Smart Skipper

My older sister Marie and I loved to play Barbies—but only with each other. We had an extensive collection between the two of us and had orchestrated a world so intricately webbed that no one else could possibly understand the backstory enough to participate. Each Barbie, Ken, or Skipper variation was assigned to his or her own family, and each family had its own home in one of many book shelves we had re-gentrified into make-shift apartments.

Having been steeped in Disney fairy tales our whole lives, the concept of democracy was not yet at the forefront of our consciousness—so naturally, “Barbieland” was an absolute monarchy. The Royal Family had permanent dibs on the one true “Barbie Townhouse” sanctioned by Mattel, that came with matching late ‘70s furniture and a functioning elevator you could lift and lower on a tiny delicate string like a set of blinds permanently lodged in a plastic elevator shaft. Close relatives of the royal nucleus were bequeathed whatever other pieces of Barbie-sized furniture we’d acquired over the years, while the majority of the homes were furnished with “futons” deftly fashioned from our mom’s pillow cases and whatever other random household scraps we could imagine into furniture—spools of thread for stools, wooden blocks stolen from younger siblings for tables, glass paperweights as fine art pieces for the more well-to-do of the Barbie set. The one car in the kingdom was a metallic pink Corvette, exclusively available to the Royal Family. The unfortunate 99% were relegated to tool around single-file in a ballet flat, jelly shoe, or loafer, models subject to availability based on the season and whatever style that year of our childhood allowed us to have on hand.

The Royal Family was solely composed of the Malibu Barbie line, the type of bronzed and bikini-clad pedigree that would later inspire the ire of women’s groups the world over. But this was the ‘80s and no one really saw a problem yet with Barbie’s impossible body measurements or the fact that her rubber foot conformed only to the scale-equivalent of 3-inch heels. It was also customary, back in that era of our childhood, for parents and relatives to get Marie and I two of the same doll in the attempt to avoid fights over Mattel’s newest adaptation of something we already owned 40 different versions of.

The Malibu line was apparently introduced in waves--Marie’s set was decidedly more vintage, while mine was more “Malibu 2.0”. To the casual observer, the differences between the two sets were insignificant and did not distract in the least from the overall still-life sample of Stepford wives, husbands, and baby sisters, poised to be posed in their tiny retro swimsuits on their pink pool and patio set (sold separately, of course). To purists and Barbie connoisseurs—along with former childhood collectors who tended to obsess over the slightest variations in coveted items of the opposite sibling--they were the “Sun-lovin’” Malibus (circa 1970-something) versus the “Sunsational” Malibus (clearly, 1980s). The Sun-Lovins came equipped with tiny sea green swimwear, a sassy beach tote, and microscopic aviator sunglasses that reflected just enough to either impress or frighten a child, depending on their reaction to the “funhouse mirror” quality of the image therein. They also featured the creepy extra of "peak-a-boo" tan lines, which meant they looked like they'd either been chemically burned under their bathing suits or had acquired flesh-colored tatoos, allowing them to look permanently suited for summer, even when naked. The “Sunsational” Malibus were more modestly attired in their maroon one-pieces and upper-thigh length swim trunks. Because reflective eye wear was, apparently, the distinctive mark of a Malibu resident, the “Sunsationals” also sported the obligatory aviators and came with a complimentary “beach towel”, more accurately described as a rectangular scrap of material that constantly curled toward the center from either side like a teri-cloth scroll. Any attempt to position a Malibu member on said "towel" was tantamount to the spectacle of a monkey attempting take liberties with a football.

Marie and I each had all the Barbie, Ken, and Skipper components to our respective Malibu crews, and they lived equally and harmoniously together in the royal quarters befitting their station. Somewhere in the annals of Barbieland history, it had been decreed that Marie’s Sun-lovin Barbie was technically the queen…The reasoning behind this was never spelled out in plain English, but one might suppose that Sunlovin's courage to wear that tiny two-piece (and brand her clan with peak-a-boo tan tatoos) had been sufficient show-of-force to quell any questions about her right to the throne. Besides, the Sunsationals were still “royal” and got to ride the townhouse elevator, so all was good in the ‘hood—equal, copacetic. Except…perhaps…when you consider that Marie's Sun-lovin Skipper was actually addressed by the kingdom as “Smart Skipper”, while my Sunsational Skipper was known to the masses by the unfortunate epithet, “Little Skipper”… It should be no surprise that Marie, of course, came up with those names—seizing, as almost any sibling would, even the most minute opportunity to assert some level of superiority or seniority. Marie probably assumed the term “Little” was benign enough that I wouldn’t take offense—and I didn’t, but mostly out of laziness. While I was technically “littler” than Marie by about 2-and-a-half years, I was still “big” enough to realize that both Skippers were patently identical in size—and that the opposite of “smart” was “dumb”.

