I Cried for “Barbie”

NOTE: MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD.

Today I went to see the “Barbie” movie. I watched the glitter and the glamor, the dancing and the singing. I laughed at the absurdity of Barbieland and the perfection it represented, the ignorance it masked.

I witnessed a story about finding meaning in our existence through the struggles that threaten to break us. I listened to lampoons of Feminism and Patriarchy: empty words loaded with social connotations that made neither relevant nor intelligible.

And I glowed as the identity, the meaning, the sense of “I” and value that gives humans life blossomed in the characters. I watched Barbie become and I was happy for her.

The credits rolled, the theatre emptied, but I could not move. I shuffled to my car, drove home in silence. I barely made it to the dark room in the basement — the Quiet Room where I meditate.

And then I cried and cried and cried.

I cried for the Barbies. I cried for the Kens. I cried for the children who hate them both.

I cried for the humans who never find meaning. I cried for the humans who find solace only in fantasy. I cried for the humans who disapprove of fantasy as our source of inspiration to find meaning.

I cried for a world of profits, protection, and pettiness. I cried for the people — myself included — who enabled it.

I cried for the men and women who never find who they are. I cried for my transgender Brothers and Sisters who fight and scratch to be who they are — who would kill to be Barbie or Ken — and it still wouldn’t be good enough.

Never.
Good.
Enough.

I cried for the little girl Amethysta that never was. I cried for the complete woman Amethysta that never will be.

I cried for the fake Barbie vagina I may one day pay for the privilege to own.

Then I laid — spent — on the carpet. I’d cried for humanity and our love for those like us, our hate for those different.

I laid on the carpet a long time.

Then I stood and walked to my writing table, also my makeup table. I looked at my face in the mirror — pondering, scrutinizing.

I looked at the running eyeliner, the flecks of mascara on my cheeks. I looked at the puffy bags under my eyes. I looked at my big nose, my double chin, my crooked teeth.

I looked myself in my red, anguished eyes and I whispered, “Ami, you fix this.”

I told myself, “This is not life, not identity. This is death. This is obscurity. And people are in pain not knowing who they are and why they hurt.

“Ami, you fix this.”

I can’t. I can’t fix it.

But I remembered why I picked up my pen in the first place. I remembered my purpose. I remembered my transgender Brothers and Sisters. I remembered my cisgender brothers and sisters.

I remembered those who would love me. I remembered those who would hate me.

Then I opened my notebook. I uncapped my fountain pen.

I felt the inadequacy of my words against lifetimes of misery, lives cut short by anger, lives not worth examining.

I took a deep breath, picked up my mirror one last time. I saw in my reflection a lifetime of my own misery.

Maybe I can help one person live a life as who they are. Maybe.

I started to write. I started to heal.

I loved the “Barbie” movie.