Pride Month

SHAME ON BARBIE DOLLS

Imagine a princess with a goatee, and everything else is mockery.

My childhood was a matter of liberty, of radical thinking, of free speech (all of them represent innocence), and of wishful thinking that toy guns spit petals instead of bullets. It was a matter of imagining things Papa wouldn’t have wanted to hear even in his grave because you see, I am gay. Yes. Gay. Homo. Caught in between. Or the twisted one.

I have always dreamt of becoming a princess dressed in a neatly embroidered ball gown teeming with rhinestones, patched with diamonds, and adorned with the most exquisite gems far beyond imagination. All eyes shall bleed with envy, and anyone caught unappreciative shall suffer in the hands of my army.

Which leads us into the real argument as to why Barbie dolls (yes, Barbie dolls, those little creatures whose limbs and lumps can be intertwined, or is it interchanged?) have managed to look stunning and free-spirited with their wardrobe. They look like real princesses as if they are not made of synthetic material with synthetic hearts.

Barbie dolls are shameless creatures. They sport fabulous attires to their hearts’ content. They live a life like duchesses and empresses leaving me shrunk with annoyance. Why are they so dressed up when they are just objects? Who gave them the divine right to shimmer in beauty while I am enveloped with utter jealousy?

Nevertheless, I loved Barbie dolls as much as I hated them. One day, I cursed them, the next day I played with them. I imagined being one of them, living in a world only the manufacturers of Barbie dolls know. I just honestly thought that they, too, can give me a sense of relief and a kind belongingness my playmates didn’t afford me.

Things didn’t transpire the way I imagined them happening. No matter how I envisioned myself to mystify people, I wasn’t crowned a princess, worse, those Barbie dolls owned by my elder sister were nowhere to be found. They must have gone into the hinterlands away from a little boy who loved cross-dressing, or call it a compulsive case of Barbie’s mimicry. Now, that’s for Barbie’s laugh.

It’s not really a shame on Barbie dolls, but a finger poked into my face. Why would I bother hating them when they can’t even articulate a word? Why push the hate or frustration to them when these very same inanimate objects have amused little girls and some little boys?

My childhood is a recurring nostalgia of wanting to become a princess and of believing that someday, maybe someday, I may own a crown fit for royalty.

And although I look more of a Ken with my goatee and not at all like a Barbie, the idea still haunts me like those ferocious and loathsome voodoo dolls under my bed.