Beat on the Bratz: Won't someone please think of the children?

By MELISSA SAUNDERS

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The world of recreational plastic embodiment sure has changed since I was young. I'm not talking about the commonplace trends of rhinoplasties, tummy tucks and instant boobifcation. Things are far seedier than that and, what's worse, it's affecting the youngest and most vulnerable: impressionable little girls.

I have always loved dolls. Their hair was fun to brush, their clothing was fun to change, and the lives were equally fun to construct. Whereas most girls would have dream houses and ranches for their Barbies, mine subsisted in milk crates, three-ring binders and strategically placed paraphernalia from my house to give them the lives my imagination could concoct. Not only did my Barbies throw rambunctious house parties when Mama and Papa Bear left in their shoebox car, but they also did ballet, got pregnant, met strange men on the Internet and dated a slew of lame guys, including WWF macho men (professional wrestling; not pandas and shit) and puppets. Their faces were perma-fixed with simple pink-lipped smiles, but their lives were complex.

How the times have changed. I was recently immersed in the world of Nickelodeon, Noggin and the Disney Channel when I spent the day with my four-year-old niece, Khaniya. I know everyone says their niece is cute and smart and funny; this is actually true in my case. She doesn't call me "auntie"; I'm merely "Melissa," the lady with the white glasses and sense of humor she's come to love. We sat through endless commercials while Khaniya chimed, "Melissa, can you get me that": Fisher-Price, Dora the Explorer, Hannah Montana, debt consolidation.

The television screen lit up with pink and then they appeared: Bratz Dollz. Those freakishly-skinny DSL having Lolita playthings that even spawned a movie in theaters, featuring Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" in its trailer. And something inside me snapped; it wasn't an issue on "social hygiene" but rather that the dolls just seemed unabashedly skanky to me. And who were they trying to entice with the "super pretty party glitter" hair streaks? These are supposed to be pre-teen dolls and they were wearing more makeup than I wore to junior prom.

In an age of the Miley Cirus circus, Britney Spears imploring to be hit one more time, popping lip gloss and infectious milkshakes, there's an epidemic of early female sexualization. My niece may not be able to pick up on these innuendos, but that doesn't mean they'll go away. So what can I, Earnest Female Role Model, do? Interpose my cultural taste, of course! It's a delicate demarcation: For every time my niece hears some asshole wanting a woman to make her booty clap, that's two hours of Le Tigre or Bikini Kill—it works, she knows the lyrics of "Tell You Now" from This Island. Would you rather have a Bratz doll or revolution girl style now? And where the hell is the Kathleen Hanna action figure?

Yes, I know that trying to mold her mind is insane, but I'm not brainwashing her. I'm just exposing her to something different. I watched this bitchin' ass Law and Order: SVU episode and really started wondering just how much the media impacts today's children. And the same way that I have to be cautious regarding my niece, I have to do the same for myself; it's hard not to get sucked up in the shit that's dwelling in my mind, telling me I'm too fat/loud/obnoxious/ugly/weird/different/whatevs. Mostly I'm trying to prepare the littlest troops. The same thing applies with my one-year-old nephew, Khalil. Ideally, I want him to look up to Bob Marley or Wayne Coyne rather than Lil' Wayne. But there's still hope because he's still shitting in diapers and drooling. As for my niece: I'm sorry, kiddo, but I'm not getting you a Bratz doll. Ever. But if you're a good little girl, for Christmas, Santa might just put a reasonable debt consolidation plan under the tree for you.