Autistic Barbie and the Limits of Representation

On toys, identity, and the danger of essentializing narratives

I learned about autistic Barbie last week, and I must admit that my initial reaction was negative. I couldn’t pinpoint why, though. Clearly she was designed with thought and sensitivity, and my understanding is the autistic community is thrilled that they finally have representation. But something about it unsettled me in a way I couldn’t articulate.

Contrast my response to autistic Barbie with my reaction to the bald American Girl Doll, which was entirely positive. Eleanor and I visited the store in midtown for a birthday party last weekend, and when Eleanor pointed out the doll to me in the long display case that housed all the Truly Me dolls, I found myself thinking how profound it must be for girls who have lost their hair to see themselves reflected there, and to have their experience acknowledged as simply one way of being in the world.

It wasn’t until days later, thinking about my contradictory reactions, that I realized the difference was in how the dolls were packaged and presented. Autistic Barbie (named as such by Mattel, not me) is precisely that: a conventionally beautiful woman in a mini dress who arrives in her box with noise-cancelling headphones, a fidget spinner, and an AAC device. The doll encourages play that centers her diagnosis and her functional support needs as her defining features. She is Autistic Barbie and virtually nothing else.

The bald American Girl, by contrast, is a blank slate. Like the other Truly Me dolls, she comes in a box wearing the standard American Girl uniform, and everything else is sold separately. She has no hair, but otherwise, who she is remains open to interpretation. The child is invited to build her story (yes, by purchasing other outfits and accessories, but that’s the American Girl business model!), and the play is open-ended in a way that autistic Barbie’s seems closed.

So while I applaud Mattel for representing autistic people with this new Barbie doll, I wish they had taken the American Girl approach: sell Barbies in generic outfits and offer the adaptive accessories separately. Imagine how a girl can own the American Girl Doll with no hair, and then she might purchase the gymnastics set and sleepover set, constructing a narrative about a girl with a medical condition who is athletic and devoted to her friendships. Likewise, imagine a girl assembling her Barbie’s identity, buying the noise-canceling headphones alongside the vet kit and a soccer ball to create a story of an autistic woman who is intellectually curious, professionally accomplished, and passionate about animals and sports.

People contain multitudes and contradictions, and it matters that our toys encourage storytelling about characters who contain multitudes and contradictions, too. But, somehow, we’ve become so committed to increasing representation and visibility that we’ve created an essentializing narrative that suggests people are defined by diagnoses and disabilities, rather than by the full complexity of who they are. The toys we give our children should invite them to imagine richer stories than that because their play informs how they come to understand themselves and those around them.

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