Why Our Kids Will Have Bratz (And I Will Like It.)

Upstairs, in the soon-to-be-kid(s)’ room, there’s a see-through plastic bin stuffed full of dolls and doll clothes and doll accessories. I bought these dolls recently – over the past few years, I mean – going so far in one case as to email Michelle in California and ask her to purchase a specific “goth twins” edition that was only available in the United States. She did and I love them.

Those dolls? They’re my Bratz collection. That’s right. MINE.

The very first time I saw a Bratz doll, I knew I wanted it. I was 30 years old and I knew I wanted that doll. We weren’t even talking about adopting at the time.

But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about why I will hand those dolls over to my kids the moment they arrive to our home. Happily, even.

A lot of the parenting blogs that I’ve been reading, in preparation for our adoption and for being a parent in general, have devoted some page space to Bratz dolls. The overwhelming majority of these parents have stated clearly and concisely that THOSE dolls will NOT be seen clutched in their daughter’s hands. Ever.

Why? Because Bratz are “skanky” and “trampy” and a “bad influence” and “ugly” and “whores” and what kind of a parent would allow their child to play with what is very clearly an offense to women?! Why not cut to the chase and just hand your five year old a pair of fishnets and a cut-off tee and let her wear your high heels to the mall to pick up MEN?

Oooooookay. Riiight.

I have to question how any parent can come to the conclusion that their child will be more influenced by a doll than by what she observes in the world around her. More influenced by that piece of plastic than she is by what her mother says and does.

There are grown women dressed almost exactly like Bratz in the grocery store. There are teenagers heading to school wearing thigh-high boots and cropped t-shirts. There are television commercials on at all hours of the day and night displaying women who are scantily clad and dancing in clubs to advertise vodka.

But wait, you say! Why would I not try to limit the amount of ‘skank’ in our home? Why not try to teach our daughter(s) that a woman shouldn’t be all about the sex appeal?

Because I want my kids to grow up with a firm understanding that the way a person dresses has no bearing on the sort of person they are on the inside. A woman in a burqa has the same value as a woman in fishnets and a miniskirt. A woman in ripped jeans and cowboy boots is exactly as important as a woman in a business suit.

My kids will be taught that a woman who is dressed in a way that could be considered “provocative” is not asking to be raped or injured or harassed and that one cannot make a decision about her sexuality or her worth. Clothing, like hair and makeup and the colour we paint our bedroom, is simply another way to express ourselves and shouldn’t be a cause for judgement.

The sad part is not that I need to teach these lessons to my kids. The sad part is that other people aren’t teaching that same information to their kids, too.

Maybe those Bratz dolls also volunteer at the local homeless shelter. Maybe they work at the library in their spare time or babysit for their cousins or get straight-As in school. Are we saying that a woman in kick-ass boots can’t also have her own political agenda and plans for the future?

In life, we learn pretty quickly about appropriateness or we pay the price (by not having friends, by not getting the job, etc..) We make decisions to be “different” based on our tolerance for being treated differently. But that difference doesn’t change our value or who we really are to those who love us.

Growing up, I had a huge collection of Barbies that I inherited from my various cousins, found under the Christmas tree, or otherwise acquired. And I loved to play with them – fantastic, imaginative, colourful games. I dressed them in ballgowns and made crocheted shawls for their scrawny shoulders. I made them dance and work and, yes, I even made them hump Ken from time to time.

Most of them didn’t have arms or legs that bent – but that didn’t stop them from running races, flying, riding horses, partying with each other, modeling or getting into fist-fights in the Barbie salon. They didn’t have mouths that moved, but they still had conversations with each other and made out with each other and had screaming fights in which they shouted “SHIT!” because it was the worst curse word I could think of at the time.

They rode horseback in ballgowns because I thought it was “fancy”.

They were tools of my imagination – because they were dolls. Toys. Chunks of plastic. Not role models.

My role models were, and continue to be, real human beings.

How can anyone say plastic dolls are a bad influence? Perhaps it’s their own perceptions and judgements that make for a truly bad influence.

My kids will play with Bratz and I’ll proudly let them.