I can see why right-wing commentators are so worked up about "Barbie."

On a Wednesday night in a suburban theater in the Midwest, the lobby and concession areas were flooded with girls and women in shades of pink. They were posing for photos holding hot pink beach balls in front of a cardboard movie display, under a canopy of rose-colored balloons. There were grandmas and young girls, mothers and daughters, girlfriends and sisters.

I was there in a hot pink blazer with my book club. I had wanted to see Greta Gerwig's live-action film with my daughter, but she had already seen it with her friend.

This sea of pink filled nearly every single seat inside the theater screening the movie starring Margot Robbie as the iconic high-heeled doll and Ryan Gosling as Ken. The movie smashed box-office records with a $162 million debut -- beating Tom Cruise's latest in the "Mission Impossible" franchise -- making it the biggest opening weekend of the year.

It is, indeed, a Barbie world.

The film provoked conservative commentator Ben Shapiro into such a frenzy that he posted a 43-minute rant about it featuring a Barbie doll set on fire in a trash can. There have been scores of others on social media calling for a boycott of a film they describe as "woke trash."

I don't think this apoplectic reaction has anything to do with the content of the feel-good, sumptuously designed, intentionally silly film itself. Rather, it's a reaction to its success. They are unnerved that so many people are flocking to this megahit.

The message of Gerwig's film is about accepting oneself without relying on outside validation and treating others (and oneself) with compassion and respect. Even in the film's alter-Barbie world, matriarchal as opposed to the "real world's" patriarchy, Barbie's journey makes her realize that it's unfair and unkind to keep Ken subordinated and dependent on her gaze. Her human friend, Gloria, played by America Ferrera, offers a rousing self-empowered speech near the end of the film. The monologue is a rather conventional critique of the mixed messages and unrealistic societal expectations placed on girls and women.

Noting that men hold greater political and financial power in the real world is hardly a groundbreaking insight. Just because a script talks about patriarchy doesn't make it a feminist screed. There's nothing radical in the ideas presented in this film, but its delivery is inventive and entertaining and engaging.

Perhaps that's what has triggered Shapiro and his ilk. It puts the language of empowerment in an iconic American symbol of femininity and beauty.

It gives voice to those who saw Barbie as a ballast of the patriarchy and allows her to acknowledge her role in it. Barbie's discomfort in realizing she may have perpetuated the very oppression she is fighting is refreshing to see in such a commercial, mass-market production. It's the subtle moments of self-awareness, like when Barbie loses the unnatural arch in her feet, making her high-heeled shoes painful, where the film shines.

While the movie never uses the word "feminist," it's clear that Barbie enjoys both her beauty and power. For those threatened by women seeking independence, agency and self-acceptance, I suppose the film is subversive.

But young girls (and boys) don't need Barbie to sell them these basic notions of empowerment. They are plenty aware.

The right uses the word "woke" as a political shorthand to describe whatever they don't like or consider progressive. Originally, the term was used to mean being politically conscious and socially aware. Being awakened to various forms of injustice or oppression is a good thing. But in the same way conservatives turned "diversity" and "inclusion," long considered positive American values, into dirty words, "woke" is ammunition in a culture war.

Meanwhile, Barbie was woke and embracing diversity and inclusion more than 50 years ago.

Barbie started her career as a fashion designer in 1959, and she's had more than 200 careers since. She joined the space race as an astronaut in 1965. She traded a nurse's cape for a surgeon's coat in 1973. Mattel introduced a Black doll, "Francie," in 1967, and the first official Black Barbie in 1980.

Part of the film's rousing success is how it taps into our nostalgia and ambivalence toward Barbie and turns it on its head. I am part of the generation that both played with Barbies and later scorned them.

The film is both a send-up and a love letter.

It's not a feminist act to dress up and go to the movies. But sharing collective moments of joy and reclaiming a symbol of feminine beauty and success are powerful in themselves.

That's worth watching.

Candi Halbert wanted a special gift for her mom's 100th birthday. Her quest led the family to an unexpected world record.

Candi's mom, Ira Halbert, is the eldest of 11 children, seven of whom are still living. Candi, a consultant who lives in New York City, grew up hearing her mom's stories about the siblings' childhood on a farm in Shuqualak, Mississippi.

Ira graduated from high school, then from a teachers' college in Mississippi. She taught for a while. In 1945, she came to live with her grandparents in East St. Louis to find a better-paying job. Four of her siblings eventually followed her to the area.

Today, the living Coleman siblings are Ira Halbert, 100; Marie Goodwin, 97; Thomas Coleman, 93; Marjorie Simms, 91; Clytice Dancy, 88; Yvonne Streeter, 81; and Reese Coleman, 76 -- although they go by the nicknames Cute, Honey, Bear, Heart, Kitty, Baby Sis and Partner. Brother Julius Coleman, nicknamed Cricket, died on June 19 at age 78.

Last year, Candi started wondering if her mom's long-lived family might qualify for an entry in Guinness World Records.

"This is probably a long shot, but I'll go ahead and apply," she thought. She gathered everyone's birth certificates, which took several months, and submitted the application last August. She received a notice in February that the claim had been accepted.

As of Aug. 26, 2022, when the record was established, the Coleman siblings (including Julius) had the highest combined age of eight living siblings: 701 years and 302 days. They'll keep the record until someone successfully challenges it.

