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 I was truly
startled by the press statement that spilled from the mouth
of the latest Miss United States to roll off the assembly
line of the feminine dream.
Miss US heralded the globe with the disclosure that her
virginity is intact. This was not only marvelous news,
but innovative advance marriage marketing. While watching
her mouth opening and closing on my TV screen - I was
eating so had to mute the sound - I was struck by the
striking resemblance to Barbie, the queen doll of dolls.
I wondered if Miss US had bonded with Barbie instead of
female adults and subsequently grew up not understanding
that plastic is man made. Beauty queens resemble pretty
little girls living a perpetual childhood, a sort of genetic
mutation of Cinderella and Snow White, lost dreamily in
Wonderland waiting for some rich old prince to pull out
his credit card and stick his tongue down her collective
throat. In that order. While she waits for maturity, every
Miss World wannabe dresses up in designer clothes to parade
her wares. Fortunately the press is right there representing
her and her fashion entourage in promoting the idea of
women as a marketable commodity. Not known for their political
acumen, these little princesses seize opportunities to
travel, and can create mayhem in Muslim countries such
as Nigeria, although charmingly of course.
Reality role modeling is important for little girls who
need to identify with actual life experiences. They also
need to know how to spot the Ken's of this world who can
disappear faster than you can say 'incubator' when that
smooth, plastic, perpetual little-girl body begins to
swell. That's right Barbie, little princesses blow up
when they enter the complex world of adulthood without
proper preparation. Girls who are raised without the information
they require for their own protection, find their lives
can turn to cinders when mother nature makes an unexpected
appearance. I met the real Barbie once. We came face to
face, in a toy aisle. I had avoided her for years, suspicious
of her wily ways with little girls, the enticing and seductive
mind altering effect she could have, her dazzling array
of designer clothing and fabulous adult accessories. Barbie
was presented as the ultimate in role playing, the girl
you give to every girl who must learn passivity along
with the value of being a marketable commodity. At first
glance Barbie seemed harmless enough although on closer
inspection it was obvious that she had less than the basic
requirements to function normally. Barbie had skipped
a messy babyhood and gone directly to a precocious adolescence
complete with a romantic interest - yes, I met Ken, her
smug male equivalent, the kind of man no real woman would
introduce to her daughter. Ken was preparing to jump out
of an airplane in skydiving gear - while the shop assistant
was distracted, I disconnected his parachute. Barbie was
presented as a smirking, sanitized doormat of a male fantasy.
Shallow and vain and self absorbed, a dormant woman in
waiting, who would need that magical kiss or an electric
charge to jump-start her brain. Barbie and Ken have no
embarrassing orifices in their smoooooth, plastic bodies
that do not need sustenance of any kind apart from regular
shopping sprees to add to their accessories and make their
wealthy parents even richer. This gave me an idea.
After years of experimentation I have finally perfected
the antidote to Barbie, a throw-away-mom doll patented
under the Baby Breeder label. BB is not programmed to
observe the calendar to identify crucial dates. Real life
fertility catches up with her. After all, there's a demand
for adoptable babies, and those familiar with market forces
fully understand that a commercial demand inevitably requires
a supply in order for business to function. Infertility
is the demand, fertility the supply and North American
adoption is big, big business.
BB has a blow up uterus that expands with an unplanned
pregnancy and collapses after childbirth into wrinkly
folds. Ankles that rise and fall with medical problems
associated with toxemic blood pressure caused by stress
and malnutrition. A range of budget maternity clothes
color coordinated to harmonize with PTSD for bad days,
and an entourage of self-appointed adoption specialists.
Her very own social worker, to be her close companion
before the birth. Her very own psychiatrist for afterwards.
She comes with a 'choice' of course - between a spooky
old mansion where women just like her were traditionally
hidden away by their parents, or its custom built modern
equivalent, cunningly operated to ensure she leaves by
herself. A social worker and lawyer guard her mind and
emotions in case BB gets any dangerously psychotic ideas
such as keeping her baby, for instance. BB moans and groans
in labor but is strangely silent afterwards. She has eyes
that weep real tears and a heart that cracks and beats
erratically whenever she hears a baby cry. Lifelike breasts
that ooze replica milk at around feeding time. Don't you
just love a sacrifice?
Naturally, BB owns a boutique web shop that sells a wide
range of pharmaceuticals for anxiety, depression and insomnia
induced by watching the extensive adoption video library.
Accessories include a pretty pill box for the impressive
array of amnesiac medications BB will need after the birth
when the baby is taken away. I am delighted to announce
that a major drug company is keen to help develop realistic
products - sweet little tablets in pink and white, including
some to make her forget - er, otherwise she won't feel
like shopping. A razor blade for those down days when
BB will wish to end it all or self-mutilate in a blaze
of self-hatred induced by all that internalized oppression.
Velcro's smiles to hide her shocked, dazed expression,
an 'after adoption' wardrobe designed to conceal the stretch
marks, one piece bathing suits, you get the idea. But
you won't need to feed her - BB has lost her appetite.
There is nothing planned for the babe nor will BB be
allowed access to the web address of the wealthy strangers
who adopt her child. After all, the anonymity of adoptive
parents must be maintained in keeping with that fine North
American tradition of compassion, truth and justice, so
in harmony with forged birth registrations and throw away
mothers. BB is alone. Her boyfriend remains a frustratingly
vague young man and a major marketing problem - all I
have on the drawing board so far are the rubber tire tracks
he left on BB's parents driveway when she broke the bad
news, and the unused condom that accidentally slipped
behind the seat of his car. Maybe it was Ken! But commercial
opportunities are endless. There is a huge, truly innovative
company named Hallmark currently littering the US with
syrupy adoption cards. I am trying to contact Hallmark
executives to interest them in an exciting joint venture
for the production of my unique, creative range of special
occasion cards. I have Get Lost greetings to send to throw-away-moms
when they sign adoption consent, as well as humorous Sucker
Occasion cards for adoptive parents to mail out to their
very own baby breeding incubator when she finally gets
the joke - that the 'open' adoption they promised was
only ever intended as a prank. Hmmm - BB will need a post
box and a briefcase for her cards. And Hallmark is just
begging for a boycott. There is nothing so effective as
a drop in sales to bring business to its senses.
Gosh, I almost forgot BB's most realistic feature. She
is designed to have reality blood drip through a tiny
tube cunningly concealed inside her arms, and wrists that
bleed. Don't forget to pop those razor blades and bandages
into the shopping cart to ensure that she has everything
a throw-away-mother in exile will need to help her get
by. My dream is that BB will be every bit as popular as
Barbie - and that every little princess will have one.
Voices From Exile April 2003 "The Baby Breeding Doll"
Copyright © 2003 Joss Shawyer
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