When I was in my teens and twenties, I often thought about my personhood and the standard “who am I” questions. When I was in my thirties, I reconciled the earlier decade’s ponderings, with new thoughts about career, family, goals and directions. Recently, I celebrated a birthday in my forties. Now, I'm thinking about who and what’s important to me and how I can be a person who spends time in a way that is aligned with my values of open-hearted listening and forging connections. I can’t divorce my thoughts about these big picture intentions from my deep-seated ideas that art, including film, creates ripples of impact that matter. This morning as I sip my coffee and contemplate these big existential questions, I've added a new piece of art to my reflections, Black Barbie: A Documentary.
... a fellow attendee said, “I like film festivals because I’m more likely to see people that reflect who I am, and it’s so nice to be seen.”
I recently covered the 54th Nashville Film Festival on behalf of Screen Cares, a podcast that strives to illustrate the connective power of film. We’re entering our third season and finding our voice. It feels important to make sure that we don’t become the stereotype of the persnickety film critic, with upturned theoretical noses and voices that overshadow those of the creators, the visionaries themselves. It also feels important to continue to ask questions of fellow film lovers rather than just lumping the film’s approval and worth into a Rotten Tomatoes or other aggregated rating. So, we talked with guests, filmmakers, festival volunteers and anyone who may have made the mistake of making eye contact when we unpacked our mic. Conversations began informally and even in the public privacy of the theater bathroom. While standing at the sink at one of the screening locations, a fellow attendee said, “I like film festivals because I’m more likely to see people that reflect who I am, and it’s so nice to be seen.”
We laughed together, cried together, rolled our eyes and groaned at the speed of progress and colonial patriarchy together.
That sense of broader and deeper diversity in film rings true for me. Movies that I’ve seen on the festival circuit seem to treat the stories and uniqueness found in our society with sparkles, fanfare and grace. Characters do seem more complex, stories more nuanced, with their weirdness treated as normal. It feels like there are fewer outsiders in film festival screenings. I always learn something from these types of films; these are the types of movies that are active listeners, reflections of our culture. One of my favorite films at the 54th Nashville Film Festival this year was Black Barbie: A Documentary which was written and directed by Lagueria Davis. We screened this film at Vanderbilt University’s Sarratt Student Center where the audience was a lively mix of festival attendees, industry members, and university students. Seeing a movie with an engaged audience invites you to drop your guard and experience your authentic emotional response with a community. We laughed together, cried together, rolled our eyes and groaned at the speed of progress and the weight of colonial patriarchy together. I felt seen.
It’s the best kind of documentary, one that expands mental horizons by illuminating its subject with the shine of curiosity and of love.
Black Barbie: A Documentary tells the story of the creation and cultural impact of Mattel’s first Black Barbie doll. Davis’ happy accident of connecting with her aunt, Beulah Mae Mitchell, was the impetus for the film. She spent most of her career at Mattel, working there from her teenaged years in doll assembly, then transitioning to other, more publicly visible roles. Her work quality, work ethic and shining personality caught the attention of Ruth Handler, Mattel’s co-founder and inventor of Barbie dolls, and Mitchell encouraged Ruth to create a Black Barbie. Her influence and visibility created the space for the hiring of the talented designer who created the first Black Barbie, Kitty Black Perkins. Later, Black Perkins’ protege, Stacey McBride-Irby, influenced the doll market through her designs of the So-In Style Line of Barbie Dolls, the sorority Barbie in celebration of the centennial year of Alpha Kappa Alpha, among other important imaginings. It’s the best kind of documentary, one that expands mental horizons by illuminating its subject with the shine of curiosity and of love.
I understand the tears shed in the movie when interviewees share their pain, and the joy when they share their celebration, even though it isn't my story.
Through the power of insightful interviews with Black women, academics, industry movers and shakers, fantastic stop-motion Barbie doll animations, and an equally adorable and poignant group of children, audience members see that representation is best when it’s an active conversation. Representation is incredibly important. But for it to mean something, we have to do more than just nod our heads in agreement at this statement. We also have to amplify the voices of those who have historically been ignored, even if it's not our own experience. Black Barbie: A Documentary demonstrates the impact of being surrounded by dolls that only reflect white faces. Then, it shows the joy of finally having Barbie dolls that reflect the important message and truth that Black dolls and people are beautiful, interesting and worthy. I understand the tears shed in the movie when interviewees share their pain, and the joy when they share their celebration, even though it isn't my story.
When I was in elementary school, I lived in a teeny town in rural Pennsylvania. I was the only Asian student in my elementary school and it was incredibly isolating to always be set apart from the others, with comments on my “China doll” features on a good day, and sing-song racial slurs on a bad day. While I was lucky to have made good friends, l never felt truly part of the community. Even though I put my hair up in the same late 80’s scrunchies and pretended to like the New Kids on the Block as much as my friends, I stuck out. There was no concealing my very visible difference. And as an adoptee, I didn’t even find familiarity in my own family. They were white, like the rest of the members of my town, not standing out until they stood with me. I felt like an alien, and it didn’t help that members of the community would toss that word in my general direction on occasion, during conversations related to jobs and the economy.
It was the first time I realized that an Asian-American person could be someone, not just exist with apologies.
As a first or second grader, when I played with Barbies, I first had to bend my self-perception to pretend that I was blonde and blue-eyed. Then, I could play. It was imaginary double-duty, and it was hard work. I remember when I got my first Korean Barbie doll, though. While I didn’t see myself in her colorful hanbok since I was and am culturally American, her eyes and hair looked more like mine. It was the first time I realized that an Asian-American person could be someone, not just exist with apologies. It didn’t stop the bullies from bullying, or cure my feelings of inadequacy. Having a doll to play with that reflected my own image allowed me to simply play. When I brought my Korean Barbie doll to the next sleepover, my friend Trishia said, “She’s pretty, like you!” Hearing a member of the majority, a peer and a friend say she thought I "was pretty" meant that I could be something other than just my racial origination. It was a huge moment in my development and one that helped me to deeply connect to the story told in Davis' Black Barbie: A Documentary.
However, this delightful movie isn’t about me. It’s a story made for Black girls, women and people. It’s a story that celebrates collaboration, Beulah Mae Mitchell, Kitty Black Perkins, Stacey McBride-Irby, #blackgirlmagic and joy.
However, this delightful movie isn’t about me. It’s a story made for Black girls, women and people. It’s a story that celebrates collaboration, Beulah Mae Mitchell, Kitty Black Perkins, Stacey McBride-Irby, #blackgirlmagic and joy. And it’s beautiful. I appreciated being able to connect my own personal experience to some of the experiences we heard in Davis’ thoughtful documentary, while taking care to give my mental centerstage to the stories shared in the film. By watching movies with an open mind and heart, we’re doing more than just being entertained. We’re personalizing diverse stories through empathy and listening. We’re making connections from our own pain and joy to the pain and joy that others experience. We're truly seeing, rather than just watching. And most importantly, we allow the films to honor their own subjects while walking together in solidarity. And this is the kind of collaboration and love we all can use.
