How Black Barbie Influenced Me

While I’ve told the story of how my aunt Phyllis gave me my very first best friend, and written about my aunt Cissy taking me to the doll museum, I don’t think I’ve ever shared how I thought my aunt Carolyn was the inspiration for the first Black Barbie. Nor have I shared the profound impact owning a Black Barbie had on me as a young girl. In honor of the newly released Black Barbie: A Documentary, I’m excited to share my story.

It was the mid-seventies, early eighties, most of the dolls we were played with were white, it wasn’t really something that we talked about, it just was… That being said, my mom did buy Black dolls when they were available. We had the Black ballerina doll with the pretty little pink crown that you pushed down to make her dance and we had little black babies that we fed bottles that magically emptied when you turned them upside down, but, like most little girls, we wanted Barbies. Or, at least, I wanted Barbies.

I can’t remember exactly when I received my first Barbie, I do remember that she was white. Again, it wasn’t a big deal, that’s just what they were selling. And I adored her. I’d make her dance around the house with my Shaun Cassidy doll {I was not a Ken fan, but The Hardy Boys? swoon}. Barbie lived out my fantasies, solving crimes with Ken while traveling through our house in their little van. sigh, the memories

Still, there was something missing, I just didn’t know what it was.

It was Christmas morning, and I was about 7 or 8 years old, so naturally I went for that rectangular box first. I knew it was another Barbie. As I tore off the wrapping paper, I gasped – it was a Black Barbie! Her short curly Afro framed a Mahogany face, her body was enveloped in a sparkly red dress with a gold collar. She had the cutest little button nose and full red lips. I had never seen anything so glamorous, except perhaps my aunt.

My aunt, Carolyn, with my sisters and me. I don’t have a copy of THE picture, so this’ll have to do.

Earlier that year, my aunt Carolyn, stationed with the Army in Japan, sent my mom a photo of herself dressed up to go out for the night: her sandy brown hair shaped into a stylish afro, perfectly arched brows framing eyes rimmed in charcoal liner and blue shadow, her broad smile accentuated by dark red lipstick. She wore a fitted, deep blue one-shouldered dress and black pumps, with tons of gold bracelets on one wrist. She looked fly. I thought she was the epitome of style, and I just knew I was going to grow up and have that same flare.

My aunt was Black Barbie. Even now, at 51 years old, I refuse to believe any differently.

Black Barbie’s Influence on Me

Black Barbie was the most glamorous doll I’d ever seen. Black or white. And, most importantly, she wasn’t a “friend of Barbie’s,” she was Barbie. She carried the name “Barbie.” Names are important. Take this from someone who has a difficult to pronounce name.

As a child, I watched in awe as Black Barbie, the epitome of glamour, proudly sported her natural afro. For too long, Black women had been told that their unprocessed hair was unprofessional and unfashionable. Yet, here was the quintessential fashion icon, rocking her short, curly tresses with confidence. Seeing this representation was eye-opening for me, a young girl whose own natural hair was meticulously styled by my mother. Barbie’s unapologetic embrace of her roots later gave me the courage to do the same, proving that I too could look fabulous while celebrating my natural beauty.

Limelight Barbie by Byron Lars

Cinnabar Sensation by Byron Lars

“Dark-skinned girls shouldn’t wear bright colors, especially not red.” I cannot count the number of times I heard that growing up. And, while those comments weren’t directed at me, I heard them said to other little Black girls and it pissed me off. I always thought brown-skinned girls looked stunning in colors — the brighter the better. And Black Barbie proved it.

I vividly remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, running my fingers across the sparkly red dress. I was captivated by the gleaming gold collar, thinking I had never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful. The vibrant crimson hue stood out against Barbie’s warm, chocolate-brown skin. In that moment, I knew I would always embrace the power of color. And one day, if I had children of my own, no matter their complexion, I would dress them in the most vibrant, joyful colors I could find. And I did.

Owning a Black Barbie doll instilled in me a profound sense of pride and self-affirmation, a powerful message that the standard white Barbie could never convey. It celebrated the inherent beauty and glamour of Black women, for which I am forever grateful to designer Kitty Black Perkins, Mattel workers Beulah Mae Mitchell and Stacey McBride-Irby, and the countless other Black women who inspired Black Barbie. Seeing Black Barbie move in the same space as white Barbie: doctor, lawyer, friend, astronaut, etc. let me and countless other little Black girls know that we could be anything we wanted to be.

A Special Thank You

I need to give a special thank you to my kid, Symone, for taking the amazing Barbie pictures for this post. These two dolls now live with her and served as the inspiration for her latest photo shoot, which you can see here and here.

About Black Barbie: A Documentary

Our documentary celebrates the momentous impact three Black women at Mattel had on the evolution of the Barbie brand as we know it. Through these charismatic insiders’ stories, the documentary tells the story of how the first Black Barbie came to be in 1980, examining the importance of representation and how dolls can be crucial to the formation of identity and imagination.

— Black Barbie: A Documentary

MY THOUGHTS

For years, I’ve known about Kitty Black Perkins, the designer of Black Barbie. However, I was unaware of Beulah Mae Mitchell and Stacey McBride-Irby, and the integral roles they played in Mattel’s creation of Black Barbie. The documentary explores their stories, as well as those of contemporary actresses, models, mothers, and their daughters, to examine the impact of Barbie, especially Black Barbie, on their lives and the importance of representation.

Documentarian Lagueria Davis was unaware of her family’s role in the creation of Black Barbie, which she discovered while producing the documentary – learning her own family’s legacy and the history of Black Barbie alongside the viewer. Her aunt, Beulah Mae Mitchell, was a long-time Mattel employee and avid doll collector. Hearing Ms. Mitchell’s insights on her relationship with Mattel co-founder and Barbie creator, Ruth Handler, was fascinating. According to the documentary, Ms. Handler asked several employees what Mattel could do to make the company better and Ms. Mitchell and Ms. McBride-Irby responded something to the effect “We want a Black Barbie.”

If you get the chance to watch the documentary, I hope you do so. It’s worth the watch and would make for an interesting discussion for people interested in history and pop culture.

THANK YOU

Thank you for stopping by my blog. I hope you enjoyed this post and learned something new. If you like what you read, please consider sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter. You can also share on Pinterest. While I pay for many of the items I share on this blog out of my own pocket, some items are gifted to me {I always disclose those items}.

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