Barbie's Dreamland needs Ken after all

My talking Ken doll took a tumble.

He'd arrived at my childhood home safely enough, snuggly encased in a Mattel box. He also arrived with instructions about how not to yank too hard on the cord that controlled his speech at the back of his plastic neck.

Didn't matter. And I don't remember what phrases he'd been programmed to say.

Shortly after he joined my Barbie, Ken was unceremoniously decapitated and tossed down the basement steps through the rambunctious and sometimes violent play of a boy. That would be my older brother, the younger one of two boys in our family.

Ken never spoke again. Nor did he get much playtime after that rather rude introduction to my young world.

I'm sure there was a moment of horror upon discovering Ken's plight.

But any anger was more toward well-scripted sibling rivalries, expectations of what was "my" toys versus my brothers' toys.

I don't recall being all that upset. So maybe it's Ken who deserves my apology, albeit a few decades later.

Like a lot of women, I've been revisiting these long-forgotten memories of youth. The tremendous hype around the new Barbie movie has dredged up a lot for many women.

The promoters of the movie pitched it to women who either adored or despised what was then a remarkable entry into the land of dolls, a plaything that wasn't a baby doll but a grown woman.

The fact that her proportions were physically impossible to obtain never crossed my mind. Barbie was cool because my doll had dark hair like my own and she had a wide range of accessories, from cars to her own "Dreamhouse." Although I didn't own those extras for her, perhaps making her and me lower middle class. She was an aspirational Barbie.