Forever Barbie_ The Unauthorized Biography of a Real Doll - Lord [61]
Touted on its box as "A fun game with real-life appeal for all girls," Queen of the Prom is set not in "real life" but in a precursor of She-Ra's state of nature—with a few Potemkin tract houses scattered about to create the illusion of a middle-class suburb. Or, more accurately, an upper-middle-class suburb. At a time when gum was ten cents and two could dine in a fashionable Manhattan restaurant for under twenty-five dollars, I doubt many youngsters from blue-collar families could afford to drop thirty-five to sixty-five dollars on a prom dress, as players are required to do. In the game, Dad does not sully his manicured nails on an assembly line. He plays the market; one "Surprise" card entitles a player to a ten-dollar present in celebration of Dad's "extra large stock dividend." Like Nancy Drew, who solved cases with her widower father, players of the Barbie Game have a close relationship with Dad; he turns up often in the "Surprise" cards as a source of cash. Having no money of her own, Mom, however, is virtually invisible.
The box promises competition in three areas—Shopping, Dating, and School Activities—evidently the only races that matter. The message is: Don't waste your time on academic, athletic, or artistic achievement—and especially, don't look inside yourself. Be outer-directed.
Significantly, the sketch illustrating School Activities does not show a classroom, a library, or a laboratory, but two stylish women standing around with sodas. They appear to be displaying themselves, which, according to sociologist Winni Breines, author of Young, White and Miserable: Growing Up Female in the Fifties, was a big part of what a teenage girl was expected to do. "The commodification of one's look became the basis of success," Breines writes. "Even the post-war dating system, in which dates were commodities that validated an individual's worth, was based on display, on being seen, since unseen, one's value could not be measured." High schools were a key place to be seen, which was "one of the main attractions of attending school."
In the game, the greatest rewards come not from skill or learning but from physical appearance. The largest sum of money a player can earn at one time is ten dollars for a modeling job, as opposed to, say, one dollar for washing dishes. Players are taught not to expect to profit from brainwork. One space in the "Earning Money" section invites the player to write a story for a magazine, only to jeer at the player's presumption: "Sorry—no sale."
It isn't as if looks alone are commodified; so are men. A player rolls the dice, lands on a potential boyfriend's face, and if she wants to win, she grabs him—even if he disgusts her. In the abridged version, boyfriend cards are predealt to players along with their allowance. It's easy to come away thinking: A boyfriend is a dress is a dollar.
If a player lands on a space with two arrows, she can move in either direction, except at the "School Entrance." School is neither optional nor pleasant; all but one square inside it promises misery. The lone desirable square grants straight A's to the player who lands on it—then, as a reward, instructs the player to hasten to any "Stop and Shop" space on the board. The subtext here: Achievement is never for its own sake; it is only meaningful as a stepping-stone to acquiring objects, particularly those that will enhance one's looks.
Nearly every square on the board is a land mine, especially for women who have grown up with feminist assumptions. Yet the game is strikingly efficient at reinforcing behavior—the way repeated electric shocks can persuade a laboratory rat to perform tricks against its will. Frequent landings at the "soda fountain," for instance, a square where players without boyfriends must