To The Barbie Liberation Front (first letter)

Dear Comrades,
I rarely remember my dreams and cringe at the thought of recounting any, but must write to you about one them anyway.  It’s triggered an accumulating sense of urgency within me (over many, many months now) and I’m hoping this effort will alleviate some of my distress.
In the dream I have a son who falls in love with Barbie shortly after being born.  I suspect he is drawn to her by carnal desires.  It’s been quite unnerving to consider this.  From what I can remember of the dream, he’s only two months old when I first notice the obsession.
We enter a store to purchase a Barbie for him.  It’s a terrifying place. There’s people wearing skintight t-shirts everywhere, pizza slices stuck all over them.  They repeatedly ask each other if the water slide is open yet.  I don’t want to be there.  I know my baby boy is lusting after Barbie but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, let alone tell my wife.  There he is, my infant progeny, perched on the top shelf of our shopping cart, scanning the shelves like a ravenous bird of prey, applesauce gurgling over his bottom lip.
We stop suddenly before a Barbie doll package.  You people have already altered the contents, swapping the Barbie voice box with one from a G.I. Joe doll.  I don’t know anything about who you are or what you might be up to.  To this day I’m convinced that I didn’t know of your organization before having the dream.  It has introduced me to you somehow, or perhaps, amazingly, your movement is identical to the one in my dream.
I can’t find the words to convey how startled I am as my baby tears away the packaging and pulls on the voice box string sticking out of the Barbie’s back.  He does all this in one fluid motion, displaying the manual dexterity and voracious strength of a grown man. Our attention is redirected toward the Barbie doll.  The store recedes in our peripheral vision, pushed back by a vertigo-inducing swirl of colour around her face.  Everyone is sucked in.  The people around us stop asking each other about the water slide.  Then Barbie speaks, with a sonic intensity I can only describe as gut quivering:  “Vengeance is mine!”
My actual son hasn’t been born yet (not while I’ve been writing this anyway), and when he is, and if he ever does lust after a Barbie doll, will your actions awaken a new sensitivity within him, or do your behavioral policing and consciousness training perpetuate a kind of meaning in difference or negation (an I-am-me-because-I’m-not-you worldview) that replicates the structural violence of the symbolic order you abhor?  I don’t know and can’t stop wondering about it.
 
Are individual freedoms of discovery collectively impossible (regardless of the values we share)?
jeremy