Ever since the birth of the Barbie Doll at the 1959 New York Toy Fair, she’s always been a shapeshifter. She moves through the consciousness and strikes us on some kinds of levels we transmit. She gets a bad rap, sure, from her appearance in 1965 as an astronaut, 1971 as Malibu Barbie, 1985 as CEO Barbie . . . but the world changes and everyone is different. She has something to do with empowerment, she has something to do with letting children recognize she can be anything, for anyone, because there’s a Blind Barbie . . . and even if you are blind, you can be beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Here comes a girl boppin’ down the street,
a long white cane tapping at her feet.
She’s starin’ right through me way down range,
but something else is more than strange.
Tight to her chest, she’s gotta brand-new doll,
and just like her it can’t see at all.
No, vision doesn’t matter to either girl –
up and down the block, they dance and twirl.

BLIND BARBIE!
BLIND BARBIE!

Her name’s in Braile on top of the box.
A quick-pull tab sets free that fox,
a pink satin blouse and a ruffled skirt –
waves her hand and she pretends to flirt.
A pretty face that gazes up and out,
her lips have a sweet but childish pout.
Mothers of the blind jumped at the news –
A Barbie doll for their daughters’ blues.

BLIND BARBIE!
BLIND BARBIE!

The girl’s so happy to find a friend.
A doll like her? A blind sexy 10.
The neighborhood boys can only sigh,
droppin’ their jaws when they walk by.
Struttin’ up the block, they’re quite a pair,
turnin’ heads with all that golden hair,
blowing in the wind like wild flames –
all the boys shout, What’s her name?

BLIND BARBIE!
BLIND BARBIE!

The new Blind Barbie will turn a buck,
with hopes and dreams and a little luck.
She’s the real deal, the only one
with beauty and power and girly fun.
She might be plastic, she might be vain,
but the Fashionistas are her new game.
If you think you’re special, or legally blind,
she’s the only toy that makes it all just fine.

BLIND BARBIE!
BLIND BARBIE!
SHE’S JUST A DOLL!

There was a Mexican boy,
and by the time he was three,
his father tried to teach him
HOW TO PLAY THAT MARIACHI!

He was born in Paracho,
and his name was Martin –

all he ever wanted
WAS TO GO TO CALIFORNIA!

From the land of guitars,
high in the Mexican mountains,
there was no other music –
YOU HAD TO PLAY MARIACHI!

So he ran away from home
on down to the ocean,
but all he found in Jalisco
IS THEY REALLY LIKE TEQUILA!

He drank up all his money
and he walked to Sonora,
where C. F. Martin made guitars
AND THEY HATED MARICHI!

He took a job sweepin’ floors,
and the very next thing?
He stole a brand new six-string –
IT WAS A MEXICAN MARTIN!

He crossed the border at night
and he hitched to Hollywood,
he’s gonna make it big
WITHOUT THAT DAMN MARIACHI!

And there among the gringos,
Martin mastered tricky chops –
blues, reggae, and rock –
WITHOUT THAT DAMN MARIACHI!

Everybody loved his style
and when they shouted for more,
the ground began to rumble
ON THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA!

The earth started to quake,
it shook the Sunset Strip,
but he was playing hot guitar
BECAUSE IT WASN’T MARIACHI!

Then the Roxy crumbled down
with the Hollywood Bowl,
and before his big finale,
HE TOOK A SHOT OF TEQUILA!

He stood proud and he stood strong
as he played his final song –
his notes rang true and clear
WITHOUT THE HORNS OF MARIACHI!

Then a crevice opened up,
the earth swallowed him clean,
there was no way to save
SEXY MEXICAN MARTIN!

and now south of the border,
down in old Mexico,
he’s the legend who knew
HOW TO BE FREE OF MARIACHI!

Nobody’s laughing.
Nobody’s singing.
Nobody’s calling my name, not anymore.

I’m just another body
left by the side of the road.

Suicide is the leading cause of death
for Native American Women aged 15 to 49.

For these people, homicide
is among the top 5 causes of death.

STOP THE KILLING (x4)

American Indian and Alaskan Native women
make up a significant portion
of missing and murdered individuals.
Who are they? Where did they go?
What happens to their spirits wandering
nameless at night on the road,
on the endless highways?

Sometimes you can see them,
their faces white and ghastly,
their black hair tangled now,
and flecked with blood,
mouths open, screaming silently,
something in their eyes demanding –

demanding justice – where’s the justice?

Think of their children left behind.
The empty spaces everywhere,
the faces they’ve left.
And think of their men wondering forever
about the last instants of their life,
memories of their nights and days together,
swirling, then freezing and shattering,
pellets of beauty flying into the darkness –
now gone, gone, gone forever, gone.

STOP THE KILLING (x4)

So many, so many names and places:

Tina Michelle Brashear from Oklahoma.

Ida Beard and Diane Medicine Horse from Montana.

Freda Noshisgun used to wear her hair real long and wore those Chuck Taylor’s (always saw her by the basketball courts).

Beautiful Rhys Pocan, with that scar that ran from her left eye across her forehead and down to her left cheek.

Stacy Hill from Minnesota, who always had a joke ready to tell.

Shacaiah Harding from Montana, whose dream was to make it to American Idol – and she came close with that voice.

Ashely Loring Heavy Runner.

Tyana Whitehawk last seen leaving a basketball game under a full moon.

Rita Janelle Papakee from Iowa.

Judith Fern Garcia.

Cara Cox.

Delema Lou Sits Poor from Pine.

Ana Mae. Ana Mae. Ana Mae.