For three months in third grade, I was the most popular girl in my class. My dad had returned from a big city business trip with Barbie dolls, the first in our small town. All the girls wanted to play with my doll. It was thrilling to be in the in group, but after Christmas everyone had dolls of their own and I was relieved to disengage from the Barbie Fan Club. I tried to see what they liked so much about her, but her caricature figure confined to a lifetime in high heels seemed silly to me.
The drive to fit in begins at birth. In America it fuels our economy. Parents strive to provide their children the latest clothes and toys, the right schools and neighborhoods. Children quickly learn what is in and what is not. They hang upside down on monkey bars trying to stretch, diet or spend hours perfecting their cosmetic masks. Everyone is confused and hurt when parents scrimp and save for the latest fad only to be met with wails of anguish when it is the wrong brand; or a birthday party invitation is suddenly revoked or refused by parental directive because the invitation was from or to a child not in the acceptable social class.
But I was lucky, I was given a Barbie doll. After the initial infatuation dissipated I began to feel the exhaustion, the boredom of trying to fit in where there was no fit. Slowly I learned for myself who I was, my passions and dislikes. I learned to live within my own skin. I learned that life was never dull, never stagnate, if I was willing to share my life with people and ideas that I didn’t always agree with.
