ABSTRACT
We were ten years old when she came into existence, just Barbie, there was no Skipper, no Midge, no fancy cars and dream house or the other mountains of plastic junk created for her in the intervening years. Barbie was a solo act – a doll that was a woman and not a baby. Sitting on Kathy's upper bunk bed, we invented lives and situations for our Barbies. We did not focus on her glamorous body shape. What we cared about was that Barbie could get dressed up and go some place. Kathy could draw, design, and sew, and she made elaborate outfits for our Barbies, as we could not afford the regular Mattel-issue Barbie clothes. When we decided what we wanted our Barbies to be, and to do, and where they were to go, Kathy would lay out the appropriate wardrobes for their independent lives. She said she was going to be a fashion designer; I thought she was brilliant. (She went to graduate school and became a public health professional.) Despite the political incorrectness of the statement, I cannot help but believe our Barbies saved us. No, I don't believe it; I know it. Barbie was our liberator (Brill 1995: 20).
