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Janice Eidus Class Barbie |
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I never had a “Real” Barbie. I had a less
expensive, rip-off version. It wasn’t that Barbie Dolls cost a fortune, or
that my parents were too poor to afford one; it was just that my mother, a
benign but resolute Socialist, saved money every way she could, and my toys
were always cheaper versions of my friends’ toys. In the 1950s, when I was seven years old, we
lived in a housing project in the northeast Fake Barbie’s features were, in fact, softer
and kinder than Real Barbie’s. Real Barbie was too angular for my taste, hard
and cold-looking: definitely a “rich bitch,” as my tough-acting, older
brother said about the snooty girls he sometimes met at parties, girls from
wealthy Real Barbie was so shallow
and materialistic, with all those silly, frivolous outfits (Prom Barbie;
Princess Barbie; Cheerleader Barbie). Fake Barbie had only the outfit on her
back, a simple, rose-colored, flared dress, not so different than the one
party dress I owned, which my mother had bought for me on sale at
Alexander’s, the department store on Fordham Road that was the only
department store I’d ever been to. I’d never heard of Saks’ or Bergdorf’s, and neither had my Fake Barbie. Nevertheless,
Fake Barbie looked so much like Real Barbie that it was apparent even to me
that she was the poor girl’s substitute for the “real” thing. Fake Barbie
was, however, on the plump side; her breasts were unformed little lumps
compared to Real Barbie’s upturned, pointed, cones; her frizzy pony-tail,
unlike Real Barbie’s silken tresses, looked more like a dustmop. In truth, Fake Barbie reminded me more of TV’s “I Love Lucy” than of
Real Barbie: wacky, a tad ditzy, a loudmouth with a heart of gold. Like Lucy
Ricardo, Fake Barbie was so intrinsically loveable she was entitled to make
mistakes, to be eccentric—even to be irascible and volatile at times. Unlike
Real Barbie, she wasn’t Miss Perfect, Miss Snooty, Miss Constipated (another term I learned from my older brother,
also used to describe those wealthy suburban girls). I named my Fake Barbie “Lucy-Chiquita,” a combination of Lucy Ricardo
and the Chiquita Banana Girl, whose flirtatious nature and obsession with
ripe, yellow bananas appealed to me, undoubtedly for reasons I didn’t
understand back then. I fiercely identified with my Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie. I planned for
her to end up, like Lucy Ricardo, married to a handsome Cuban bandleader,
singing “Babaloo” with him late at night in smoky,
exotic nightclubs. It was a future I also envisioned for myself, since I
spent a lot of time mooning about, lusting after the older, teenaged,
dark-skinned Latino and Italian boys who lived in the projects. As for Real Barbie—I pitied her. Her squeaky-clean boyfriend Ken could
never sing “Babaloo.” He’d be more likely to
serenade a girl with “The Star Spangled Banner.” There were no boys who looked like Ken living in
the projects. He was bland, flat, cardboard—entirely
devoid of sex appeal. I had other dolls, too, who participated in our games with
Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie and Real Barbie. I had, for instance, dolls that
originally were plastic vitamin bottles in the shape of human figures. (Each
morning at breakfast, my mother insisted that my brother, sister, and I take
our vitamins; as we finished the bottles, I confiscated them, one by one, for
my games.) I needed all the dolls I
could get, since purchasing Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie had depleted my
mother’s doll budget, at least for a while. I also had two plastic dolls with bobbing heads: a Hawaiian hula dancer
and a roly-poly, vaguely sneering, mustached doll with a tasseled hat. They
had both once adorned the back seat of my father’s black Oldsmobile, which
he’d bought second-hand for a song, because there were bullet holes in two of
