For Lisa and Barbie
When thoughts of Barbie invite themselves into my head these days; without hesitation, I eagerly express my early childhood captivation and love I had for that 11 ½ -inch, sophisticate.
As a very young boy, the implication to me and those who dare queried, was as follows: Little boys play with G.I Joe dolls and little girls play with Barbie dolls. No doubt, this commandment was carved in stone long, long ago. I even had tried to follow this law of the land; however, I could never have imagined the conflict which lay before me. As good fortune would soon come my way one early summer day, my family had moved into our new house on Carraway Court, in Norfolk, Va. I was hardly of age to offer any reasonable help with the move, when my mother encouraged me to go introduce myself to the little girl who lived just two doors away.
As I skipped barefoot across the gravel-paved cul-de-sac, I not only soon was to learn about the little girl; I was also to learn how bloody and skinned down to the bone ones toe knuckles would become if one chose to skip so shoeless and oh, so carefree on said kind of pavement.
There I stood at the foot of her sidewalk when heading towards the front door of her house when this young girl who suddenly swung open, with all of her might, the storm door open and leapt onto the sidewalk below. She galloped towards me with a Mr. Pibb , sugar-induced fervor. Sticking out her hand, she introduced herself. "Hi, I’m Lisa Pryor." While I took notice of her two blue eyeballs and long, thick, blond hair; she yelped, "What’s your name?" "Mark," I said with a hint of awkwardness. I wasn’t sure what to say after ‘Mark.’ Did I even have a second name to even say? It made no difference either way as I now recall the beginning stages of our childhood affair. Neither of us having the capacity to realize the adventures which lay ahead of us.
Shortly after our initial meeting, I learned Lisa owned the latest and what seemed to be the most sought after "Barbie" collection in all the land. Now, I must suggest the idea of love at first sight I experienced that day when Lisa showed me several dolls and how one goes about accessorizing them.
Her dolls were dressed in the latest and most fashionable clothing of 1975. Clothing such as: Sportswear, swimwear and what mother might've called "piss-elegant" formal evening gowns. So handy was her clothing and so ready to outfit Barbie. The love I felt burgeoned each time we played with her collection of dolls. Oh, what a gas it was when Lisa allowed me to dress Barbie with my very own hands. I reached into clothing box where I would choose the green platform shoes and a kelly-green two-piece jumper. This would be casual and comfortable, still highlighting her very much alive schoolgirl charm. This would be perfect for her much anticipated date with Ken to Ocean View Amusement Park. I then pulled the tiniest, whitest sports mini, lined with dual navy blue stripes, stitched along the bottom of its hemline. Yes, this would be worn for Saturday’s tennis date. She would play several matches with Ken, his new boss and his boss’s wife. She’ll stun them, undoubtedly.
As our playtime with her dolls grew overtime, I began to see not only Barbie’s outer beauty, but I soon was able to see her inner beauty as well. So much more beautiful was Barbie when one day while perusing through our new Sears & Roebuck catologue, I started comparing her to the latest bevy of barnyard animals; pitifully prancing and posing in their milled-oats, feedbag attire. They hardly had an ounce of Barbie’s glamour and poise. Yes, fearful the Sears & Roebuck people must have been to have Barbie and her friends’ pictures take over the first if not the entire book, I claimed. They were afraid she’d disgrace all of its so-called glamour girls. That must've been the reason Barbie, along with her friends had been placed in the latter part of their catologue. She was no longer a toy to me. How dare Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck place her pictures last?
Christmas ’76 was soon to be come; yet a Barbie or my new, second love a "Cher:" doll, I never was to receive. When earlier in December, the dolls I one day witnessed, were to be packed in a cardboard box, stuffed with crumpled newspapers; Address: Miss Lena-Louise Brown, Anchorage, Alaska. One whole month before Christmas, I remembered. I couldn’t understand how I even helped mother do this. I hadn’t the courage to shout from the top of my lungs what I wished I could’ve said right then and there: "Mama, please don’t!" It’s me. I’m the one that truly wants the very two things you’re about to ship millions of miles away. Your snotty-nosed three-year old niece hasn’t a clue of how amazing and talented both Cher and Barbie really are!" This was well said to myself as the box was soon packed and taped tightly soon mailed to a piled-high land of snow-two of my then most treasured dolls.
