Ode to Betty

I recently came across an album of old photos. Actually, that’s a lie. I was procrastinating and on my way to the kitchen for about the seventh time in one hour I saw the shelf where these photos have been my entire life and jumped at the chance to peruse them (it was surely a necessity to examine my own past before even attempting an essay on gender and identity).

And then I saw her.

Not the best photo but, as far as I can establish, the only one that exists. She was my first ‘Barbie’ and her name was Betty. She wasn’t a “real” Barbie in that she wasn’t created by Mattel, but she was the first such doll I ever had. She wasn’t made out of the glossy and solid plastic ‘real’ Barbies are, and she only had two or three outfits, but I loved her with all my heart. She had brown hair (like mine) and wasn’t what one might call beautiful (again, I identified with her) but she was fancy and she was mine.

During the summer holiday before I went to "big school" my parents and I went on a roadtrip up the coast. We stopped for lunch along the way and requested a table for four (for, of course, Betty had to have her own place setting). We had a tasty meal and went on our way and it wasn’t until hours later when we were hundreds of kilometres away that I realised I had left Betty behind.

I was devastated.

My mother comforted me and said that another little girl had found her and given her a good home. Also, that, although Betty was sad to leave me, she would always love and remember me. I don’t know how my mother knew this, but she knew everything then (mos), and I was just glad she was safe.

Soon after this I got a replacement Barbie. She was blonde, tanned and attired in a cowgirl outfit with long pink boots that were made for her feet (which were only suited for high heels). She was glamorous, to be sure. But she wasn’t Betty. New Barbie (whose name changed so frequently that I don’t associate her with any name in particular) was followed by others, including a Ken who had to double as both father and husband to the others (no mean feat for one clad only in lifesaver short-shorts and a gold mesh vest). But although they’re all still around, albeit packed away in a box someplace, none of them ever took Betty’s place in my heart.

When they fell I wouldn’t run to pick them up and kiss them better. They didn’t accompany me around the house like Betty did, nor did I feel the need to take them with me to school every now and then when I was feeling sad or scared.

I’ll never forget Betty because she was much more to me than a toy. She was a friend. I wonder if children today ever feel the same attachment towards a particular toy. Imagination is not exactly something that is encouraged in an age when one’s profit can be multiplied by creating every ‘must-have’ accessory under the sun to make the experience of the toy “complete”.

I remember a time when you didn’t need to “catch them all” or have it all.

When imagination took us everywhere and Betty was the most beautiful because she was mine.

When no one else’s approval mattered.

I remember when she was mine.