“I’ll need a cheaper dress or more allowance before I can get to the prom,” I said. Strange words for a grown man to utter, but there it was.

It all started years ago with Barbie’s Dream House. My sister was the homeowner, and Barbie was the girl who had everything. The original 1965 Dream House folded out to reveal what I can only describe as a studio, containing only a bedroom and living room. Barbie must have done a lot of takeout back then. It seemed she was more concerned with her record album collection and wardrobe as she relaxed on her cardboard furniture.

To complement her house, my sister’s Barbie had two orange plastic convertibles. I’m not sure why she needed two. Maybe a spare for when one was in the shop?

Barbie was single, so Ken would often show up for a visit. Being the younger brother by four years, I always had to be Ken. Luckily, I had some fashion sense and was able to make sure his clothes matched. Though playing with dolls, I was still acting out “guy” things. Having seen too many James Bond films, my Ken was always an undercover spy. He would arrive in his tuxedo, driving one of Barbie’s convertibles, and proceed to kick over furniture and start fights. That usually lasted until my sister yelled, “Play right!” at the top of her lungs, and Mom threatened to pull out the wooden paddle if I didn’t shape up.

I never mentioned Ken in front of my friends. The only doll I owned was one of the original GI Joe figures. Joe had so many moveable joints on his body that he always looked physically challenged and could barely stand on his own two wobbly feet. Joe was an “action figure,” so perfectly acceptable to my father. Ken could stand up straight and look amazing in a sports jacket, but he was a “doll.” At my request, my aunt presented me with my very own Ken for Christmas, complete with a baseball, football, and basketball uniform. Now, he could be an athlete when he wasn’t overturning random furniture as a spy.

My traditional father had a different reaction. Troubled by my doll fixation, he made me a deal. He suggested I turn Ken and his sports paraphernalia over to my sister and instead let him buy me a set of toy guns. I reluctantly handed over Ken and his spiffy sports outfits.

After some deliberation at the store, I returned home with a set of Mattel Fanner 50 cap guns that fit snugly into a black plastic double holster. I loved the way the sun reflected off the shiny silver finish when I wore them around my waist. Now I could participate in the more acceptable activity of playing cowboys with my friends and imitating my comic book western heroes, but I couldn’t escape from Ken so easily.

My sister had the Barbie, Queen of the Prom board game, where it was necessary to acquire a prom dress and find a boyfriend to win. No one wanted Poindexter as a boyfriend, and if I landed on his space, I would cry like a baby until I could swap him out for Tom, Bob, or my buddy, Ken. This was not a game I played with my friends for obvious reasons.

Years later, as an adult, I purchased this game online via eBay and played it with my two sons and nephew, who were then in middle school. After my competitive nephew exclaimed, “I did it. I’m the queen of the prom!” I realized I might be more conservative than I thought and decided it was best to put the game on the shelf.

Fast forward a few years later. My wife’s Japanese niece began playing with Barbies and somehow could not locate any shoes for Ken in Japan. Memories of Ken and his spy adventures came flooding back. I returned to eBay and purchased twenty pairs of shoes for Ken and mailed them to her. Ken could now open his own shoe store if he liked. She was overjoyed at this bond we shared and decided to bring the shoes to school and show her friends.

One of the more obnoxious boys in her class asked, “Where did you get those?”

“My uncle in America got them for me,” she replied.

He was not buying that explanation. “You don’t have an uncle in America! Do you speak English too?” he mocked.

It so happened that my wife, myself, and our two boys had a trip planned to visit her family in Japan that fall. My niece did not speak English, but we are all fluent in Japanese, as I had lived there for eight years in my twenties and my sons were raised around the language. The day after we arrived, my boys and I positioned ourselves outside the school gate and waited for the dismissal bell to ring. My niece was one of the first out and ran over to greet us. A few minutes later, the boy who had tormented her appeared and was surprised to see three rather tall Americans talking to his victim. We called him over and traded a few friendly taunts in his native language. Now he believed her story, and she gained some celebrity in her school, all thanks again to Ken and his need for shoes.

My sons are both grown men now and have since moved out of our home. Though I am always up for the challenge, my Barbie, Queen of the Prom game, still sits on the top shelf of the closet, gathering dust. If anyone is willing to play, however, I like to think I’m now able to accept a drama-free prom invitation from even Poindexter, if necessary.