Dear Britney Spears,
I never guessed Project Rose was yr book, pages you worked away at while you danced on Instagram, hiding yr pain behind a smile. What a book you wrote, too, beautiful and heart breaking and moving. I’ve read a lot and heard a lot, spent hours and hours and hours of my life sitting in conference rooms in basements in hotels in hospitals in shelters while I took notes on trauma learned about cycles of abuse studied the power and control wheel back when my job was talking to ppl about the ways ppl hurt each other and the ways the world hurts us and the ways ppl act cruel and the ways we break those patterns having lived those same patterns myself, and let me tell you, Britney, you tell it better and more truthful than those experts ever could.
When my momma broke her wrist she laid on the couch and called me at college to cry over you, watching you be chased stalked harassed by paparazzi intent on turning you into their paycheck. Momma cried and asked why ppl couldn’t just leave you alone and she was right–you deserved more from the world than what you got. You deserved privacy and time to be a mom and time to make mistakes in private like most of us get just by living. You were a light for us all but especially for those of us who were awkward southern girls, unsure of what to do with our hair or makeup or clothes. You sang us club tracks and my favorite songs to run to and made us music videos where you taught us how to flirt and dance and be seen and while I was never good at any of it it wasn’t yr fault, I was just a terrible student.
Back when I voted for yr videos on TRL you reminded me of the older girls at 4-H Camp, girls I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to be or be with before those desires were ever spoken from my lips, counselors confident in their body or feigning it, as they laid out in two pieces by the pool while the rest of us swam and roughhoused and dog-paddled in our one pieces and swim shorts. I’m a country girl, too, Britney, at home barefoot and wandering outside in the fresh air, raised in a small town where all there was to do was church school gossip repeat. What I’m saying is that you were what we strived for out there under those Kentucky skies, you were a country girl made good and beautiful and seemingly powerful, always poised and smiling.
When I read that you asked Justin to wear all denim like a mom going to church with her kids all coordinated I knew exactly what you meant. All our family Easter pictures are shades of pink and white, even my brother matching, as my sister and I wore hats gloves lacy socks carried woven purses, matching in pictures like the perfect southern family though I’ve lost count of the number of years we’ve all gone without talking as a family or the number of times these years long silences have repeated and repeated, a different cycle I’ve also lived through of hurt and tears and memory and sometimes forgiveness.
Britney, I hope you find a way to suck the marrow from life and enjoy something just for yrself. You don’t need my permission or apology but this world has been cruel and mean and you brought none of it on yrself and I just want you to know we see you, us southern and country girls now grown women, and I for one wish you shining sun butterflies soft grass under yr bare feet.
