No Ken, Was That the Plan?

No Ken, Was That the Plan?

"Barbie, Ken, and G.I. Joe: A glimpse into childhood dynamics, where fantasy meets reality, and the roles we play reflect deeper societal patterns."

Growing up, I didn’t have a Ken doll. My parents weren’t buying me Ken dolls, and they definitely weren’t buying them for my brother. What he had was a G.I. Joe—his idea of male representation came fully armored and ready for battle. Meanwhile, I was left with Barbie, who was supposedly living her best life, but without Ken by her side. Instead, I chopped Barbie’s hair off, making her look like a boy to fill the role of the male figure. That was my balance: a makeshift male for Barbie and G.I. Joe off fighting his own battles. How do these two worlds merge?

Fast forward to today, and the internet feels like a battlefield itself, with a war brewing between Black women and Black men. For the life of me, I can’t understand why we’re at odds. But maybe, just maybe, this started back in childhood. Even though I do understand that our treatment of one another is a byproduct of slavery and the psychological effects of our forced separation and treatment, these early ideas about ourselves and each other were formed long before we even knew what was happening.

Even if we had a Ken doll, were we really playing out healthy relationship dynamics? Probably not. In many ways, we were reenacting the relationship patterns we witnessed at home—the frustrations, the power struggles, the silences. Our dolls were mirrors of what we thought reality was supposed to be. The Barbie and Ken storylines we created were often just reflections of our parents’ interactions, for better or worse. We internalized those traumas, then played them out in our pretend worlds, believing that’s what relationships looked like.

Ken was never really the plan, was he? Whether he was there or not, we were already visualizing dynamics based on what we’d seen, not necessarily what was healthy or ideal. And that’s the power of imagination—it shapes what we believe is possible. As kids, we imagined love and conflict in the ways we had seen it modeled, and that followed us into adulthood, where those imagined realities often play out in our real-life relationships.

Look at the internet today—there’s this ongoing war between Black women and Black men. Men claim Black women are "too independent" or "don’t need a man," while women are tired of being told to shrink themselves, to accept less than what they deserve. It’s like we’re stuck in a battle no one really wants to fight, but we’re carrying these ideas that we’ve been conditioned to believe about each other, and it’s spilling out all over social media.

Where does this disconnect come from? Maybe it comes from how we were taught, both directly and indirectly, about relationships. Think about it: Girls had Barbie, the model of beauty and material success, but without a real partner beside her. She was independent, always, because Ken was never central to her story. Meanwhile, boys had G.I. Joe—a warrior, always ready for battle, with no room for vulnerability, emotions, or balance. These two extremes taught us to expect different things from life and from each other. Girls were raised to imagine life without a true partner, and boys were raised to battle everything—sometimes even themselves.

Now, here we are, grown up and still reenacting these mismatched fantasies. Black men, grappling with systemic racism and toxic masculinity, are taught they have to be invulnerable—hard, cold, distant. Black women, dealing with the same oppressive systems, are told to be strong and independent, carrying the weight of their communities, careers, and families. It’s a setup for conflict. Each side feels unseen, unheard, and unsupported, and it’s playing out in real-time, right in front of our eyes.

But if we learned these behaviors, we can unlearn them, too. The stories we’ve been acting out in our minds don’t have to define our reality forever. Our imagination is powerful, and just as we’ve used it to visualize dysfunction, we can also use it to create something better—healthier, more supportive dynamics between Black men and Black women.

The thing is, we were never meant to be at war with each other. Historically, Black men and women have stood side by side, fighting against external forces of oppression. Somewhere along the line, though, the narrative shifted, and now it feels like we’re fighting each other. But that doesn’t have to be the story. We can flip the script.

Maybe Ken wasn’t the plan, but that doesn’t mean there’s no hope for finding balance and partnership. We just have to stop replaying the old scripts—the ones passed down through our families, our culture, our toys. It’s time to visualize a new reality, one where Black men and Black women can see each other, support each other, and build together. The power of imagination that shaped our childhood fantasies is the same power that can shape our future reality.

So, no, Ken wasn’t the plan. But neither was this war between us. It’s time we stop playing out the roles we were conditioned to believe in and start writing a new narrative. Black men and women aren’t enemies; we’re partners. And together, we can heal the wounds of the past, reimagine our future, and build the reality we deserve—one rooted in love, unity, and understanding.

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