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In the summer of 2021, content creator and specialty baker Joshua Gash moved out of West Hollywood and returned to his hometown in North Carolina. He was ready for a change, but he had one major logistical hurdle to overcome: how to transport a cherished collection of more than 600 Black Barbie dolls across the country. “I had no idea how I would do it,” Gash says. He considered stuffing the Barbies inside his black Volkswagen Beetle and shipping the vehicle. He quickly nixed the idea: Too many dolls. “I ended up using FedEx,” the 30-year-old says. “I shipped 11 extra-large boxes full of Barbies.” The grand total: $1,500.
Then there’s Houston resident Taylor Brione, who works full-time as an event planner. Brione sleeps in one room of her two-bedroom apartment, while the other is dedicated to the hundreds of Barbies, also all Black, she’s collected over the last 12 years. Occasionally, local Girl Scouts troops will tour the collection. “A lot of the girls have never seen that many Black Barbies before,” Brione, 31, says. “That’s really why I collect—because representation is so important.”
Collectors of Black Barbies are, in many ways, a niche within a niche. Composed of spirited individuals across the globe who often connect online and at in-person doll conventions, these collectors focus specifically on the more melanated versions of Barbie, which collectors call AA Barbies (shorthand for African American). To them, the hunt is about more than having and displaying dolls. It’s also about celebrating Black identities.
In a video posted to her TikTok page, Brione explained the impetus behind her collection. “Dolls that looked like this were not around,” she says in the clip, referring to her 1990s childhood. She held up two contemporary Black Barbies. “The fact that Barbie Holiday from 2021 has twists? The fact that we have the same hairstyle right now?” Brione says, showing off her own braids. “It’s a testament to how important representation is. But it’s also kind of sad that you had to be 20 until you saw your first doll with an Afro.”
Gash’s own collection operates in a way as a do-over, one that brings him joy and pride. “My sister always got to play with Barbies, and I never did,” he shared. “So now this is my chance.” Black Barbies decorated the hot pink walls of his former West Hollywood apartment like a Toys “R” Us (RIP) shelf. He first began collecting the dolls a few years ago as a reprieve from the heaviness he felt in the world around him. “I was in WeHo and…there just is not a lot of Black representation there,” Gash recalls. “And every time I turned on the news, there was something bad happening to Black people—especially men. I wanted to surround myself with beautiful Black things.”
So Gash steadily began collecting, until he had created what he called his “Barbie oasis.” The collection even features custom-made doll versions of Gash and his corded poodle, Rapunzel, who he lovingly calls his mini-me. (“We have the same hair,” Gash says.)
The oasis serves as a critical refuge for Gash. “I could be at work having a bad day and come home to all of this pink and brown skin and curly hair,” he says. “It was my safe haven.”
Black and Barbie: The two concepts have their own long-tailed and thorny sociocultural histories, ideas, and representations of race and gender, respectively. As a result, Black Barbies sit at a loaded point of intersectionality.
But what exactly is a Black Barbie? It’s a bit complicated. Mattel, the toymaker behind Barbie, no longer pitch their Black dolls as such. (The packaging for early offerings in the ‘80s read “Black” directly above the Barbie logo.) But shoppers, many of whom are Black, still use the term. Black Barbie simultaneously operates as an unofficial moniker for a Barbie (the character) produced in melanated shades and also is a sweeping and elastic category for Barbie’s (the brand) array of Black dolls and characters. One scene in Greta Grewig’s big-budget Barbie film, releasing this week, features a host of Barbie characters greeting each other. “Hi, Barbie!” Margot Robbie’s character says to Issa Rae’s. “Hi, Barbie!” Rae responds. That is the beauty of Barbie Land logic and world-building. Black Barbie can be a version of Barbie herself and also her friend—maybe both at the same time.
This was not always the case. The first Barbie was sold in 1959 by the toy company Mattel. Over two decades later, in 1980, Mattel introduced Christie, a Black friend of Barbie. She was a fast hit, and since then, Mattel has steadily expanded its offerings of Black Barbies. And they are no longer simply Barbie’s friend. The company has evolved from peddling brown facsimiles of white Barbies to crafting more culturally and racially specific dolls. There are Barbies who wear satin headwraps, ones modeled after Maya Angelou and Rosa Parks, and a member of Alpha Kappa Alpha, the Black sorority of which vice president Kamala Harris is an alum. For months, Brione scoured vintage markets for the rare AKA doll, which was originally released in 2008 to commemorate the sorority’s centennial. (Brione ultimately paid more than $1,000 for one on eBay. “I just knew I needed to have that doll,” she says.)
Talk to any astute collector, and you’re bound to hear two names eventually: Kitty Black-Perkins and her protégé Stacy McBride-Irby. The two women designed some of the most memorable and revered Black dolls over the decades. Perkins, who joined Mattel in 1976, was responsible for the first Christie doll. That seminal doll was outfitted in hoop earrings, a short ’fro, and a red bodysuit. Her packaging read: “She’s Black! She’s beautiful! She’s dynamite!” In the ’90s, McBride-Irby joined Mattel, and the two women designed the bulk of Black Barbies that hit shelves during the 1990s and 2000s.
“Kitty and Stacey both are major players in Black Barbie’s story,” says Lagueria Davis, who directed a documentary—inspired by her aunt’s own vast collection and work at Mattel—unpacking the history and culture of the dolls. “Those two women showcase the sheer power of diversity and inclusion.”
Still, bringing these culturally and racially specific Barbies to shelves was often challenging. McBride-Irby describes the bulk of her two-decade tenure at Mattel, which ended in 2015, as “rolling with the punches.”
“When we would create dolls, the Black doll was secondary,” McBride-Irby says. “We always created the white doll first, then marketing would determine if a Black doll was needed.” That changed when McBride-Irby created So in Style, an entire line of Black dolls, in 2009. The Barbies came with fuller lips, natural hairstyles, and a wider range of skin tones. “The Princess and the Frog was about to come out in a year, Barack Obama was a candidate for the presidency,” McBride-Irby says of the time. “I was able to pitch my concept to Mattel. I said, ‘Look, we don’t want to be behind the times. We need to start creating this Black line of dolls.’”
The line was a hit and still holds a special spot among Black Barbie collectors like Brione. “The dolls started to actually look like Black people,” Brione says, “instead of just being dolls in different skin tones.”
These days McBride-Irby no longer works in the toy industry, but she is often asked to speak at doll conventions and to collectors. “I did get a direct message from a young lady saying how my dolls made a difference in her life,” McBride-Irby says. “And now she’s 23 years old. So it does make a difference. Even at the time dads were thanking me for making dolls that looked like their daughters.”
On a personal level, collectors say that their dolls have provided powerful, can-do examples—a common theme throughout all Barbies. Gash dreams of one day showing off his Black Barbie collection and expertise on television. Brione, meanwhile, has proudly adopted Barbie’s effortless career hopping, working as a pet-boutique owner, blogger, event planner, and more at different points in her life. “Barbie was president, and I feel like I can be president next if I wanted to,” she says.