But that was our deal. Marie was the boss and I played along. Her Skipper was smart and my Skipper was stupid—er, little. So what. We otherwise had a really good thing going and sometimes, that’s just what a relationship needs—somebody who’s willing to just say “OK” and move on. Winning even the tiniest of battles is simply more important to some, while preventing nuclear war (over Barbie dolls, no less) is more important to others. So we had a system that worked. She got a pliable playmate who was willing to bend the storyline in whatever direction she established, and I got an act to follow, an example to refer to, a detailed sketch of what was (or should be) coming next, not just in Barbieland, but in life.

Because of this arrangement, we developed (or I appropriated from her) a lot of the same interests. Drawing, piano, gymnastics, cheerleading… Whether she’d invited me to or not, I watched her, studied her, and then replicated her. There were times that my stalker-like mirroring openly bothered her—like when she announced in late elementary school that Madonna was her favorite singer and gave me a death stare that sucked the words “me too!” from my mouth before they were even uttered. But for the most part, she embraced it, taking time to show me how noses were easier to draw from the side, positioning my hands on the piano keys to let me play her favorite pieces even though I’d stubbornly refused to learn to read music, teaching me that “the right way” to do cartwheels was with the left leg (even though it was totally untrue), and over-prepping me for every cheerleading try-out from middle to high school.

In our relationship growing up, Marie was the tree-lined path, well-manicured and purposeful, extending steadfastly and infinitely into the distance no matter what type of new terrain it encountered. I was the thin plastic grocery bag, floating and floundering along, billowing up in response to positive outcomes and deflating in the face of adversity, but still drifting ultimately forward along the path provided for me--sometimes gracefully, ricocheting off the treeline as needed to right my course, other times grotesquely, struggling to escape unexpected entanglement on some low-hanging branch. We were always inherently different, but both benefited from a special understanding that can only be cultivated through such intimate involvement in the other’s personal journey. Marie delighted in the absurdity of my antics and the opportunity to keep me on the right path--and I relied on her direction and encouragement to propel me forward.

This unspoken contract between Marie and me was often misunderstood as a way for her to lord over me and kick me around. But she needed me. She’s a natural leader. She came out of the womb looking for someone to direct--and my parents were only going to put up with that for so long. When I burst onto the scene in 1979, she recognized her outlet right away and immediately began honing her leadership skills on a willing audience. And I needed her. Not just because she told me what to do, but because she celebrated what I did. When I excelled, no one was prouder than Marie, even if she had no hand in what I’d accomplished. Writing was the first and only thing I did without her for a very long time, and anything I shared with her was received with the type of fanfare reserved for Superbowl Champions and exuded by 11-year-olds at a One Direction concert. I wrote rambling volumes of a series called “The Little Genius” on that grayish lined paper from 2nd grade, with mid-line dashes and space for a picture at the top—and she brought every page to school to show her Language Arts teacher. Unless she was secretly turning those stories in for a grade…I know of no example in my own life where I’ve paid her a compliment equal in depth. In fact, for a long time, I was outrageously jealous of anything she had that I didn’t, that she could do but I couldn’t, that she’d accomplished but I had not.

Shortly before Easter the year I turned 5, Marie and I entered a coloring contest at a local drugstore. While I loved to write and color, my penmanship was always mildly suggestive of the stroke I may one day have when the Coors Light of my 20s (or the wine of middle age) finally catches up with me. My coloring was probably better than the handwriting that could never get me more than a B+ in Catholic school, but I was five. And Marie was just better at it. After we’d happily colored our drawings of the Easter Bunny and turned them in, I never considered that either of us would actually win—until Marie did and I was devastated—in the dejected and mournful way I regret to say I still feel whenever something isn’t easily accomplished on the very first try. Little did I know at that point in our sisterhood how many times Marie would genuinely promote and applaud my accomplishments--and what a little shit I was being by begrudging her the spoils of a drugstore coloring contest.

Now Marie and I are both adults with kids who will probably never touch a Barbie (unless it’s to look up her skirt). Marie’s still “smart”, but I’m no longer “little” and neither of us has been confused with a “Skipper” for at least 20 years. But if Marie was a Barbie at this point in life, what might she be? Physical Therapist Barbie, with an ice pack in one hand, her doctorate certificate in the other, and a recording of “Did you do those stretches I gave you?” to activate when you pull her ponytail? Culinary Barbie, with a baking dish full of spinach crepes and the full complement of dirty pots and pans she generates in making a single delicious dinner…on a Tuesday? Spare-No-Expense-For-My-Loved-Ones Barbie, who gives the royal treatment (metallic pink Corvette and all) to any slew of relatives who comes to visit for any length of time? Selfless Benevolent Barbie, who takes on family issues when all others have thrown up their hands? Jim Valvano Never-Give-Up Espy Speechwriter Barbie, who always looks for a way to make things better, even in the darkest times? If those Barbies ever existed, she’s been all of them. And while I no longer seek to replicate her every move, I’m finally grown up enough to be genuinely proud of everything she’s done that I didn’t and everything she can do that I can’t.