Stop trying to take her spotlight and leave her alone
By Callie Jordan
Full of emotion and nerves, Britney, shaking, began her first public testimony in 13 years in court. Trying to keep composure by speaking fast to avoid a meltdown, the court transcriber asked Spears to slow down three times as she opened up about what she had been through and shared her truth, listing off her demands while boldly speaking in front of her abusers.
“I just want my life back, it’s been 13 years, and it’s enough,” she said.
The court responded by eliminating her father’s influence while the conservatorship remains intact. So, although her father will no longer manage her affairs, an independent party will step into the role, taking his place for the time being.
Although Britney was scared of the backlash and potentially unfavorable outcomes that could damage her personal and professional life, she knew that she had to advocate for herself, even if it also meant she was vulnerably exposed. In the face of these challenges, nonetheless, she remained firm.
At this moment, I felt empowered alongside her. I never paid much attention to her fame before or considered myself an avid fan because I assumed she was just like every other elite, out-of-touch celebrity. And yet: I was relieved she was on the right track to making her own life choices and not being controlled by others. She was finally safe from harm and exploitation, and I was happy for her.
To me, Britney always seemed too calculatingly perfect. She was sexy and innocent at the same time fulfilling and catering to the virgin-whore dichotomy fantasy of every man’s desires. Her seemingly unthreatening demeanor was the opposite of a feminist killjoy. The way she presented herself in some ways made me feel controlled, muzzled and trapped by the male gaze.
I felt like I was breaking out of her shackles with her because it was larger than the conservatorship. It was really about dismantling how women are fundamentally conceptualized and torn apart by sexualization and objectification.
Britney Spears is known for her famous Catholic school-girl uniform featuring a cropped white collared down blouse tied suggestively at the belly button to meet a black pleated mini skirt and long, knee-high socks. Her hair is styled in two girlish, loose pigtails tied off with pink ribbon and furry scrunchies. Looking at the camera and singing along, her toned body and ripped abs move in sync to the trendy, upbeat pop lyrics of her most famous single, “Hit Me Baby One More Time”.
In the early 2000s, Spears enjoyed the life of Hollywood luxury. She befriended the likes of Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan and sat between them in limo rides on the way to the hottest, exclusive clubs and parties, where she met other Hollywood elites like former boyfriend, Justin Timberlake. Paparazzi captured their dramatic entrances and outlandish, sometimes coordinated outfits.
Teen girls spent their allowances purchasing Britney CDs and blasting her music on their boom boxes at home. Their childhood bedrooms were decorated and lined with images and pictures of their favorite pop star. Every birthday and holiday, they begged for Britney concert tickets to see their idol in person.
At the beginning of her career, Britney seemed hot, rich, and talented. When she hung out with other celebrities, she appeared to be the older, fun, carefree, popular, party girl that I wanted to be. Even though her world was very different and separate from my reality, I imagined that in another life, we could have been friends. Nonetheless, I only knew a few songs off the Circus album because I liked the newer pop stars’ music like Katy Perry more.
When I found out that she was a victim, I was surprised because I was shocked that a woman as powerful as her could be taken advantage of more than the ways that all women are. I guess I figured that her status and wealth transformed her into a super-woman, unlike other women, shielding her against exploitation.
Instead, when socializing with friends, her father enforced curfew and imposed consequences for friends' non-compliance, legal kidnapping. Upon arrival at her Beverly Hills mansion, Spears was greeted at the gate with court-appointed security guards and policemen to escort her into her own home.
On little pieces of paper, she wrote letters in response to media stories covering her divorce and custody battle, handing them off to trusted confidants in private. Friends and loved ones arranged covert meetings in public places like bathroom stalls, slipping new legal forms across the floor awaiting her signature to establish her capacity for legal representation.
On special occasions, personal protection detail and trusted family friends would pack into a van with tinted windows and drive Spears unknowingly to secret, undisclosed locations. Parked at the end of the street sat her car, and under supervision, Britney drove up and down the road.
Britney regularly submitted requests for allowances, spending money only on authorized purchases, awaiting permission for approved outings, and complying with regular unconsented psychological evaluations and drug testing.
Being drugged with high-powered stimulants in combination with lithium, to ensure her cooperation on a daily basis, she worked 12 hours a day for 7 days a week in untrackable, off the grid studio locations making money to pay and fund her abusers' and line pockets of those working under her. Failure to meet these requirements prevented her from weekend visitation with her partner and children. In this way, Britney seemed to perpetuate the harms of toxic patriarchy, bowing to the whims and impulses of powerful men.