Christmas day arrived and I overheard the most distressing, yet expected news from my Aunt Patty. Lena-Louise, the little shit, had dropped Cher on the hot furnace grate in the hallway. Her melting face, I imagined had dripped away into the bowels of the furnace, leaving only a few strands of her jet-black hair singed and wilted. I’m sure that little strumpet would soon discover a pair scissors from her mother’s sewing kit. She’ll think it’s time to give Barbie a haircut. Every lock of her beautiful hair will be shorn. The scalping of Barbie left me ill and filled with the desire to one day, tear loose and strangle her with my bare hands. She’d then endure the same torment she’d inflicted upon the two, most important dolls of my youth. I’d see to it.
I was go to Lisa’s house that Christmas day, there I’d be able to drown my sorrows. I allowed myself into the living-room, as Lisa shouted for me to come to the kitchen. There placed on the Lazy Susan dinette was what appeared to be the decapitated head of a rather life-sized head of Barbie. I quickly forgot about my sadness and hopped into the chair next to Lisa. How wonderful it was to know little girls, like my friend Lisa, to be so fortunate enough to have received own one of these for Christmas. While admiring the head of Barbie, I was soon honored with painting her lips in glitter-dusted red lipstick. My troubles were all but dissipating as we began to apply with great care: sea-blue eye-shadow, the lipstick I noticed it sparkling in the light. We paid close attention while trailing our fingers down the nape of Barbie's neck. Such shimmering blond hair as we noticed how it was plugged into her scalp with just enough space between each tiny hole for us to gather each strand of hair with our nimble fingers. Oh how we loved curling, braiding, even pinning it high atop her head just in time for Barbie’s New Year’s Eve Disco Soiree. We encouraged Ken to be prompt when picking her up that evening.
Throughout my primary years, Lisa and I played endlessly up in her family’s attic. Barbie even sat next to me when we played school. This was sanctuary to me. It was a safe play-space where rude and hostile remarks were forbidden. Not a single " Sissy" or "Momma’s boy" would be tolerated up there. Lisa, always ready to serve anyone who dared go against this rule, a fat-lip and/or a scratched-out eyeball. Why, I even learned some new, four- letter words, one day when her older brother tried to intrude in the middle of our spelling lesson. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but they sounded dangerous and deadly. She was there to protect me for all sakes and purposes. I toyed with the idea that one day I’d have to one day take care of myself.
Well, what was I to do with regards to this idea that boys couldn’t play with Barbie or any girl’s doll for that matter? I finally realized several years ago, upon entering my adult years and thinking back to the few times I had held a G.I Joe doll in my hands while playing with my cousin Dale and his G.I Joe. His doll was suited up in a butch, camouflage jacket. His pants were noticeably, hugged to his ass-cheeks, while the legs of the pants were stuffed into each of his black paratrooper boots. Every piece of clothing snugly fit G.I. Joe's sculpted muscular body. Suddenly, it dawned on me. The G.I Joe dolls made me horny and Barbie’s sole purpose in my life was therapy-hand-held therapy.
My entitlement had allowed me to brush, comb and sometimes give her the ultimate look for the ‘70’s and beyond. I had done this all in secret until one day felt it no longer necessary for my therapy seemed to conclude itself.
My family has long since moved away to eastern North Carolina, and I’ve lost contact with Lisa. Last I heard, she still lives in Norfolk, Va., a street over from where we once lived. I hear she has three children, who probably aren’t children, anymore. Every year on her birthday, August 13th, I think of her and wonder will we ever cross paths again. I even wonder about her collection of Barbies and does she still hold onto them.
As for me, it’s well known how things turned out for me am happy to report I turned out pretty well. Barbie was there for me and nowadays I dare anyone to say anything disparaging towards me about our past for I’ll be ready to show them all what I learned from Lisa and my days spent on Carraway Court.
The End.
I wrote this back in 2005 for a college class..
it went over rather well and the professor read it aloud to us.. and I've just recently discovered her.. we've been emailing back and forth. I even have a recent pic of her. You'll see her now as Lisa Clayton my Facebook site.
Peace
Mark Hardison East Village, NYC.
