Dear Friends,
My Barbie Room was the best part of my childhood. Inside this room, on Barbie Lane, everything was perfect. No one had cancer and no one was dying. Kens were monogamists – even though there were only three of them, and there were big Barbie families – the smallest one had three children. The families took turns living in the neon pink dream house. They took turns being doctors, lawyers and models. They took turns loving each other. I always dreamed of interchangeable relationships; family units that would love each other no matter what or in which order. Skipper, the one that had a little button on the small of her plastic back, only knew how to say two phrases on voice commands. “Let’s go to the beach, with Ken and Barbie, on the weekend,” or “Let’s go to the mall with Barbie on the weekend.” Everything was “on the weekend” for Skipper. Maybe Skipper was a Valley girl masked as Barbie. Skipper may have been a slut in other playrooms, but not on my watch.
There was Vicki, the beautiful brunette “Doctor Barbie,” who wore short white skirts with matching labcoats. She was a freak in the bed and had four children. There was Jade, who was an older Barbie, of my sister’s era so she’d seen a lot. I always liked Jade, who in hindsight looked more like Homeless Barbie. She was not a looker and I could never wipe the grim expression off of her plastic face. There was Chelsea, who was a hairstylist and quite permiscuous from what I remember. And then there was Kyle, who had great hair but got sent off to war in 1993. It took me six months and two cleaning ladies to get him out of Kosovo, also known as the random twin bed on Barbie Lane (for adults to gaze at me on). Vicki was so glad to have her husband home. Of course, his thigh was hanging out of his skeletal body, a battle wound, but she only had to wait until 6 p.m. when my dad came back from work and said, “I’m home,” and I rushed out of Barbie Lane, through the laundry room and into the hallway. “Daddy, help Ken, his leg is broken.” Even at six, I realized my parents did not get that these Barbies were my family; these were not just Barbie and Ken, they were Kyle, Vickie, Suzanna, and Kelly. They kept me company when I was alone. They kept me safe my entire childhood. But I didn’t expect my family to understand this. From a young age, I censored my family from my pain – I internalized it for them. I always knew my place: little Jess. Little Jess is always scared, afraid, crying, fearful. So the times that I could internalize my emotions, like on Barbie Lane, I felt I should make them believe that Barbie and Ken were just toys to me – I was fine – like the other kids. But I wasn’t.
Barbie Lane was a huge part of my life. It was my escape. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, no one seemed to care. Barbie Lane was when I learned to be independent, entertain myself, and fantasize about what could be in my future. There was always kissing, there was always nudity and there was always love. I sound like a flower child: I’m really not. I was a curious child. I yearned for experience. I yearned for perfection – a life without oxygen tubes in my mother’s nose, and a life without that hideous trachea implant my father had to suction phlegm out of her lungs through. A beautiful life without sterilized, white-stricken hospital rooms, and a life where paramedics did not come to my home more often than my uncle from Santa Barbara. I dreamed of a life without worry and pain, a life where I didn’t worry about my mom dying every day.
My childhood was like there was always gum stuck in my hair. I could see the gum, and I could feel it, but no matter how many times I cut it with a pair of scissors, it reappeared again. Like some demon kept blowing bubbles in my fine brown hair. So I learned to chew gum at a young age, to contain my bubbles, to restrain the anxiety of having the pinkness get into my light brown strands. I learned to create fantasies that pulled me out of my reality. I learned that home would eventually be where I was, but for now, it was on Barbie Lane. No one could touch me there. And people hardly looked for me there – they would get lost in the mess of chiclet-sized purple pumps, sharp accessories and shiny, metallic Barbie garments. My family would never enter the Barbie Room – they thought it was an unhealthy way for me to spend my time. That I was a loner who would always have difficulty making friends. That was never the case – kids always talked to me, I just didn’t like them. I only liked my kindergarten boyfriend, Sam Pearl, because he was the first frog I ever kissed. The funny thing about fairy tales is that the princess always thinks she’s kissing a prince but more times than not, it’s a toad. In my experience, frogs are good kissers, or else you wouldn’t let them hop around your lily pads, but I did not know this at five – I learned that lesson at nineteen.
Kisses,
Jessica
