A lot has been written lately about Bratz dolls including an article from a writer friend of mine (and new father) who bemoans the fact that Barbie was bad enough with her disproportionate body but at least she held a variety of jobs that included stewardess, McDonald’s worker, and surprisingly well-groomed rock star. As a father of a ten-year-old daughter and a teacher of teenagers, I’m as concerned about body image as the next adult. I never comment on a person’s weight loss or gain unless I suspect an eating disorder or impending heart attack. My daughter Poppy loves Bratz and owns a posse of those girls with a “passion for fashion.” It’s true their mode of mall manner is not something I’d like my daughter to be vamping around in, yet after watching Poppy and her friend Emily (another avid collector) play I’m not so concerned. Most of their scenarios are benign situations that involve some sort of canine rescue that don’t really reflect the style or accessories of the Bratz band of brigands. The whole mise en scene reminds me of kids who dress in the safety pin patterns of punk fashion during the day and sleep in freshly laundered sheets made from Egyptian cotton at night. Ain’t no thang, as far as I can see.
This prickly issue of female body image arose in a place I never expected it to. My son London loves super heroes so Santa, the super hero of kiddy bling, brought him The Marvel Encyclopedia: 350 colorful pages of heroes and villains from Abomination to Zzzax. Since then, we’ve been reading from this most holy scripture on a daily basis and let me tell you, if you thought The Berenstain Bears books were boring, try reciting the different permutations of The Incredible Hulk for the last forty years. Makes you want to swallow a dose of radiation and rip your clothes to shreds. Since London isn’t interested in the female set of superheroes, we skipped the Cybeles for the Cyclops and Emma Frosts for Nick Furys. I didn’t realize that Poppy had been looking over my shoulder and, as I found out later, reading to London from this reference book of the resolute when I was in class acting like a mild mannered teacher of English.
I pick up Poppy and London from school on Thursday afternoons and ferry them to the barn where Poppy rides a most valiant pony named Tapdance. For some reason–maybe because I can’t run away–Poppy always chooses this time to pelt me with questions that would stump The Riddler himself.
“Dad, you know London’s Marvel Encyclopedia?”
I replied that by now I could probably quote chapter and verse.
“All the female super heroes, well…” She took a breath. I could see London nodding off in the seat next to her. “Why are that drawn that way?”
If Poppy were my student I would have chided her for using such vague language but I knew exactly what she meant. The Invisible Woman’s mammalian protuberances were far from invisible; the mutant Husk always seemed to be ripping her “skin” off to reveal steely sacks that gravity would never impact; even Spider-Woman, the female counterpart to London’s favorite, had breasts as large as the tires on a Mini-Cooper.
“Good question,” I said, mortally fumbling for an answer. How do you tell a ten-year-old girl that comics are often drawn by lonely (read: horny) old men for lonely young boys who, if they don’t stop collecting Star Wars figurines, may end up being lonely old men with a garage full of comic books for companionship.
“Well?”
I told Poppy that it was wrong that no matter how the Phoenix Force manifests itself through Jean Gray, her female body parts are always exaggerated. “It’s not right,” I admitted, “but the cartoonists might think that these drawings appeal to their readers, that’s the best I can figure.”
“Action figure?” London asked, waking from his nap.
“Go back to sleep,” Poppy said, knowing that this conversation had power that her brother had yet to comprehend.