It is mid-November and I am browsing Christmas presents online for my niece. I scroll through a sea of dolls, small bricks and future landfill until I notice her: Wheelchair Barbie. She is blonde, her long glossy hair draped down her back. Her accessories include a watch, movable joints and a bright pink ramp. She is wearing a rainbow-coloured playsuit. It is like looking in a mirror.
Growing up in the 1990s as a disabled child, I had no doll that looked like me. I could play with a dog that went to outer space or a flame-haired troll who skateboarded. But a toy with a disability was apparently beyond what any corporate executive could imagine.
Over the past decade, this has slowly changed. Go to any toy store and you’ll be likely to see shelves speckled with diversity: dolls of colour (notably, the “Barbie Fashionistas doll with wheelchair” also comes with an afro-haired option); those with Down’s syndrome; even dolls that look as if they’ve seen a carbohydrate. I believe they call this progress.
Scroll social media when such a product is launched, and you would be forgiven for thinking a “woke toy” was one of the four signs of the apocalypse. (If your blood pressure rises at the thought of a doll who sits down, may I humbly suggest you consider time with a therapist?) And yet any backlash from bigoted adults feels insignificant compared with the significance of diverse toys for children. It is hard to put into words what representation does for a young mind, partly because the effects are rarely conscious. It is a drip, drip – a wordless message that says: you belong.
It isn’t just a minority’s own sense of self that’s affected by inclusion, but also how others see you. Research by Queen Margaret University found that children develop “a more positive friendship attitude towards their peers with disabilities” after playing with toys that represent them for just three minutes.
At four years old, my niece is starting to notice that some people are different to her. As anyone who has ever spoken to a child will know, children are naturally accepting. Also narcissistic. On the rare occasions my niece asks about my disability, she will listen to my answer and then ask what’s for her tea. I like the idea of showing her a doll that fills in the blanks for her. I like the idea that something she loves – Barbie, not me – includes disability.
I’m not going to suggest that a doll will fix society. My general rule is that egalitarianism won’t be achieved by anything you can buy in John Lewis. Corporations are not here to save us (no matter how good the Barbie movie was).
When it comes to progress for disabled women, I’d much prefer society addressed the pay gap than the toy box. But I will say that there is something unquestionably hopeful about seeing a toy carved out in your shape, not least when it is a shape that mainstream culture too often tells you is ugly and shameful. When I first saw Barbie in her black and lilac wheelchair, I found myself smiling. This was not a tragic or miserable figure. She was unapologetically joyous and fun – and she knew how to accessorise.
I’m not alone in this feeling. After the actor Ruth Madeley appeared in Doctor Who this month with rockets in her wheelchair, she told the Times that many disabled children are now asking for the fictional gadget for Christmas. These children had watched a wheelchair-using character be cool and powerful – and they were able to see themselves in her. Those who can’t understand the wonder of that feeling have probably never glanced at a television or magazine and seen no one who looks like them. Representation tends to seem less important when you’ve always been represented.
I don’t know if my niece’s generation growing up with diverse toys will make a difference. Maybe it will lead them to be more tolerant or caring. Maybe the toys will end up on Vinted by the new year. But I hope it can play a small part in change. The dolls that we play with as children enable us to imagine what the world could be like, just as the little hands that comb their hair today will one day be the hands that sign the laws and write the books. On Christmas morning, disabled children now get to wake up to toys that reflect their lives – and children with disabled loved ones can do the same. Barbie might not change the world, but it does provide a ramp for doing so.
Frances Ryan is a Guardian columnist
