” at a moment’s notice.

One year, a neighbor gave us a German doll named Eric. Eric was made from translucent plastic, giving him a blueish, skim milk cast. Unlike Twist ‘n Turn Barbie, Eric was inflexible. His arms and legs were hollow and would fill with soapy water if we took him into the tub should Barbie want to learn how to scuba dive while on a beach vacation. We would hang him upside down to drain the water from his limbs and squeeze the water out of his pouty-painted mouth and pin dot pupils, which we lanced with a safety pin for a faster flow. Eric stared intensely into space like a catatonic zombie and was not the least bendable. He wore a blue European Speedo and carried a little white terry towel on his arm like a waiter taking a wine order. We forced his legs into a seated position when he joined Barbie and her entourage for dinner. Still, they always reflexively splayed back out -- forming a wide letter V which, given his anatomically correct features, we found both gross and hilarious.

Barbie, Eric, and their ragtag group of friends would often pile into a shoebox convertible and go for drives. Unlike the real women I knew, Barbie enjoyed the power, prestige, and independence associated with driving, typically reserved for men in those days. Barbie confidently navigated the open highways that crisscrossed our bedroom, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other raised high in the air as if she were riding a bucking bronco at a western rodeo. Eric lay in the passenger seat, relegated to navigating. In those days, when men drove and women were only allowed to hold maps, such a role reversal was almost unheard of.

In our family, as my father kept pace with the other cars on the speed-limitless Autobahn, our mother struggled to decipher the enormous map that draped over her legs and blocked the windshield. This often erupted in a heated argument between our parents. In the world we created, if Eric got Barbie lost, she kept calm and could simply press an invisible button, transforming the car into a TWA plane or spaceship that soared around the room.

One of the things I liked most about Barbie was her extensive wardrobe of bellbottoms, sequined gowns, white nursing uniforms, and plastic wigs. To supplement her store-bought outfits, we made micro mini dresses for her by cutting large circles of colorful fabric and punching in three holes; the one in the center was for Barbie to pop her head through, and two smaller ones for her arms. Any remnants were used for belts, headscarves, and bandeau bikini tops. But our Barbie was not merely a fashionista; we gave her many careers; she was a school teacher, a folk singer, a doctor who delivered babies, and a scientist who peered down a microscope at an onion skin.

My sister and I rarely argued while we played with our dolls. Being older, I had complete creative control over Barbie’s adventures. However, one time Cynthia did get angry with me when I staged a beauty parlor, and accidentally sheered her Barbie’s hair so closely that it exposed her plugs, making her head look like a pin cushion. We both cried at her disfigurement, and I tied a paisley bandana around Barbie’s head, reassuring my sister that her doll now looked like a cool hippie chick.

After three years in Germany, our parents told us we were returning to the States. My sister and I cried, knowing we would have to start life anew. We cried even more when, in our new home in North Carolina, we opened the boxes my parents had packed, and discovered that our Barbies were not there. Only the collection of world heritage costume dolls that my parents valued had crossed the Atlantic. We put those dolls in a closet and never took them out again. I was thirteen, too old to play with dolls, let alone start a new collection. So I promised myself that when I had children, I would buy them every Barbie available, paint their rooms hot pink, and teach my daughters to accessorize and drive.

A lot has happened between the 1970s and now that has impacted who I have become, but I can’t underestimate how much I was inspired by the woman I imagined Barbie to be. I never became most of the things that my Barbie was — a successful scientist, a singer, a fashion model, or even a confident driver — and I had sons, not daughters, who did not inherit my passion for this controversial doll. But if I’ve become an independent and capable woman, flexible enough to navigate life’s twists and turns, I can, perhaps, credit Barbie.