Heroes and Villains

My second grade teacher was my first villain.

Because I was often sick as a child, I grew comfortable in the quieter company of adults–my parents, older relatives, my doctors and nurses–and preferred their world to the noise and messiness of children. I was shy and timid, and my parents worried about how I’d be when I started school. They were able to entice me out of my shell by bringing a dog, our mixed breed Dopey Dan, into my life. Dopey was born to a dachshund whose owner tried to drown the puppies when he found out they weren’t purebred. My parents told me that as a result, Dopey was shy and afraid. I had to be brave so that I could teach him that it was okay to be around kids.

I had smart parents, and I was also fortunate to have other good adults in my life. Like the sweetest kindergarten teacher, Miss Harris, who acted like she didn’t know I once replaced my broken Crayons with Linda Bishop’s perfect ones. (Sorry, Linda.) Then I had a lovely first grade teacher, Mrs. Griffin, one of those ancient Southern ladies who smelled faintly of talcum powder and who had ample breasts that translated into smothering hugs in the most comforting way.

My second grade year, my father was overseas, and his three children did our best to make my mother crazy with various injuries and ailments and those other pesky things kids do. Since she was a little overwhelmed, my mother didn’t notice for a while that I was having a quiet nervous breakdown because of my evil second grade teacher. When she did figure it out, she turned into a tigress, and the abuse (emotional, mental, never physical) stopped, but the damage was done, leaving me a mass of insecurities that would make it almost impossible for me to initiate friendships or do anything except tiptoe as quietly as possible through the world, trying not to attract attention. It took a very patient, understanding third grade teacher (Mrs. Norton) at a new school to begin repairing me.

Then we moved to South Carolina, where I had to start fourth grade late. I had the most amazing teacher–yet another of those old Southern ladies, although this one was rail thin–Mrs. Adair, and I loved her with all my heart for her gentleness and kindness. Unfortunately, starting a school year late in a little town where all the kids already know each other, and have since birth, is not conducive to making friends.

There were a mere two kids on my street. Next door, Lonnie, a year younger than me, was the only one of the strapping young boys and the single girl in the Jones family who wasn’t already in high school. Lonnie’s BFF was a kid across the street who was in my class at school, Warren Finney. Warren never just came outside, he exploded out of his house, followed by his fat, black dachshund and his goofy, slobbering boxer, always bellowing the Notre Dame fight song at the top of his lungs (my father rarely used Warren’s name, instead calling him “the spirit of Notre Dame”) and usually carrying a football. Warren was in my class, and I was madly in love with him, but those were still girl cootie years so he didn’t return my affection.

This all meant that my street was essentially a Girls Are Gross zone. It would be Christmas before I got the bicycle that would extend the boundaries of my world, and summer before I began making friends with neighborhood girls my age. Though living in this small South Carolina town would ultimately leave me with wonderful memories (many of which I used for Shanon in Three Fortunes in One Cookie) and bring an incredibly special person into my life (my nephew Daniel’s mother), my time there began in lonely isolation.

After school and on the weekends, I did little more than wander from our tiny front yard to our tiny back yard with Dopey. I was too old to play with baby dolls anymore, and Dopey was the one who ended up dressed in their old clothes, being pushed around in their baby carriage. Since he was slavishly devoted, he tolerated my foolishness, but I soon realized that a dachshund in a bonnet has no dignity, so I let him be a dog again.

One day I was outside pretending not to spy on Nancy Jones. I believe Nancy played both the flute and the piano, but I don’t think the Joneses had a piano in their house, and she was in her front yard working out some tricky musical challenge on air piano. She caught me watching her, gave me a sympathetic look, and went inside her house. When she came back out, she was carrying a case that looked like this:

Unlatching that case and discovering its contents changed my life forever. My mother couldn’t believe that Nancy’s mother had given permission for this generous gesture, but Mrs. Jones said if Nancy was willing to part with such bounty, it was okay with her.

This doll is currently in my collection, but she’s not from Nancy (I think she was donated to me from Lynne’s Barbie collection). Nancy’s Ponytail Barbie had black hair, and I loved her, but eventually, I was foolishly enticed by a Mattel promotion to trade her in for this young lady.

