Fake Barbie

Brenda Starr in all her appropriateness

I have very fond memories of playing "Cowboys and Indians" with my cousins David and Bradley in the foothills behind their home in El Paso, Texas.  They may have hated having girls around but if they did, my sister Linda and I were unaware.  It was thrilling to get caught up in the imaginary wild west, hiding behind rocks and launching pretend arrows from bows made of sticks and string, or shooting cap guns.  It was vivid, exhausting play - the kind not many kids get today - and I am grateful that we had it.

But I would have rather played with Barbie.

My cousin Lynn Ellen, at 10 years old and 5 years my senior, had the most extensive collection of all things Barbie in the western hemisphere.  Millions of Barbies, clothes, shoes, gloves, cars - oh how I coveted her collection.  But Lynn Ellen would not share.  In fact, she didn't even want my sister and I to go into her room to gawk.  I remember one time begging her, promising not to hurt anything, but she was determined.  With resolve (and a little bit of shame), she ushered my sister and I out of her room and shut the door.

"Maaaaah-om -  I don't want the girls to play with my dolls", she quietly whined to her mother, my Auntie Barbara.

"Oh Lynn, they aren't going to break anything", Barbara petitioned.

"But I don't want them to".  And then she stuck around for a while to make sure her wishes would be honored.  My mother stepped in and told us that we were not to go into Lynn Ellen's room.  We should go outside and play with the boys.

And that was that.  Barbie was completely off limits to us and I wouldn't even try to sneak.  I believed Lynn Ellen would know - and while she had little to do with her "baby" female cousins - her only cousins - I didn't want Lynn Ellen to be mad at me.  I was afraid of her.  So I was left to my Barbie dreams.

Soon, as our own friends started to acquire Barbie and her friends Midge and Ken and all their accessories (especially the black patent leather carrying case!), we started pleading with our mother to give us our own Barbies as well.  It was not to be.  Why not, you ask?  Why would a mother deprive her own daughters the joy of having her own fashion Barbie with black eyeliner, bouffant hair-do, high-heeled open-toed sandals and stoic, expressionless face?  The reason, as my mother explained to us was this:  
Barbie's breasts were too big.

The idea that my mother would even utter the word "breast" in my presence made me feel like I was covered in cooties - but it also insured that I would not make an argument because then I would be forced to discuss said breasts - and I would die.  Or giggle and snort with embarrassment.

Of course, Barbie's boobs were part of the attraction.

My mother didn't think it was healthy for young girls to be so obsessed with mammalia.  But the fact that she said "no" made us even more focused on Barbie's "Double Ds" and her prescription-sized bra.  All us girls fantasized about having a chest like Barbie.  (50 years later, all I can say is, be careful what you wish for.)  But mom said no, so when we played with our friends and they brought out their Barbies, we were forced to join the table with our own stupid baby dolls and stuffed animals - toys that had no business being in the presence of the glamorous, technically deformed mannequin Mattel had created.

Then, on Christmas 1964, Santa brought Linda and me a ticket to the game.  Madame Alexander's Brenda Starr doll.

She was the same size in height as Barbie.  She had beautiful red bouffant hair with the added feature of a long red ponytail that you could twist on top of her head or let hang.  She had a lovely pink business dress (like Mad Men!)  Her legs were hinged at the knee so she could be made to sit like a real human rather than have her legs stick straight out in the air from a chair.  She was pretty - and my mother told us that Brenda Starr was a newspaper reporter who went all around the world and solved mysteries - which sounded pretty darned impressive.

Barbie didn't do, well...anything.

But most importantly, Brenda Starr had small little bumps.  Nothing close to Barbie's massive cones, but it was more than I had as a 7-year-old.  So I was happy.  And while she didn't have a bra - which was a real disappointment - she did have a lacey teddy and a pearl necklace.  Very top drawer.

When we introduced Brenda to our friends, she was not immediately accepted.  For one thing - the hinges at her knees were so sensitive that as we hopped her around on the floor to simulate walking, her legs would fling up like she was praying and we would either have to keep straightening them, have her hop around on her knees, or have her float.  It was a problem.

Secondly, she wasn't Barbie. She was fake Barbie.  We knew she was inferior.

We knew she'd have to try harder to overcome the snobbism of Barbie's world.  We knew there would never be a Ken for her.  Or even a best friend like Midge.  But we also knew that she was a Madame Alexander doll, a symbol of high quality and expense.  Brenda cost more than Barbie and because this was the biggest thing Brenda had going for her, we made sure all of our friends knew it.  And so with a snarled nose, Carol Smith and all the others had to concede.  Brenda was "in".

I'm not sure why I am remembering that story.  Maybe because its Christmas.  And maybe because I love how peculiar my mom could be.  Such a feminist in the early 60s - before anyone else.  And I can imagine her doing research to find a doll that wouldn't compromise her views, but would still give her little girls an opportunity to experience the fantasy of aspiring to womanhood.

Boobs and all.

Today, December 5th, would have been my mom's 76th birthday. 

I'd give anything for that doll.