Over at Shambhala SunSpace, Karen Maezen Miller writes of the struggle she’s had with the little girl initiation of Disney-inspired princesshood and Barbie marketing. This subject is near and dear to my heart as my wife and I are troubled with the bombardment our daughter receives from her peers.
Does the princess myth serve our daughter’s evolution as a healthy, well-adjusted being? Is Barbie an appropriate ideal for her? Are we foisting judgment onto something fairly innocuous; making a big deal over what should prove to be a temporary stage? How might we meet the influences we find harmful in a constructive manner?
Ms. Miller writes of her daughter’s Disney experience:
It is captivating to see a tiny child fall into pure and uncomplicated love. My daughter Georgia’s first major heartthrob was Snow White, who was just one in a color-coded sequence of princesses to be cherished, outgrown, and discarded, but we didn’t know that then. We didn’t know and we didn’t delay. When we took our daughter on her first trip to Disneyland, we strode right up to the real-life Snow White and watched our two-year-old flirt. Then, we bee-lined to the souvenir racks and forked over the bucks for a Snow White doll.
Several people close to our family find that my wife and I have over-thought this issue. Maybe they’re right. Certainly, the entire Disney experience was a source of enjoyment when I was young. The idea that fantasy could come partially alive, even in a corporate way, mystified me. I can remember the first time I went into the Haunted House, holding my father’s hand tightly with thrill and fear simultaneously coursing through my body. That same night, I remember getting on a boat that was to take us to meet the Pirates of the Carribean. I was entranced and wanted reminders of the escape into the partial reality offered by Disney. I, too, wanted souveniers.
But something happened along the way that started to feel strange. I remember revisiting the Enchanted Kingdom in high school and recognizing that the entire Disney experience was designed to separate me from my money. Realizing this, I made sure that they succeeded only partially. But I noticed that Disney made a killing by using children as agents against their hardworking parents.
“Please, daddy, please,” they’d say. “Can I get a Mickey Mouse hat.” Or, after a visit with the marvelously made up girl, “I want to be just like Snow White.”
A short distance from the Snow White meeting, daddy is directed by his entranced daughter into a store that, in fact, sells Snow White regalia. Partial reality sells partial fantasy. Dad feels appreciated. Daughter is euphoric. All of it, temporary.
Barbie doesn’t seem much different. I’m concerned that, left unchecked, my daughter may let the psychological schema that Barbie fills assume a place in her own mind that it shouldn’t. I don’t want hypersexualized Barbie to breed adolescent self-loathing within my daughter or anyone else, for that matter. Nor do I want Disney’s partial reality to inspire commercial craving within anyone. But how do we, as parents, do this effectively?
In the process of recognizing these beliefs, I know that I must hold them loosely. less they become a hindrance for my daughter as well as my wife and me. Neither Disney nor Barbie will destroy my daughter. But walking this path is already starting to be a challenge. And she’s not quite two.
