High pigtail braids adorned with fluffy pink pom-poms and tiny hot pink bow-ties at the ends. Stray wisps of hair danced free like a child’s hair. A Catholic schoolgirl outfit that was clearly altered to emphasize the barely post-pubescent features of a girl still two years shy of adulthood. Her white shirt unbuttoned to show her bra, knotted to expose her taut, tan belly. Knee-high socks.
Britney Spears’ music video for “…Baby One More Time” portrays a high school girl trying to appear seductive, almost like a child playing dress-up. I was a college sophomore when it debuted, and I felt a surge of anger as I watched it. The layers of implied ages—a high school girl attempting to look older (by unbuttoning her shirt and tying it up) while simultaneously highlighting her youthful features (the pigtail braids, the pink pom-pom hair accessories, the knee-highs)—infuriated me.
“My loneliness is killing me,” sings 16-year-old Britney, gazing up at the camera with big doe eyes and a pout. The camera zooms in on her face just as she sings, amplifying the longing in her expressive brown eyes. The perspective suggests the viewer is towering over her; she appears small, innocent, and lonely. It evokes a desire to alleviate her suffering.
At the onset of her stardom, Britney Spears’ image screamed Lolita, hinting at pedophilia. She posed for a photoshoot with a little girl’s pink bicycle, her back to the camera, wearing tiny white shorts adorned with the word “baby” in rhinestones. Peeking over her shoulder with a suggestive look, she bent slightly to grasp the bike’s handlebars, complete with a whimsical pink-and-white woven basket.
On the April 1999 cover of Rolling Stone, Spears hugged a Teletubby under one arm and held a phone in the other, clad in a push-up bra and pink polka-dotted underwear with a satin bow. Her shirt was fully open, giving off the impression of someone who just couldn’t resist being provocative. At seventeen, she was portrayed as both youthful and alluring, with the sexy undertones overshadowing her innocence.
I despised Britney Spears for all these reasons.
I am a survivor of sexual assault. The first incident happened when I was seven, involving an older male relative. At 15, I became involved with a man I thought was 19 but later learned was actually 29. I lost track of how many grown men leered at me, commenting on my appearance. I vividly remember an acquaintance of my father scanning my 13-year-old body and telling him, “… man, if she wasn’t 13…” My father didn’t correct him; he was accustomed to that line of thinking.
I shared Britney’s big brown doe eyes. While I wasn’t as naturally attractive as she was, with the right makeup, I could resemble her enough to garner frequent comparisons. I understood the allure my youth held over men, but I was oblivious to the dangers that accompanied it.
I craved the attention I received for looking like Spears, yet I loathed her. I despised her for her music, her videos, and the images she projected. I felt jealousy and attraction toward her, all while maintaining my animosity. “I’m a Slave 4 U”? First, she made that revolting pigtail-braid video, and now she wanted to be someone’s slave? Seriously?
And yet, she was still a virgin. This only intensified my hatred. She got to embody the Lolita persona, profit from it, and evade the sexual trauma and shame that came with it.
Over two decades have passed since then. Like many others, I’ve followed the revelations surrounding Britney Spears’ forced conservatorship through news and social media. I’ve watched her Instagram videos where she twirls in charming peasant blouses, her signature black eyeliner smudged in a way that raises concern. She still occasionally speaks in a baby voice.
I listened as she testified in court, advocating for herself. I heard the tremor in her voice, but also her strength. The nasally baby voice was gone, replaced by a confident alto. “Ma’am,” she addressed Judge Brenda Penny. “I’m not here to be anyone’s slave.”
Britney recounted how she had been compelled to submit to her father’s control for 13 years, while her family stood by without intervening. She expressed how, at a time when she was supposedly too mentally unwell to care for herself, she was working full-time. “I shouldn’t be in a conservatorship if I can work and provide money and work for myself and pay other people,” she asserted. She spoke about the IUD imposed on her, preventing her from having more children, something she desires.
Weeks later, I watched her joyfully react on Instagram after buying her first iPad.
At 41, the original anger I felt while watching the “…Baby One More Time” video has transformed. Now, I see a young girl treated as nothing more than a product, with little control over her own life. Interviews with those who made decisions about Britney’s career at that time reveal that to them, she was merely a flashing dollar sign.
Entertainment Weekly reported in 2018 that NaNa Hedin, a backup singer for the “…Baby One More Time” track, commented, “The magic is the attitude. Deep underneath the pop sound, there’s a sexy rock rebel attitude from a young schoolgirl and her voice.” A sexy rock rebel—derived from a young schoolgirl.
They knew exactly what they were doing. They understood they were presenting a virginal high schooler with adult desires while simultaneously appealing to viewers with her childlike innocence. Pigtail braids, little pink bows, knee-high socks, and a child’s bicycle. At the time of the Rolling Stone cover, the world was literally counting down to Britney’s 18th birthday, eager to objectify her without feeling like pedophiles.
Two decades later, all I want is to give Britney Spears a hug. I want to confront her father and everyone else who exploited her without considering the harm they inflicted. The executives, the producers, the photographers, the media—every last one of them deserves a reckoning. I want to tell Britney, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand.” I had yet to come to terms with my own trauma, and much of my view of the world, and of Britney, was shaped by that pain. I failed to see that she was just as much a victim as I was—more so, as I was able to escape and heal. Britney Spears remains trapped, and she deserves liberation.
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