A BOY'S CHRISTMAS WISH: FROM REJECTION TO RESILIENCE
Trigger Warning: The following story contains descriptions of childhood abuse that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
For most of my childhood, I was a small, soft-spoken boy with an imagination that never stopped. While other kids yelled and chased each other across the playground, I hung back on the sidelines, caught up in daydreams only I could see.
Even at that young age, it felt like everyone around me—teachers, relatives, friends—had a specific idea of how a “proper boy” should act, talk, and play. The moment I showed even a hint of different interests or behaviors, someone was quick to remind me I was doing it “wrong.”
I never quite knew where I fit in. When I shrank away from rowdy games, people wondered why I wasn’t tougher or more outgoing. If I doodled pictures of princesses instead of fast cars, the teacher would gently scold me and nudge me back to what she believed I should be doing. My parents encouraged me to fit the mold of what they thought a boy should look like—more sports, more rough-and-tumble play. And when I was teased and beat up, all I heard was 'boys will be boys.'
When I was six years old, my heart was set on two Christmas gifts: Crystal Barbie and the board game Candy Land. I don't know why I wanted them, it was just an innate desire for something that matched my daydreaming. I remember the commercials for Crystal Barbie, between Saturday morning cartoons and imagined the sparkle of her glamorous gown and how much joy I’d feel guiding her through imaginary adventures.
Christmas morning arrived with a mix of excitement and anticipation, but with each gift I opened, my heart sank a little deeper. There was no Crystal Barbie.
There was no Candy Land either. The football and action figures I unwrapped felt alien to me—objects meant to fulfill someone else’s dream, not mine. My dream was Crystal Barbie. I clung to hope with every stop, from family member to family member, yet she was never under any tree. Finally we arrived at my great aunt and uncle. There my cousin and I found two similarly wrapped packages waiting for us. I was certain this would be it: the moment Santa came through.
When we opened them, my cousin squealed with joy. She had received Peaches and Cream Barbie and Candy Land. In contrast, I found a set of toy trucks and the board game Chutes and Ladders. My smile froze in place, in a state of disbelief. As I tried to process the crushing disappointment, I couldn’t understand why my cousin could have a beautiful doll, yet I couldn’t. Didn’t I deserve to have something that made me happy? I turned to the adults, desperate for answers, only to be told, “Boys don’t play with dolls.” My hurt only deepened as I was scolded for being “ungrateful.” “You should be happy you got anything at all,” my mother said. But I wasn’t grateful. I felt invisible, my desires treated as wrong and unworthy. I was told never to mention Crystal Barbie or any Barbie again.
That night, my drunken father confronted me. He demanded to know why I had wanted Crystal Barbie in the first place. I didn't have a answer- I just did.
Trying to explain my words only seemed to enrage him more. “You can't be like this,” he said before pulling me out of the bed, and striking me with his leather belt. It was the first time he hit me. Trembling on the floor, his blows didn’t just hurt physically—they carried the weight of his disappointment and rejection. In that moment, I learned that my feelings were not safe. My dreams were wrong. I wasn’t the son he had hoped for, and my desire for something as simple as a Barbie doll marked me as a failure in his eyes.
As I grew older, some things were just innate- like wanting a pink shirt over a blue one. Or pretending to be She-Ra instead of He-Man, and dressing up with my cousin and sister. Yet for every infraction, came more abuse- emotionally, physically, and sexually. As an adult, sometimes I can rationalize the his violence was a reflection of his own failures, and yet still that Christmas lingers in my memory like an open wound. It wasn’t just about Crystal Barbie or Candy Land. It was about being denied the freedom to be myself, to express what I loved without fear or shame. It was about the crushing realization that I was expected to conform to a version of masculinity that felt like a prison.
But adulthood brought with it something I didn’t have as a child: the power to reclaim what was stolen. One day, while scrolling through eBay, I stumbled upon her—Crystal Barbie, still in her shimmering box, just as I had dreamed of her all those years ago. My heart raced as I clicked “Buy Now.” When the package arrived, I carefully opened it and held the doll in my hands, feeling a surge of emotions I hadn’t expected.
This wasn’t just a doll anymore. It was a symbol of the innocence and joy that had been stolen from me, a chance to reclaim a piece of myself that had been buried under years of shame and fear.
Buying Crystal Barbie wasn’t just about nostalgia—it was a way to heal. It let me tell that six-year-old boy inside me that his dreams mattered, that he mattered, and that it was perfectly fine to love whatever sparked his imagination. The Christmas when I longed for Crystal Barbie will always be a complicated memory, but it doesn’t get to be the last word. By reclaiming that part of my past, one shimmering gown at a time, I’ve rewritten my own story. Each time I look at her, I’m reminded that no one else gets to decide who we are or what we love. And if I could travel back in time, I’d whisper to that six-year-old boy that his wishes weren’t wrong, and that one day, Crystal Barbie would stand for his freedom to be exactly who he is.