the windows. Marla also had some other dolls in addition to her Real Barbie. She had
some “fancy-schmancy” dolls, as I thought of them
(dolls in Victorian dresses; dolls clutching delicate parasols in their
dainty hands), that had been bought for her at F.A.O. Schwarz by her mother’s
rich Marla was relatively easy to convince. She
was six months younger than I, softer-spoken, used to giving in to her
hot-tempered older brother, who slapped her around on a regular basis,
despite my loyal protests and her parents’ threats of punishment. I was drawn to Marla precisely because I could dominate her, and yet because she also had a wild streak
that enabled her not merely to participate in—but to deeply enjoy—our sexual
games. I desperately needed a relationship in which I was the powerful one. As the youngest child of three (with a
sister who slapped me around as frequently as Marla’s brother slapped her),
and with a tyrannical, domineering father, who proudly referred to himself as
the “King” and our home as his “castle,” despite how politically
unprogressive the concept was, it was crucial for me to find a person outside
my family who looked up to me, who listened to me, who let me be in charge. Nearly all of the games Marla and I played were about sex. We had no
way of knowing then how many other little girls around the country (and the
world, I suspect) also were using their dolls to enact those mysterious,
hazy-sounding rituals they would one day be required to participate in, and
about which nobody was offering them any guidance. Mothers and fathers in the
Fifties rarely spoke to their children about sex; any knowledge we had was
from the streets, books, movies, and TV, and much of what we learned was
incorrect, sometimes hatefully so. We gleaned what we could from these
haphazard sources, and interpreted things selectively, as best we could. One of my favorite games was what we called The Bad Game, in which
Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie was raped. My impulses and passions were unbridled,
and as my own Jewish grandmother might have phrased it, I “didn’t know yet
from feminism.” I’d already seen a lot of movies and TV shows that glamourized violent, aggressive sex, during which the woman’s
protests were made light of, ignored, or used to turn the men on, never off. Forced sex seemed
romantic to me, like true love, almost. So why not include it in my own erotic games? I was too young to
comprehend the horror of rape. Here’s how The Bad Game went: the plastic,
roly-poly, mustached doll with the tassled hat and
bobbing head (whom I’d named Olive Tit, to symbolize his dark sexual nature,
and because I loved to say that naughty word—”tit”—aloud) threw Lucy-Chiquita
Fake Barbie down to the ground, forcing his way on top of her. (I wanted,
always, to be the one who was violated; it was more arousing and exciting for
me, difficult as it is now for me to remember those feelings. But I refuse to
measure or judge the child I was then by the adult I am today.) “No, no!” I would scream as Lucy-Chiquita. “Come on, you know you want it!” Marla, playing Olive Tit, sneered. I screamed my most terrified-sounding “feminine” scream, while she
laughed her most contemptuous, angry, “virile” laugh. The sex itself was brief and vague, since we didn’t really understand
what went where, and how. We’d both heard the term “erection” and had some
notion that a man’s penis grew to the size of a boa constrictor during sex,
but that didn’t seem very romantic—or even logistically possible—so we just
raced through, each of us gasping “Oh! Oh!” once or twice. Afterward, Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie fled from Olive Tit. I pictured
her sobbing as she ran, her frizzy pony-tail flying, her heart broken. It was
such a romantic image for me that I nearly swooned. Still, it was too late for Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie in one crucial way.
