Greta Gerwig’s Barbie owned the summer. With over a billion dollars in box office revenue and more than a billion posts on social media, it brought people to movie theaters as few post-COVID movies had and sparked real, passionate, deep debates about gender. It was also a lot of fun.
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But I missed the play, the joy of inventing scenes and clothing, of reinventing my surroundings through Barbie’s eyes. For all its inventiveness, Gerwig’s film was too literal for me. The movie is fixed. Barbie never is.
When I was a kid, I used to imagine everything as if I were Barbie. I’d look at common household items and imagine how I might repurpose them for—or maybe as—Barbie. I was reminded of that recently when I bought a two-tiered dish rack for my kitchen. After I assembled it, I found myself on a familiar train of thought. Barbie would love this, I said to myself. I don’t know if it was because Barbie is having her zeitgeist moment, but looking at the rack, all I saw was a patio with a diving terrace where she could plummet into the pool (my sink) below. Even as an adult, Barbie helped me reenvision the world.
When I was three or four, an older girl in my neighborhood outgrew her Barbies and passed them along to me. My first sighting of Barbie was in her original black-and-white bathing suit, the same outfit from the 2001-esque opening scene of the movie. That wasn’t all. She also had a black sequin ankle-length ensemble with a standing microphone.
Wait a minute. Barbie was a singer? I turned away from my Madame Alexander baby doll and never looked back.
As in the real world, amassing clothes, real estate, and jewelry for Barbie was not cheap. Luckily, I had a generous dad. He made sure I—I mean Barbie—had it all: Dreamhouse, extra Barbies, Allen, Krissy, Stacie, sports cars, and even a Soda Shoppe, complete with little soda glasses and tiny milkshakes.
What can I tell you? I became obsessed. My gaze adapted to Barbie’s point of view. Whatever would make her happy was what I wanted too. But her universe would not remain limited by her creators. My imagination was expansive, and I learned how to channel it through Barbie, which allowed me to create worlds where I could imagine myself someday. To do that, I needed to look beyond the Dreamhouse and into my actual house. Everything could be used in Barbie play. I began to look, in the most literal way imaginable, outside the box.
One afternoon, my father, brother, and I walked into the cool white pinkness of a Baskin-Robbins. I could see them behind the counter, stacked in two rows. They were pink tubs, but I wasn’t thinking of them as containers for ice cream. Nope, one was the new boat I was going to bring home to my friend Barbie. To my horror, the man behind the counter said he wasn’t selling them. I don’t think he knew just how determined I could be.
“My Barbie will be leaving from the dock tonight, sir,” I wanted to tell him. But the only way to get a tub was to order a banana split.
A banana split? I wanted rocky road, like my brother. But Barbie’s needs came first. I ordered the split. It was awful. Too sweet. Too much. But, oh my Lord, I had attained the boat! Now that I knew we’d be a-sea soon, I lost interest in my rapidly melting treat. I was just waiting for the moment I could return home. In my room, I rushed to Barbie and she to me. She loved the boat. She loved me. I raced to fill the sink.
My creativity was on fire. Each outing became a kind of hunt. My best friend and I played with our Barbies for hours. There was no limit to the scenarios we explored. Just like in the movie, Barbie could be an astronaut, or a teacher, or a Supreme Court justice, or anything else she wanted to be. But when we played together, none of those store-bought identities mattered. My Barbie could be or do whatever she pleased.
My parents took us to the Caribbean. Barbie and I were at a tiki bar on the beach. Lined up in a plastic case were cherries and cut pineapple, oranges, limes, and lemons. Also, stacks of tiny umbrellas in shades of pink, green, blue, red, and yellow. There must be so many Barbies here, I surmised. They had so many umbrellas just waiting to be used. The bartender told me those umbrellas were for drinks, not play. But what did he know? His job was beach.
So Barbie and I ordered a couple of virgin strawberry daiquiris, and, drinks in hand, we headed toward the ocean and planted them in the sand.
I never understood the hatred aimed at Barbie. I know she has impossible measurements, but I never wanted to look like her. It wasn’t about that. She allowed me to see my future self. To try on not just the adult clothes and accessories but also all of the roles my young mind could dream. That was Barbie.
“I want to be part of the people that make meaning, not the thing that is made,” Barbie says at the end of the movie. “I want to do the imagining, not be the idea.” I wholeheartedly agree.
I can do anything. I can imagine anything. Just like Barbie.•
Rae Dubow is the director of Talking Out Loud, where, over the last five years, she has worked with architects and writers, teachers and artists, administrators and executives, to hone their presentation and public speaking skills. Her clients include MOSTe, an organization that mentors girls from underserved communities, and Bestor Architecture in Los Angeles. Rae has taught workshops and seminars for the MFA in creative writing programs at the University of California Riverside and Antioch University Los Angeles. She has also taught at Woodbury University and the USC School of Architecture. She is available for private coaching. Rae received her BA from the University of Pennsylvania. Prior to founding Talking Out Loud, she taught at private schools including Wildwood and the Center for Early Education. She has also worked extensively in the theater arts as a director, actor and teacher.
