Beesley, ‘26

Last year, rather than going trick-or-treating or to a random party, my friends and I found ourselves on a yacht for Halloween. It felt like a clear signal: my adolescence was slipping away, and I was stepping into a new chapter as a classy young woman. Standing in front of the mirror, I adjusted my pink Barbie dress, slipped into heels and perfected my makeup. Somewhere in my mind, I wondered if I would meet my Ken.

But this is not a fairy tale; it’s a spooky mystery.

After taking the Metro-North, weaving through the chaos of the subway on Halloween, and trudging 20 minutes on unforgiving sidewalks, my heels stabbing into my feet with every step, we finally made it in line to board the boat. In line, we met two intriguing characters: Mr. NYU and Mr. Google. The conversation started friendly, asking each other what we were for Halloween, how we found out about the party and which city was the best in the world. As we got into the boat, the dynamic shifted suddenly into a “Challengers” situation. It was no longer just a Halloween party.

They both started to promise things we could do together after getting off the boat. Mr. NYU wanted to propose and take me on a tour of the city. Mr. Google wished to travel around the world with me. The decision became increasingly easier once we began to talk about things we were excited about in the coming weeks. I brought up election day and voting for Kamala Harris, and asked if they were excited to vote for a woman in office. They looked at each other. Mr. NYU said, “I don’t follow American politics because I am not a U.S. citizen.”

Mr. Google said, “I am voting for Trump.” My jaw dropped. I was going to hell. The light-hearted conversation shifted to arguing about women's rights and the economy. After a few minutes, I realized there was no changing his mind and walked away.

As my friends and I danced the night away, the pulsing music and glittering city lights of New York created a mesmerizing backdrop. One by one, more men approached us. Scared of repeating the same events, I asked them who they were voting for in the upcoming election. Every man was voting for Trump. Suddenly, I sobered up and realized I was stuck in a Mojo Dojo Casa yacht. The Kens wanted the show, the glitter, the glamor of portraying a specific role, but no one wanted to know the real me.

After snapping pictures with my friends, admiring the Statue of Liberty and battling the occasional wave of seasickness, I stumbled upon my Barbie in a sea of Kens: Ms. Connecticut, a veterinarian voting for Harris. The conversation went effortlessly, and so did the kiss. However, we did not have a lot in common; we were in different stages of our lives, and the genuine connection was missing.

I left the boat with my friends, got food at a shitty diner, sang on the train and recapped the night in my friend's bathtub. These moments truly felt like the essence of Barbie’s world—girlhood, where friendship and the magic of shared adventures shape unforgettable memories.

In retrospect, trick-or-treating does not sound too bad for next year.

Navigating the Mojo Dojo Casa Yacht: A Halloween Tale of Barbie, Politics, and Disillusionment