They were an impossibly good-looking couple, forever rocking micro-shades, twinning with their similarly bronzed skin and early-aughts cool. Their divorce—and the woman who was rumored to have caused it—rocked the community. I’m not referring to Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt. I’m talking about my parents and their scandalous separation.
My mother and father first split when I was 10 years old, in 2003. They told me it was amicable, that it wasn’t my fault, that they’d always be my parents. But their split was messy. For the first two years, they still lived in the same house. They dabbled in couples therapy, slept in separate rooms, and took turns having nights out with their single friends (dad’s night out was always Thursday, mom got the Tuesday shift). It wasn’t until 2005 that my father moved out and I realized what we were dealing with was more than just a new sleeping arrangement—that their breakup was the real deal.
Then, as luck would have it, a certain celebrity, one that could be classified as the most famous in the world at the time, announced her own divorce, right as my parents began proceedings on theirs, forever tethering two conscious uncouplings in my mind.
I’d always loved Aniston and considered myself a for-real fan. I was also nine years old and alarmingly invested in her marriage to Pitt. Exhibit A: The letter I wrote to Aniston in 2002, saying, “Please tell your husband that I thought he did a very good job in Ocean’s Eleven and that it was one of my favorite movies.” I loved that, in her wedding vows, she promised to always make Brad’s favorite banana milkshake, that he made a cameo on Friends as the president of the “I Hate Rachel Green Club,” that they always showed up to red carpets looking like the all-American golden couple they were.
So when they broke up, I was stunned. But when I found out why they broke up, I was really stunned. The Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie alleged love triangle was my first glimpse of infidelity. And as the tabloids chronicled every single facet of the relationship’s demise (with vile headlines that often alluded to rumors about Aniston's unwillingness or inability to have children), I started to piece together the rumblings I’d been hearing in my own household, the whispers from all of the adults in my life. It was the inescapable and addictive news coverage of Jen, Brad, and Angelina that made me realize the glaringly obvious fact that my parents' marriage had ended in a similar fashion.
It didn’t take long for the media’s obsession with the end of the golden couple to turn into a full-on Jen-versus-Angie feeding frenzy. Every tabloid pitted them against each other, and retailers like early-2000s celebrity-favorite Kitson sold “Team Aniston” and “Team Jolie” shirts—most famously worn by Paris and Nicky Hilton on L.A.'s Robertson Boulevard.
It was this narrative—these two women as eternal mortal enemies—that both the press and I clung to. In my mind, my mother became Jennifer Aniston: the scorned girl next door. And my father’s new girlfriend, with her belly button piercing, skimpy clothing, and wild mane, became a stand-in for Angelina. So I swore loyalty to my mother and Team Aniston, opted out of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and cursed Jolie's name when the W spread of Brangelina playing house hit newsstands.
And it stayed that way for years. I saw The Breakup opening weekend. Every time someone praised Jolie's philanthropic work, I retorted that she was a homewrecker. Obviously, I knew nothing of the situation other than what the rags were reporting, yet I stood by Aniston despite a few questionable romantic choices (John Mayer—really?). In my real life, I grew older and even closer to my mother as I continued to keep my distance from my Angie and held tight to the vision of my parents' divorce I’d stolen from the headlines years prior.
Then something funny happened. In 2016 Brangelina parted ways. At first, I was thrilled. Remember that New York Post cover that came out with Aniston laughing about their separation announcement? That was my reaction, except I was laughing even harder. But then it didn’t take long for the rumors to emerge that their split was prompted by Pitt's on-set affair with French actress Marion Cotillard while filming another sexy spy flick, Allied. Though it seemingly proved to be nothing other than gossip, it struck an emerging-feminist nerve: During all my years of anger, there were two people I was never mad at: Brad and my father.
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As a young girl who loved (and still absolutely loves) her dad, the tale of Brangelina provided me with the perfect way to avoid assigning my father any blame. It made the women in my father’s life the center of the drama, absolving him of any misdoing. Much like how, in the media, we were all so obsessed with the Jen and Angie feud, that Brad got out of it nearly unscathed. In all the T-shirt making, where was the “Team Fuck Brad” top?
But with the demise of Brangelina, I no longer felt vindicated. I just felt sad. This was a real marriage that ended, and all the press could do was start circulating “Will they or won’t they” articles about a Brad and Jen reconciliation. I no longer found comfort in the narrative the media had created; instead I was outraged that these women’s pain was made into the story of the ages. And I was angry at myself, for deriving so much pleasure from it.
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While the media hasn’t retired the lonely-ex-versus-the-hot-replacement-girlfriend storyline, as women in Hollywood come together to say Time's Up, they’re also calling bullshit on this narrative. Take Olivia Munn and Anna Faris, who didn’t let themselves become Jen and Angie Take Two after Faris' divorce from Chris Pratt. When rumors swirled Munn and Pratt were having an affair, she posted an Instagram text exchange with Faris and captioned it, “Not every woman is scorned and upset after a breakup," Munn wrote. "Not every woman is 'furious' at another woman for dating her ex…. So even if I was dating [Chris], some tabloids got me and [Anna] all wrong...women respect and love each other a lot more than some people like to think." But it’s not the women’s responsibility to dispel the rumors; it’s society’s obligation to wake up and realize that pitting women against women is a bad look—plain and simple.
So I’m sorry, Angelina, and Jen too, for perpetuating a story you never chose to be a part of, and were never given the opportunity to excuse yourselves from. I’m on both your teams.
