E Ellis Allen (girlonstilts.com)

Last weekend, I was out with my husband, two friends, and their significant others. Over bowls of salad, boneless wings, and a seemingly schizophrenic playlist blaring overhead, we talked movies, specifically, Star Wars.

As the men in our group grew more animated about (not the movie) the collectibles associated with the Star Wars franchise, it occurred to me they were talking about dolls and accessories like I would have forty-plus years ago about Barbie.

I never grew out of Barbie — although I no longer have the number of dolls or accessories — occasionally, I wander to the pink aisle in the toy section of Target to see what’s new.

Call it a sixth sense, a sliver of pink fever, a rift in the space-time continuum, or a bump in the Flux capacitor, I know when new Barbie arrivals have come in and race to the rows and rows of Peptobismol-hued nostalgia for a fix.

Last Saturday, while listening to the men hunched over the table, talking about the limited edition Hoth series and the different outfits and accessories Luke Skywalker came with, I wondered why Star Wars toys are acceptable collectibles, but anything Barbie feels immature and shameful. More oddities turned normalities began to form in my head.

In the original Star Wars, the population is disproportionately male-specific, with a few key roles doled out to a couple of galactic gals.

Princess Leia is an Imperial Senate member, a spy, and a rebel base Commander. Except she’s known for her cinnamon bun hairstyle and iconic gold bikini (where’s the feminist revolt against that?).

Even kissing her brother is shrugged off and forgotten once she’s captured by basically a booger with eyes and forced to wear a dog collar and metal two-piece.

In a nice twist, in the latest Barbie movie (directed by Greta Gerwig and written by Gerwig and Noah Baumbach), the audience is transported to a female-gender-specific world. Although the glittery glamazons are named the same, they are specified through their actions and careers. And yeah, a few key roles are doled out to a couple of beached boys named Ken.

I loved the movie. I loved the nostalgia and the spot-on charming world Gerwig created, which could have easily been ripped from one of my childhood memories.

The movie was silly and fun, and yes, there were a lot of choreographed dance numbers (nothing we’re not used to, thanks to TikTok). Still, there was also a giant magnifying glass on feminism that had little to do with what Barbie wore, her outlandish body proportions, or the accessory Ken turned out to be. The story centers around women as complex individuals.

In the movie, Barbie has an existential crisis. The stereotype of who she believes herself to be is complicated by a short dose of experience, leading her to question whether she can do or be anything else. She says those things we think but rarely say out loud, “I’m not pretty enough, smart enough, good enough, capable enough…”

Add to this the mind-blowing monologue delivered by Barbie’s new friend (played by America Ferrera) listing off a conflicting and complicated anthology of everything women ‘have to be’ versus ‘want to be’ left me in tears (and I don’t cry. Ever. Seriously, it’s a problem).

Haven’t we all felt like this? Haven’t we all questioned who we are, compared with who we thought we were and who we should be? Aren’t we all, no matter our gender or social status, feeling a little overwhelmed and lacking somehow? Don’t we all feel totally alone in our universe?

Another intriguing insight I gleaned during the movie was the uncomfortable silence emitted by most of the males sitting in the theater after Ferrera’s breathtaking monologue. It was like watching America’s Funniest Home Videos when a ball is pitched or a bat is swung right into a man’s genitals. Every man watching impulsively crosses his legs and ducks.

That’s what happened in the most poignant part of the movie. When enlightenment, understanding, and translation were held out for men (men with girlfriends, sisters, wives, friends, and mothers) to look at, decipher, and gain some kind of understanding, they simultaneously guarded their loins and became mother-duckers–they physically felt the point but missed the meaning.

Comparing Star Wars to Barbie, I noticed another parallel. Princess Leia was born with The Force. Ken was born in this Barbie-dominated world. Both have abilities and potential they must first be made aware of–kind of like sexism and equality. We don’t know it until we’re shown it (or so it seems). The trick is to actively do something about it once it’s revealed.

I was excited to discuss the Barbie movie at dinner the other night. I wanted to connect, to share the nostalgia with my peers, but our counterparts seemed more interested in their dolls than mine.

It’s not all their fault (and I believe they didn’t intend to diminish or hurt or insult us gals in any way). The fault lies within both parties. They took over the conversation, and we accepted it and even went along because that is what we ALWAYS do.

The men in the Cinemark theater also did nothing wrong. They were there to see a movie (judging by their reaction) that was not on their bucket list. They were being good sports — just like when we sit through every Marvel, Avenger, John Wick, Fast And Furious, and Lord of the Rings movie. The difference is that we try to make a connection. We find things we like and become fans.

Our long social history has shown us that there is a subtle gap between how we regard ‘girl toys’ and ‘boy toys’ and how it seeps into adulthood and gender roles. They shape our conversations, interactions, and even what we watch for entertainment.

Nobody can change social norms overnight, but we can hedge towards this change by expanding our mindsets, checking our pre-made perspectives, and challenging our comfort zones.

We live in a world filled with Star Wars and Barbies. These are common grounds, places for us to share experiences, and foster a greater understanding, for a more inclusive and diverse society.

Because in the end, aren’t we all just looking for that connection — that shared sense of nostalgia, whether coming from a galaxy far, far away or detouring down the pink aisle at Target–we share a common thread that is the human experience.