A GOLDEN IDOL AND QUEER AWAKENING
"We girls can do anything, like Barbie!" That was the rallying cry of my 1980s childhood, echoing from TV commercials and toy store aisles. Barbie, with her toothy Superstar grin, was the epitome of power and possibility, always one power suit or ball gown away from world domination.
She was a chameleon, evolving with the times—transforming from CEO to princess with a quick reversal of her skirt. For many kids, she was a cultural cornerstone, a symbol of aspiration and self-expression. And while millions of little girls were dreaming through Barbie’s world, I was dreaming of her too—though for me, that dream came wrapped in shame.
Barbie was everywhere in my world. My sister’s playroom was a Barbie haven, the church toy chest held greasy-faced, matted-haired Barbies, and flea market bins overflowed with her discarded forms. Barbie was the cultural icon, the center of a universe of imagination. And I desperately wanted to be part of it. But as a boy, that desire made me different—an outsider in a world rigidly divided by gendered play.
From an early age, I learned that Barbie wasn’t meant for boys. That knowledge didn’t come from toy commercials or store layouts alone; it came from the people around me. I can still remember the sting of the word sissy when I asked for Crystal Barbie one Christmas. I didn’t even fully understand what the word meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. I knew it marked me as wrong.
“Sissies play with dolls,” I was told, again and again, until it became a refrain. By the time I was old enough to really want my own Barbie—not just the castoffs from my sister or the neighborhood playgroup—I had internalized the shame of that desire. I knew it wasn’t just that boys weren’t supposed to want Barbie—it was that boys who did were seen as defective.
The ridicule started small, with teasing that felt manageable, but it grew sharper over time. Classmates, siblings, even adults had something to say about my interests. If I picked up a Barbie during group play, the other kids would stare or laugh. Sometimes, they’d snatch her away from me, jeering that Barbie wasn’t for boys like me. At home, when I lingered too long near my sister’s Barbie Dreamhouse, I’d hear muttered comments or outright scolding.
“Sissy” turned into “faggot” faster than I could understand what either word really meant. I only knew that the world around me had no room for a boy who didn’t fit into their neat boxes. Boys had G.I. Joe and He-Man. Boys were supposed to be strong, aggressive, and disinterested in anything glittery or glamorous. My fascination with Barbie made me a target—and worse, it made me believe that I deserved to be one.
The shame ran so deep that I stopped asking for Barbie altogether, even though I never stopped wanting her. I told myself it was better to pretend, to act like I didn’t care, than to risk another round of ridicule. But Barbie remained a quiet ache in my heart, a symbol of something I couldn’t yet name: freedom. Freedom to be myself, to imagine, to escape.
That ache followed me through childhood, until one day in the early 1990s, Barbie reemerged—not as the pink-boxed toy of my dreams, but as something entirely different. Bob Mackie Gold Barbie.
I first saw her in a magazine, draped in gold and sequins, shimmering like a vision. She wasn’t just another Barbie; she was art. She wasn’t for little girls; she was for collectors. And in that moment, I felt something shift. This wasn’t the Barbie I’d been teased for wanting. This wasn’t the Barbie that made me feel small and ashamed. This was a Barbie that demanded to be seen.
Bob Mackie Gold Barbie became my obsession. I poured over her image in Sunday paper inserts, daydreaming about how I might save my allowance to buy her. She cost $200—an impossible amount for an 11-year-old—but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what she represented.
She wasn’t a toy; she was a gateway. Through her, I discovered Bob Mackie, a designer who didn’t just dress Barbie but also Cher, Diana Ross, and other queer icons I’d come to idolize. Bob Mackie’s world was one of sequins and glamour, but it was also one of possibility. His name became my lifeline, leading me to libraries where I learned about his partner, Ray Aghayan, and their shared legacy of queer brilliance. Barbie was no longer just a doll. She was a beacon, a promise that there was a world beyond the rigid norms of my small town. A world where people like me didn’t have to feel ashamed.
Today, Bob Mackie’s first three Barbies—Gold, Starlight, and Platinum—sit proudly on display in my home, encased like the treasures they are. Purchased as an adult, they are more than just collectibles; they are relics of transformation, touchstones of a journey that began with longing and shame and culminated in pride and self-acceptance.
Each doll represents a piece of my history—the child who hid his desires, the teenager who quietly sought connection in forbidden places, and the adult who finally embraced his truth. When I look at them now, I see more than sequins and glamour. I see the boy who dared to dream in a world that told him his dreams were wrong. I see the little hands reaching out to hold something beautiful, only to be slapped away. I see the courage it took to want, to hope, to believe that there was something beyond ridicule and shame waiting for me on the other side.
Barbie didn’t just wear gold; she was gold—a beacon of possibility that shone brighter than the small, gray world I grew up in. She showed me, in her dazzling perfection, that there was a life beyond conformity. A life where I didn’t have to hide my curiosity or tamp down my joy. A life where beauty and creativity weren’t just acceptable—they were celebrated. Those dolls on my shelf are more than reminders of a past life; they are affirmations of the one I built in defiance of shame. They are proof that what once brought me ridicule now brings me joy.
Bob Mackie’s Barbies sit there, glittering under the light, but they are so much more than decorations. They are my history and my hope. They remind me every day that even in a world determined to box us in, there is always a way to dream ourselves free.
