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Voices From Exile, By Joss ShawyerThe Baby Breeding DollI was truly startled by the press statement that spilled from the mouth of the latest Miss United States to roll off the assembly line of the feminine dream. Miss US heralded the globe with the disclosure that her virginity is intact. This was not only marvelous news, but innovative advance marriage marketing. While watching her mouth opening and closing on my TV screen - I was eating so had to mute the sound - I was struck by the striking resemblance to Barbie, the queen doll of dolls. I wondered if Miss US had bonded with Barbie instead of female adults and subsequently grew up not understanding that plastic is man made. Beauty queens resemble pretty little girls living a perpetual childhood, a sort of genetic mutation of Cinderella and Snow White, lost dreamily in Wonderland waiting for some rich old prince to pull out his credit card and stick his tongue down her collective throat. In that order. While she waits for maturity, every Miss World wannabe dresses up in designer clothes to parade her wares. Fortunately the press is right there representing her and her fashion entourage in promoting the idea of women as a marketable commodity. Not known for their political acumen, these little princesses seize opportunities to travel, and can create mayhem in Muslim countries such as Nigeria, although charmingly of course. Reality role modeling is important for little girls who need to identify with actual life experiences. They also need to know how to spot the Kens of this world who can disappear faster than you can say 'incubator' when that smooth, plastic, perpetual little-girl body begins to swell. That's right Barbie, little princesses blow up when they enter the complex world of adulthood without proper preparation. Girls who are raised without the information they require for their own protection, find their lives can turn to cinders when mother nature makes an unexpected appearance. I met the real Barbie once. We came face to face, in a toy aisle. I had avoided her for years, suspicious of her wily ways with little girls, the enticing and seductive mind altering effect she could have, her dazzling array of designer clothing and fabulous adult accessories. Barbie was presented as the ultimate in role playing, the girl you give to every girl who must learn passivity along with the value of being a marketable commodity. At first glance Barbie seemed harmless enough although on closer inspection it was obvious that she had less than the basic requirements to function normally. Barbie had skipped a messy babyhood and gone directly to a precocious adolescence complete with a romantic interest - yes, I met Ken, her smug male equivalent, the kind of man no real woman would introduce to her daughter. Ken was preparing to jump out of an airplane in skydiving gear - while the shop assistant was distracted, I disconnected his parachute. Barbie was presented as a smirking, sanitized doormat of a male fantasy. Shallow and vain and self absorbed, a dormant woman in waiting, who would need that magical kiss or an electric charge to jump-start her brain. Barbie and Ken have no embarrassing orifices in their smoooooth, plastic bodies that do not need sustenance of any kind apart from regular shopping sprees to add to their accessories and make their wealthy parents even richer. This gave me an idea. After years of experimentation I have finally perfected the antidote to Barbie, a throw-away-mom doll patented under the Baby Breeder label. BB is not programmed to observe the calendar to identify crucial dates. Real life fertility catches up with her. After all, there's a demand for adoptable babies, and those familiar with market forces fully understand that a commercial demand inevitably requires a supply in order for business to function. Infertility is the demand, fertility the supply and North American adoption is big, big business. BB has a blow up uterus that expands with an unplanned pregnancy and collapses after childbirth into wrinkly folds. Ankles that rise and fall with medical problems associated with toxemic blood pressure caused by stress and malnutrition. A range of budget maternity clothes color coordinated to harmonize with PTSD for bad days, and an entourage of self-appointed adoption specialists. Her very own social worker, to be her close companion before the birth. Her very own psychiatrist for afterwards. She comes with a 'choice' of course - between a spooky old mansion where women just like her were traditionally hidden away by their parents, or its custom built modern equivalent, cunningly operated to ensure she leaves by herself. A social worker and lawyer guard her mind and emotions in case BB gets any dangerously psychotic ideas such as keeping her baby, for instance. BB moans and groans in labor but is strangely silent afterwards. She has eyes that weep real tears and a heart that cracks and beats erratically whenever she hears a baby cry. Lifelike breasts that ooze replica milk at around feeding time. Don't you just love a sacrifice? Naturally, BB owns a boutique web shop that sells a wide range of pharmaceuticals for anxiety, depression and insomnia induced by watching the extensive adoption video library. Accessories include a pretty pill box for the impressive array of amnesiac medications BB will need after the birth when the baby is taken away. I am delighted to announce that a major drug company is keen to help develop realistic products - sweet little tablets in pink and white, including some to make her forget - er, otherwise she won't feel like shopping. A razor blade for those down days when BB will wish to end it all or self-mutilate in a blaze of self-hatred induced by all that internalized oppression. Velcro's smiles to hide her shocked, dazed expression, an 'after adoption' wardrobe designed to conceal the stretch marks, one piece bathing suits, you get the idea. But you won't need to feed her - BB has lost her appetite. There is nothing planned for the babe nor will BB be allowed access to the web address of the wealthy strangers who adopt her child. After all, the anonymity of adoptive parents must be maintained in keeping with that fine North American tradition of compassion, truth and justice, so in harmony with forged birth registrations and throw away mothers. BB is alone. Her boyfriend remains a frustratingly vague young man and a major marketing problem - all I have on the drawing board so far are the rubber tire tracks he left on BB's parents driveway when she broke the bad news, and the unused condom that accidentally slipped behind the seat of his car. Maybe it was Ken! But commercial opportunities are endless. There is a huge, truly innovative company named Hallmark currently littering the US with syrupy adoption cards. I am trying to contact Hallmark executives to interest them in an exciting joint venture for the production of my unique, creative range of special occasion cards. I have Get Lost greetings to send to throw-away-moms when they sign adoption consent, as well as humorous Sucker Occasion cards for adoptive parents to mail out to their very own baby breeding incubator when she finally gets the joke - that the 'open' adoption they promised was only ever intended as a prank. Hmmm - BB will need a post box and a briefcase for her cards. And Hallmark is just begging for a boycott. There is nothing so effective as a drop in sales to bring business to its senses. Gosh, I almost forgot BB's most realistic feature. She is designed to have reality blood drip through a tiny tube cunningly concealed inside her arms, and wrists that bleed. Don't forget to pop those razor blades and bandages into the shopping cart to ensure that she has everything a throw-away-mother in exile will need to help her get by. My dream is that BB will be every bit as popular as Barbie - and that every little princess will have one. Copyright © 2003 Joss ShawyerRead all of Joss's Column
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