“Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice
That’s What Little Girls are Made Of.”

–Nursery Rhyme

Some nights I lay awake worrying about Barbie. She haunts my dreams, dancing and twirling with unnaturally long legs and a frighteningly still, almost possessed smile. Even as a child, I never liked Barbie and didn’t play with Barbies with my friends, though I would size up the pink convertibles and Malibu beach houses in the corners of their rooms. Princess Leia was my hero, and I would take my action figures to my friend’s mother’s marigolds, where we would construct elaborate stories about her fight against the Galactic Empire.

Then I grew up, thought myself a feminist, and read books like Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Souls of Adolescent Girls and Marge Piercy’s poem “Barbie Doll;”

The girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wear lipsticks the color of cherry
candy.

Then in the magic of puberty, a class-
mate said:

You have a great big nose and fat legs

“I will never buy my daughter a Barbie,” I promised myself. I felt good.

But my struggle was far from over. I threw up my hands at Disney movies, even the ones that I remember loving as a child, for their repeated sexist agendas. Why does Belle put up with the emotional abuse from the Beast so long, and why is that quality in men made attractive? And what’s the deal with Snow White’s self-imposed domestic slavery, and the Little Mermaid’s lack of clothes? I grew more and more upset with what I saw, until, in my dentist’s chair, the dam broke and I mumbled wildly about Cinderella while he poked and prodded my teeth and finally told me flatly that I worried too much.

But instilling my values in my daughter has been my trial and perhaps my defeat. When she was two and grabbed a Barbie from the shelves at Wal-Mart, she listened attentively when I told her firmly that Mommy didn’t buy Barbies, that Mommy thought Barbie was ugly. “Why is she ugly?” she asked. I tried to explain what I had read about how the proportions of Barbie’s waist to her breasts just wouldn't translate to a normal human and allow for breathing and digestion, but couldn’t. “She has on too much makeup,” I muttered quickly, putting the doll back on the shelf and hurrying her away.

But just like the valuation of diamonds, Barbie’s scarcity in our home made her all the more valuable. By the time my daughter was 4 she begged for Barbie. “Pleeeeeese,” she would moan, “I looooove Barbie.” I looked down at her pleading face and realized my plan had backfired. “OK. Get it out of your system,” I said, and I handed her the doll.

At some point my daughter lost the gender-neutral attitude I loved where she played with blocks and paints and decidedly turned “girly girl.” Friends and relatives helped with the transition as baby dolls, glittery dresses and feather boas appeared. And I participated too. At the thrift store we bought dozens of slips and nighties for dress up. I painted her nails. I bought her another Barbie.

The culture of the girly-girl has drawn a number of us in. At the birthday party of a 5-year-old last month, I pondered over the presents, one by one, and thought about what each one said about being a girl. Clothes. Jewelry. A tea set. A Barbie. This Barbie, however, was part of the “I Can Be ... Career Series” collection. She was a doctor moreover; quite an improvement from a Malibu Barbie, I thought. But the cultural codes remain. Though a doctor, she remained in the realm of childcare — Pediatric Barbie, and her hot pink high heels and striped miniskirt a lá Erin Brockovich still looked mighty uncomfortable.

I have had to question my own understanding of femininity and beauty. I admit a fondness for orange blossom hand cream and pink lip-gloss. Sometimes, I like to be a girly-girl too. But, I don’t want to have to be a girly-girl, and I think this is the essence of the struggle of many women, and many mothers of daughters, today. Sometimes, I want to take off the glitter and feathers and skin my knees with the boys. I want my daughter to know that she can do this too.

Fortunately, many of the communities I am surrounded by support women in positions not traditionally feminine. In both kayaking and biking, women get sweaty and dirty, bumped and bruised. In academia, at least in English, women hold numerous positions of power and authority, and they don’t have to temper their assertiveness with low cut blouses and tight skirts.

But the ways in which femininity and power remain divided continue to bother me, and one boundary became especially noticeable in my neighborhood when a number of dead pine trees fell across the road in a windstorm last fall. Clearing had to be done. Work parties had to be organized. But the responsibility of chainsawing quickly, seemingly naturally, fell to the men in the community. And I had to wonder — why didn’t I know how to use a chainsaw? Why didn’t any of the other women chainsaw?

While many strength-oriented tasks, like carrying a piano up a flight of stairs, might rationally fall to the larger, stronger people in a group, which can fall along biologically gendered lines, chainsawing isn’t really an activity that necessitates great physical prowess. The chainsaw does most of the work. But where is Chainsaw Barbie?

And so I bought a chainsaw, watched others demonstrate, and learned the basics. Later, I took my daughter with me as I used a chainsaw to remove some dead pine trees from my property. She sat watching, safely distanced from me, in awe of the noise and power of the tool. I worked, also in awe, my hands shaking and body electrified by the experience. A neighbor drove by, encouraging me with a thumbs-up and mouthing what I took to be “Go, girl!” I revved the engine and we all smiled.

Because of my daughter, Barbie now has a significant, although precarious, place in my life. I hope she will soon outgrow this phase, but for now, the princess/balleri-na/fairy paraphernalia litters the floor of her room, and I really try, sometimes unsuccessfully, not to call Barbie ugly. But for my daughter’s next birthday, in addition to the lace and sequins, I’m asking friends to bring on the gender-bending toys. Give her a firetruck, give her Legos, give her a (toy) chainsaw. Through your own lives, give her images of women in power. The lipstick and glitter already descend like a plague of locusts.

(Esther Godfrey lives in Swain County and is enrolled in a PhD program at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. She can be reached at egodfrey@utk.edu.)