Robots & Barbies

Lauren Myers

I didn’t get my first A minus until my first semester of college. 

It’s a perfectly respectable grade, especially as a new college student, yet part of me felt strange to see the foreign minus mark next to the A. I was an overachieving perfectionist in high school—to put it lightly—and my status as a distinguished honor roll student was both a source of pride as well as one of shame for me growing up. So when I saw that dreaded A- appear on my transcript, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

Mostly, though, I felt relieved. 

This small, pale stain on my academic record would finally relinquish me of the “perfection” that claimed my identity in high school.

When I look back now, I realize my perfectionist problem started much earlier than high school. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always excelled in my school work. I’ve loved reading even before I could actually read, and as early as second grade, I was labeled “gifted” despite the fact that my tiny, rural school offered no real opportunities for kids like me. 

In middle school, my classmates started calling me “Robot,” for my high grades and strong participation in school. Usually, I simply laughed or brushed it off, pretending it didn’t bother me that the only thing kids saw when they looked at me was my ability to rapidly solve algebra problems or earn an A on a challenging science test. 

In high school, I decided to try to change the way people saw me. I sat strategically near the back of the classroom. I didn’t share my grade when the teacher passed back tests and answered questions only when called upon, hoping people would forget their nickname for me. 

This strategy (shockingly) didn’t work out so well for me. I wasn’t willing to compromise my desire for academic success, and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse to try at something so important when I knew I was good at it. I’ve always had a passion for learning, for being deeply curious about the world. My hard working nature was already ingrained too deep. And like my love for learning, the perception everyone in my life had of me felt too rooted in place to ever change. 

This lingering Robot perception of me extended beyond my involvement in academics. Being noticed only for my brain reinforced negative self-images I had of myself, and I thought that no one found interest in me romantically. I thought that the problem was me: I wasn’t attractive or desirable enough. I had to be a brain, I couldn’t simply be a girl. 

It was true I had never been particularly feminine. Actually, growing up I had an aversion to all the conventional “girly” things. I hated school dances and renounced anything pink. I never liked wearing a dress or makeup or jewelry. I never wanted to go shopping or get my nails done. My mom teased me for wearing only sweatshirts and jeans but it was what I found most comfortable, especially at an age when I simply wanted to disappear. All of this made me feel like I didn’t know how to dress or date or even truly be feminine. I struggled to feel beautiful, confident, and worthy of love. 

It took a long time for me to realize this glittery pink version of femininity wasn’t the only way to be a woman. In fact, there is no one right way. Contrary to what society might condition us to believe, women can be both smart and beautiful. It sounds obvious, but it took me longer than I’d like to admit to realize I shouldn’t have to sacrifice part of myself in order to feel desirable. My intelligence isn’t the only facet of myself worthy of notice from the world. There isn’t anything wrong with me for the way others choose to characterize me. The problem was never internal but external, and I realized no matter what I did, how other people perceive me isn’t necessarily a true reflection of who I am. What’s wrong is their perception, the fact that they only cared to look at one piece of my identity.

This simultaneous struggle to define myself as a woman, see myself as beautiful, and be perceived as something other than a Robot is my fight to overcome what I call the Robot-Barbie Dichotomy.

Society has countless expectations for women, many of which are contradictory: Be smart but not the smartest person in the room because no one likes a know-it-all. Be pretty but make it look natural, even effortless, don’t wear too much makeup. Be confident but don’t flaunt it; no one likes a girl who’s arrogant. Smile. Be nice but not a pushover. Let guys pursue you, but don’t be too easy. Be a cool girl, don’t let anything make you emotional. But be strong and assertive, don’t let anything get in your way.  

It’s easy to see why so many women struggle to make sense of their identities, to break free from the dichotomy society tries to pigeonhole us into. Sometimes it feels like the world will only ever see you as one of two things: a Barbie or a Robot. And although some of these statements may seem outdated, the reduction of women’s identities remains a very real and prevalent issue. I’ve experienced it and I’m sure many of you have too, whatever your version of the dichotomy might be. I’m still working on letting go of the versions of myself I once thought I had to be, and even more difficult, the shame that accompanied the desire to fit myself into a neat box within the dichotomy.

So my encouragement to you now is this: be contradictory. 

Be surprising, be creative, be whatever you want to be. Don’t let anyone convince you that you aren’t capable of becoming whoever you wish to be. And don’t feel like you have to choose between identities; embrace them all. 

Edited by: Kate Castello