Now grown, her two teenage sons defended their mother against their grandfather to culminate into a broken-down door and a fistfight. The boys’ father and Spear’s ex-husband filed a restraining order against Spear’s father for putting the children and his ex-partner’s safety at risk.
Loyal, dedicated fans and supporters collected clues from Spear’s oftentimes cryptic and infrequent social media posts and presence and developed plans to help save and protect her. At regularly scheduled court check-ins, they would rally behind her in protest, defiantly waving #FreeBritney signs and posters. They cheered in celebration when suspicions about her father were confirmed because they knew all along Britney was in trouble and needed their help.
This act of women coming together to support women was moving to watch. In some ways, I feel like I’ve been in a society that wanted me to be like Britney, against my will, so when she was liberated, I, by extension, was too. As a survivor of sexual assault myself, I understand what it’s like to be victimized, and her story spoke to me even more. With this shared commonality in mind, I wanted to hear more from her and started to listen to and appreciate her music in a new light.
But then, as I started seeing movies, podcasts, and blogs about Britney, I noticed something. Ex-managers, journalists, photographers, backup dancers, and various members of her medical team often participated in documentaries and contributed to articles and books written about Spear’s life, where she is not present. She was still not telling her own story.
In Netflix’s Britney Vs. Spears, dramatic, pensive music, and a collage of childhood pictures frame a viewing screen of a little girl pictured between her parents. As she gets older, the images change to an older version of the child, oftentimes putting on dancing and singing shows and performing for small crowds and audiences. The final pixels align to form 16-year-old Britney at the start of her career.
I imagine at first watch, Britney scratched her head, confused about the irregularities and falsities. I can envision her crying, hiding under the covers in bed, and refusing to leave the house because of how embarrassing the coverage might have been.
Britney doesn’t appreciate public interventions and interjections to save her and prop her up to be a cautionary tale of toxic conservatorships. She never wanted to be represented as a poster child for conservatorship awareness.
I felt embarrassed. I felt like I was part of the problem.
While I’ve grown into adulthood and somewhat freed myself to be my own person, as Britney has, I’m still figuring things out. I realize now that it takes space to grow and have your own sense of yourself, which means telling your own story.
Framing Britney in a disempowered way takes this epistemic privilege away from her and only serves to perpetuate further victimization. If I am honest with myself, it’s easy to do, but it’s self-serving for the benefit of my own needs. When I get to control Britney’s narrative, I feel more connected to her by trauma bonding. Even if I tell myself that this is the right way to think about it because she clearly has been wronged and deserves justice, it doesn’t support either of our healing processes and journeys.
If I instead imagine Britney’s story how she would want it, I can see her as an anonymous woman placing her order for coffee and a croissant with the barista. Dumping the contents of her giant purse out at the counter, searching for the credit card, she holds up the line. Then, she absentmindedly scrolls through her Instagram feed liking the dance video reels that pop up. Coffee in hand, she jingles a busy keychain and disappears into the crowded parking lot, pressing the buttons furiously listening for the beep.
Sitting in traffic, she takes turns sipping and hitting replay on a song she likes. Her speed matches the rhythm of the song, and a little bit of hot coffee drips down the sides of the cup onto her pants, seeping into the car seats.
When she unlocks the front door, her dogs race in mad circles, jumping up and down to greet her. She hurriedly tosses her stuff on the cluttered kitchen table and opens her arms to be embraced with wet slobbering licks and kisses. The large, excited dogs run straight into her arms, knocking her off balance. Leftover coffee contents spill onto the floor to be lapped up later.
Finally, she slips off her tennis shoes and begins to sprawl out across a hot pink yoga mat lining the spacious and otherwise cold hardwood floors. One leg is tucked, resting against her inner thigh, while the other lies outstretched before her. She begins to bend forward and feels an intense pull radiating from her hamstrings. Then she sits upright, legs together criss-cross, and starts to flap her thighs as butterflies. She pulls one forearm, opposite, across the width of her body, holding her free arm at the wrist. Suddenly, pulsating, upbeat music vibrates and shakes the house.
On her feet, she twirls and completes a perfect pierrette, smiling through the sweat. Twisting her torso and rolling her body, the music comes over her, and her arms are raised in surrender.