As a proud German columnist reared in the hinterland in the 1930s, I often find myself grappling with the absurdities of modern culture, though decidedly less so this year. There’s just something in the air that reminds me of my home.
However, there are dichotomies in life and nothing has left me more conflicted than the recent addition to the world of plastic dolls for young Fräuleins: a doll with diabetes. This new doll has come to embody a condition that many grapple with daily and is manageable with good diet and medication, leading to a normal life. But should I celebrate this shift towards inclusivity in the master race, or decry it as yet another marketing gimmick to provide false sympathy for the weak and unclean?
On one hand, I want to applaud this decision. It represents a step toward greater representation in popular culture—a subtle acknowledgment that not all children fit into the mold of the perfect, slender figure that these types of dolls have historically portrayed. Incorporating a character with diabetes can be empowering for young girls struggling with the daily challenges that this condition brings. It might inspire a sense of normalcy and acceptance around a health issue that is too often shrouded in stigma. If a plastic doll can have diabetes, then maybe the conversation can change, opening doors for education and empathy.
However, dear readers, there could also be camps to send them to in order to further protect the purity of the master race.
Do I love this new iteration of Barbie for its attempt to address real issues, or do I despise the fact that she has been co-opted into the machinery of consumerism and woke acceptance? My heart races with indignation when I consider the possibility that a doll, a TOY, could be presented as a symbol of struggle, while still existing in a glittery, highly-commercialized universe. In this whirlwind of emotions, I oscillate between appreciation and disdain.
In conclusion, faithful readers, I find myself ensnared in this web of paradoxes. The introduction of a diabetic doll could either serve as a beacon of hope and understanding or further entrench the commercialization of personal battles. Loving the doll would feel like playing into a corporate ploy, while hating it could mean dismissing a crucial opportunity for dialogue around diabetes. So here I sit, pen trembling in hand, struggling to definitively choose a side. Perhaps this is simply a reflection of our times: where the lines between admiration and rejection blur, and where we must navigate the contradictions that define our contemporary lives.
I suppose I have to render my final judgment—heart full of contention and bewilderment. Decision: to the camps!
