Flash Fiction - Barbie and Me

I was so pleased and honoured that this story – a flash fiction – was shortlisted for the 2017 Tarbert Book Festival / Moniak Mhor short story competition (Oct. 27, 2017). It didn't win (that honour went to Sylvia Hehir, from Strontian), but it was a good challenge. The prize was a tuition-free writing workshop week at Moniak Mhor, something I have been dreaming of for ages; I'll just have to pay one year soon.

The competition was of an open theme, including memoire, and limited to 500 words - a tough but enjoyable challenge.

~

Barbie and Me by Mike R. Hunter

“I never had a Barbie,” she said without turning to me as the television extolled the iconic girl-toy – Safari Barbie or Sorority Barbie or something.

I knew they were cash-poor as kids, but I didn’t know she was deprived.

I should have known, of course. She is smart, strong, independent – tough, even. No nonsense. No conforming to gendered stereotypes, a good lover and a good mother. And very real. Decidedly non-Barbie. Not that playing with dolls absolutely reinforces gender expectations. That’s an oversimplification.

Feminism warned us about gendered toys like Barbie, and of Mattel’s unrealistic vision of the North American ideal female form. Of course, we can’t intelligently attribute femininity to a doll any more than playing with action figures (dolls for boys) and toy guns, causes men and women to pursue military and paramilitary careers, or become murderers. Playing with dolls does not a doll make.

I get that. I really do. Clearly, I know the difference. Hurrah for pink Lego, and lavender tool belts. But, things had seemed strained of late – not sure why – and I was anxious to demonstrate that I do listen.

Finding the right Barbie became my mission for the year – her fiftieth, our twentieth. That mission: to satisfy her childhood unfulfilled; to show that I do listen sometimes; to show my romantic side, my insight, my thoughtfulness, my male sensitivity.

Of course, not just any Barbie would do. She had to be a special-occasion Barbie. Unique, elegant, independent, limited-edition Barbie. Not Ironing-board Barbie, but Executive Barbie, if she (it?) could be found. And it’s not easy to find a Barbie doll these days, as though a great shame is associated with what she/it represents.

Worse, this masculine feminism I pride myself with is a double-edged sword that cut deeply while trying to retain my dignity shopping for a Barbie doll. But I heard, and I acted.

Shop after shop, clerk after clerk, a trail of lesser-than dolls in my wake, the pledge became a problem. It got closer to Christmas and I didn’t have any other gift ideas. I became anxious about possible failure.

But, just days before the implementation of Plan B – and there was no Plan B – there she was: Ballroom Barbie. She/it was even dressed in a rich green ball gown that matched the heavy brocade drapes that darkened our home. I think.

As it turned out, instead of looking for Independent Barbie, I should have been looking for Ironic Barbie. Same she/it in a different wrapper.

Christmas morning, my heart beating smugly, the large professionally wrapped gift radiating beneath the burden of my romantic side, the unveiling finally arrived.

“You said you never had a Barbie!” I blurted out prematurely in excitement and pride.

“Because I never wanted a f***ing Barbie,” she pronounced. “You never listen!”

I can still picture her, Ballroom Barbie. Nose-down in the bin, right next to the broken sword of dignity beneath the brittle tinsel of our last Christmas.

=30=