She always got pregnant during The
Bad Game, which led to another favorite: The Birth Game, in which she gave
birth to a premature baby. Why a premature baby as
opposed to a full-term baby? Because I imagined them as especially adorable,
pushy, brazen little brats emerging too early from their mothers’ wombs,
wreaking a fetching “I Love Lucy” kind of havoc on everyone from day one. Just
as I didn’t comprehend the horror of rape, I didn’t comprehend the potential
tragedy of premature birth. So I insisted to Marla that her cupid-mouthed, curly-haired, baby doll
(fortunately purchased by her mother at a toy store on Frequently, Marla and I charged admission (usually ten cents, sometimes
less, sometimes more, depending on our mood) to the other kids in the
projects to come witness the birth of Premature Baby. The kids gathered
around us in the alley behind our building, clapping their hands and
shrieking “Yeah! Yeah!” during the birth scene. We made good money, too, enough to buy boxes of Raisinettes,
which were my favorite candy, and Ju-Jubes, which
were Marla’s, and a few neon-colored yo-yos for days when we wanted to play
other games besides our Sex-Doll Games. During the birth, Marla was allowed to hold Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie,
because naturally I wanted to play the role of Premature Baby. Marla was
supposed to hold Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie very still, in a prone position. Her
legs didn’t spread much, but that didn’t matter to us since, just as we
didn’t really understand what happened during intercourse, we didn’t really
understand the true physical nature of giving birth. First, I hung back while Marla held Lucy still for as long as she and
the kids in the audience could tolerate, which was probably all of ten
seconds. Then Marla cried out, “Ouch! What’s happening??”,
trying to appear in desperate pain. This was my cue to run forward, baby doll
in hand, shoving Premature Baby at Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie. When I was certain that everyone appreciated the drama of the moment, I
took on Premature Baby’s voice—loud, bratty, nasal—and sang an original song
whose melody was some combination of Ricky Ricardo’s “Babaloo”
and “Hound Dog”: “I’m a Premature Baby!
I’m A’ Comin’ Out! And I Like It!” Finally, to show
the birth was complete, I held Premature Baby aloft, wiggling her around in a
manic, hula-type dance. And then the four of us—me, Marla, and the two dolls—would take our
bows, milking the moment for all it was worth, bowing as many times as we
could before our audience lost interest and began to disperse. Once Marla suggested we also let the other kids pay to witness The Bad
Game. “No,” I was adamant. “That’s private, special.” “Why?” Marla asked. “Why is it more private and special than The Birth
Game?” I was surprised that she was questioning me. “It just is. It’s much worse.” That still
didn’t satisfy her. “Because there’s fucking
in it, Marla!” That did it. She understood. I was certain I was right, that The Bad Game was too precious, and
possibly too dangerous, to reveal—despite the fact that if we charged
admission to it, I’d be able to buy even more boxes of those delicious,
chewy, chocolate Raisinettes. But what if one of
the other kids told their parents about it? What if their parents told my parents? I could explain The Birth
Game, I was sure, by comparing it to my own “pushy” birth in the taxicab en
route to the hospital (a story my mother frequently told, sometimes with a
degree of pride, more often with despair), but I could never explain to my parents how arousing and exciting I found The
Bad Game. (I may not have understood what rape really was, but I did know
that Marla and I were definitely transgressing, going into territory where “good
girls” didn’t go. My parents were progressive about politics, but they sure
weren’t progressive about sex, and I rightly sensed that my irreverent and
bawdy side wasn’t their ideological cup of tea.) Another facet of these games that was especially exciting to me was the
roller-coaster relationship between Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie and Real Barbie.
Sometimes in the aftermath of The Bad Game, for instance, I made sure that
Marla’s Real Barbie was kind and loving to my Fake Barbie. “Poor thing,” she
would say, holding Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie in her arms and comforting her
as only a best friend could. “There, there…let it all out….” But at other times, Real Barbie spoke harshly. “You should have known
better than to let Olive Tit get near you. You deserve what you got! You’re a
fool and a tramp.” (“Tramp” was another word that both Marla and I loved to
say.) “Liar!” Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie shouted back, drying her wet eyes,
flinging herself on top of Real Barbie and pummeling her. “Cat fight! Cat fight!” Marla and I screamed delightedly in unison,
while our dolls pulled each other’s hair and clawed each other with their
long, sharp, painted fingernails. Although Real Barbie’s fingernails were
longer, sharper, and painted a much prettier shade of pink, Lucy-Chiquita
Fake Barbie always won. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Real Barbie said, weeping as she acknowledged
defeat. “It’s not enough to say you’re sorry,” Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie
insisted. “You have to take back everything you said!” “You’re not a fool, you’re not a tramp, and you didn’t deserve
it!” Real Barbie continued to weep; her voice broke. “That’s right. I’m not. I didn’t.” And even that wasn’t enough for me
and Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie. “What are you?”