I have her posed this way so Mark will know that she’s the Twist ‘N Turn Barbie that he remembers from another LJ post. I still recall that the box she came in listed her hair color as “ash blonde.” I’m not sorry I got her, because I love her as much as I did the day I picked her out, but I do wish I’d also held on to my original Barbie with the black ponytail.

These two dolls are also in my current collection, but are not from Nancy. I include their photo for three reasons. One, this is what the Kens of that era are supposed to look like. Two, this blonde Bubble Cut Barbie is identical to one that Nancy did give me. And three, the Barbie and Ken wedding ensemble was part of one of my best Christmases ever–not only the bicycle, but my first brand new Barbie clothes that hadn’t been owned by anyone else. The only things here that aren’t part of that original set are Barbie’s bouquet, Ken’s cummerbund, and Barbie’s heels.

These are the two Kens that Nancy gave me. Since they were showing signs of male pattern baldness, I made them honorary members in the Marks-A-Lot Hair Club for Men and tried to magic marker them back into hirsute handsomeness. It’s possible the fumes made me high. These two usually get dressed up in my Beast (as in Beauty and the) and Maleficent costumes, which means their hair shame is hidden.

At least I still have them. Nancy’s original Bubble Cut Blonde came to a tragic end. When the weather allowed, I would spread a blanket under the sweet gum tree in my front yard and play with my dolls there (after I was sure Nancy wouldn’t have a change of heart and take them back). One day my mother called me in for lunch, and when I went back out, it was to a scene of mayhem. Back then dogs didn’t have to be fenced or leashed, and a group of them had come by and taken mouthfuls of whatever they could grab then run crazily through the neighborhood. (Dopey was inside with me, unaware of the canine crime spree.) Sobbing my way over those mean streets, I was able to find almost everything but the Bubble Cut Blonde. To console me, that weekend my parents took me shopping and allowed me to pick out my very first, all new Barbie.

Time hasn’t been entirely kind to her coloring and she has a leg that tends to come off at inopportune moments. But she remains, to this day, my favorite Barbie among the nearly two hundred that I own. In A Coventry Christmas a character recounts turning her canopy bed into a bigtop circus tent. The rails that held up the canopy were the frames for trapezes, and Good Barbie always suffered a fall and became wheelchair bound, allowing Bad Barbie to steal Ken away. That tale came straight out of my childhood. This blonde IS Good Barbie. Her name was usually Connie or Christina (I have no idea why), and Ponytail Barbie was Bad Barbie. (Much like author James Fenimore Cooper, I evidently connected blondes to virtue and brunettes to sin.)

Once Twist ‘N Turn Barbie arrived, I couldn’t bear to turn her into Bad Barbie. I loved both Barbies too much. Fortunately, I had another fashion doll that wasn’t from Mattel, Tammy from Ideal, and she became the treacherous Ken snatcher, although her head was twice as big as his. Once Tom gets the rest of the doll stuff out of the attic, I’ll see if she’s still around and take a photo of her. The bitch.

I wonder if Nancy Jones ever thinks about her kindness to the lonely little girl next door. I wonder if she wishes she’d held on to her dolls. I wish she could know that I still remember her and that she helped shape my creativity and imagination. Because of Nancy’s gift, I figured out ways to transform my mother’s old scarves and fabric scraps into high fashion. I turned various discarded boxes and other items into doll furniture. My dolls were early teachers in how to develop characters, plots, and settings. They also eventually provided a common interest with other girls my age.

People often dismiss Barbie as a toy that gives girls unrealistic body images, locks them inside some kind of false gender trap, or indoctrinates them into being consumers at a young age. Clearly, I don’t agree with any of that. Barbie came to me in kindness. She taught me to be creative. She helped build a bridge between me and other children. She was part of healing damage that was done to me by a cruel adult.

And as the late Ann Richards might say, she did it all in high heels. If my second grade teacher was the first villain in my life, generous Nancy Jones and her dolls were among my early heroes.