Their longevity is even more remarkable given that life expectancy for Black Americans lags behind other races and ethnicities. Catherine O. Johnson, lead research scientist at the University of Washington, published research last year examining these disparities in detail.

"These differences are not innate," she said. "This is all because of the society we live in."

Missouri had the biggest disparity among the states from which the researchers collected data. In fact, Black men in Missouri have the lowest life expectancy for all Black men across the U.S., according to the research.

So, what factors -- beyond luck and good genes -- helped the Coleman siblings beat these odds? I recently met with some of them to find out.

Growing up under Jim Crow segregation and racism in Mississippi took a toll on the Coleman kids: They walked for miles on dusty gravel roads to get to their segregated schools, while the white children rode buses. Still, all 11 graduated from high school.

Their family grew all their own fruits and vegetables and raised chickens and cattle. They picked plums, blackberries and wild grapes, and grew squash, rhubarb, peas and corn. They fished and milked the cows. Everything they ate was homegrown and organic before "organic" was a thing.

Candi says her mom attributes her long life to "all of the sunshine and all of the hard work from all of those years." She also attributes it to her deep faith. Their father always told them to treat other people the way they wanted to be treated.

Marie Goodwin recalled her father's frequent advice: "Anytime you can help someone, help them. Don't get puffed up and all that sort of stuff."

Their parents took them to church, and the siblings have maintained strong bonds their entire lives. Ira continued to play piano for the Sunday school at her church until she was 94. The sisters in St. Louis, nicknamed "the Golden Girls," regularly visited Julius in his assisted living facility before his passing.

"They don't look like they are slowing down," Candi said about her aunts, who are in their 90s.

Recently, 164 members of the extended family gathered in St. Louis for a reunion. Three of the brothers were unable to attend because of health issues. The family members filled a ballroom, and Candi told the story of how the siblings set a world record.

She also read proclamations issued by the mayors of three cities where the families have lived -- St. Louis, East St. Louis and Shuqualak. The relatives clapped and cheered for their elders.

Despite their advanced ages, they were down to party. The sisters ended up staying until the very end.

Guadalupe Alexa Marcial of St. Charles, Missouri, knew she would be the wrong age for the moment: a 16-year-old celebrating her quinceanera, a coming-of-age milestone for 15-year-old Latinas.

But she still wanted her once-in-a-lifetime party.

"It's always been my dream to have a quinceanera," she said.

She was in seventh grade when the pandemic hit in 2020. Her school shut down after spring break, and Guadalupe stayed out the entire next year, too.

As the months at home dragged on, she asked her mom if she could still have the party, despite being a year older. Her mom agreed.

Guadalupe was hardly alone: Many girls whose quince anos fell during the pandemic had to delay their celebrations.

The mother and daughter spent two years planning. They reserved a church for the Mass and a community center for the celebration, hired a makeup artist and hairstylist, rented a party bus, arranged for catering, booked a photo booth and secured a DJ, photographer and videographer.

Guadalupe traveled to Chicago to find the perfect emerald-green gown, while the rest of her court -- composed of five chambelanes, or escorts -- got outfitted with tuxes at St. Louis' first dedicated quinceanera boutique, Bidi Bidi Bom Bom.

As the population of Hispanic residents has risen in the St. Louis metro area, there's been a boom in the services available to families planning this major life event. The parties have also become more elaborate and expensive, often rivaling -- or exceeding -- the cost of many weddings. A quinceanera dress alone can cost anywhere from $500 to $2,000, and the entire party often runs from $15,000 to $30,000.

Some families share the expense of the party with several padrinos and madrinas, or godparents, each of whom sponsors a different element of the event. A close relative might pay for the catering or the cake, for instance, while a family friend might pay for the limo or photography.

Guadalupe's big day finally arrived, beginning with a Mass in Spanish and English. Shortly after noon, she and about 20 of her friends boarded their party bus and headed to St. Louis' historic Main Street for a photo shoot. Next stop: Starbucks.

"A lot of people were staring," she said. Several complimented her dress and asked if there was a wedding.

Around 4:30, she made a grand entrance at her party while mariachis serenaded her with the traditional birthday song. The musicians continued playing while 300 guests dined on chicken with mole verde, rice and beans.

After dinner, a series of traditional dances and ceremonies began. In one, the shadow of a toddler appeared against a curtain backdrop and was then replaced in turn with a 7-year-old, an 11-year-old and finally a 13-year-old, symbolizing a little girl growing up.

Guadalupe's father lives out of town and could not attend the event, so the dancing began with a mother-daughter waltz instead. The guest of honor missed her father, and the emotions of the day were getting to her.

She started to cry. Her mother's friend pulled her into the kitchen.

"Everything is going to be OK," she said. "He's going to call you tomorrow. You should enjoy your day."

After drying her tears and fixing her makeup, Guadalupe joined her escorts for their dance.

Traditional rituals followed -- her godmother placing a crown on her head and her grandmother changing her tennis shoes to glittery gold heels. She performed a dance with two younger girls, who then presented her with her last doll.

A modern trend in quinceaneras is for the honoree and her court to perform a surprise dance number. So at the end of the night, Guadalupe swapped her dress for black bootcut jeans and a green shirt, and her chambelanes ditched their tuxes for jeans, boots and sombreros. They did a mix of different Latin dances, to the delight of the guests.

The day turned out to be just as memorable as Guadalupe had imagined. And well worth waiting for.