we asked, eager for this final victory. “I’m a bitch.” “What kind of bitch?” “A rich bitch, a rich bitch!” Together, Marla, Real Barbie, Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie, and I all
chanted, I’m a rich bitch! I’m a rich
bitch!, eventually singing the
words to the tune of The Premature Baby Song. “I forgive you, and we’ll be best friends forever,” Lucy-Chiquita Fake
Barbie and I finally said, revealing our magnanimous, gracious, essentially “better”
natures once more. “Best friends forever and ever,” Marla echoed. Real Barbie and Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie kissed and made up, and Marla
and I linked pinkies, our special signal to each other that our friendship,
like that of the dolls, would be eternal. But eternity lasted less than another full year: Marla’s father
received a major promotion at work, moving his family out of the projects and
into the suburbs almost before the ink was dry on his first larger paycheck. I
was left behind, standing in the alley behind our building where once Marla
and I had charged admission to The Birth Game, clutching Lucy-Chiquita Fake
Barbie, watching the moving van take Marla and Real Barbie away from me
forever, and whispering fiercely, “We’re better,
better, better!” I didn’t see or hear from Marla again (she never phoned or wrote),
although I wrote her two long letters, causing me to have many fantasies in
which I imagined her turning into a Rich Bitch, dressing in sedate plaid
skirts and loafers, playing only the safest, most conventional games with her
Real Barbie inside the cozy shelter of Barbie’s Dream House. Then years later, when we were in our early twenties, we recognized one
another immediately on a street corner in the East 50s. My fantasies had come
too true: her hair was dyed platinum blonde; her lips and nails both colored
a matching, frosted, pale pink, and she wore a modest, pastel-pink pants suit,
just a shade lighter than her lips and cheeks. My brother’s old phrase came
immediately to mind: Oh my, it’s Miss
Constipated! We kissed and hugged. “Marla! I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed. Bitch, I thought, you never called, you never wrote. Was I imagining it or was she
wrinkling her nose at my nearly-waist length, wavy hair, my embroidered
Mexican peasant blouse, and my dangling, noisy, silver bell earrings? “I’m engaged,” Marla informed me, even before asking how I was. She
showed me her glittering ring. “That’s great,” I said, hoping my voice reflected my insincerity. She’s so straight, I thought, so boring. “Let’s have lunch,” she said, her voice
equally false. I agreed, knowing it would never happen. How,
I wondered, as she and I kissed and hugged goodbye, had my childhood best
friend from the Gun Hill Projects turned into this woman? Where was the
little girl with whom I’d been so wicked? This woman with her dyed hair and
tepid clothing was not someone I was at all drawn to. Although I felt guilty
for judging her so harshly after only five minutes, I couldn’t help it. I also couldn’t help but realize—with a fierce clarity—as she and I
parted to go our separate ways (she to shop at Saks’ for a bridal shower gift
for a friend, and me home after a day teaching writing to high school
students, to the one-bedroom apartment I was subletting over McCann’s bar, a
block from Grand Central Station) how much I prided myself on still being a
lot like both Lucy-Chiquita Fake Barbie and Premature Baby: determined and
willful, a little bit sassy and saucy at times, and yes, perhaps even
irascible and volatile at others, wreaking some “I Love Lucy”-type havoc here
and there—no longer by playing sexually charged games with dolls on the
project grounds, but by becoming a writer, writing stories that conformed to
nobody’s rules but my own passionate and irreverent ones. And by not denying
or rejecting, then or now (20 years since that meeting with Marla), my own
past in the projects, and my own childhood games. |
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Arts & Letters is supported by |
Arts & Letters Journal of Contemporary Culture Campus Box 89 Georgia College & State University Milledgeville, GA
31061 Phone: (478) 445-1289 E-mail: al@gcsu.edu
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GC&SU is a member of |
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