We saw Scooter as soon as we exited the terminal. He broke out in a winning smile when he hopped out of his car to grab our bags. He gave me a warm hug and high-fived Justin. “It’s so good to see you guys. How was your flight?”
As we sped off toward downtown Atlanta, whizzing down the wide expanse of highway, Scooter told us of his plans. “Right before you guys came out of the airport, I got a call from Jermaine Dupri. He challenged me to a video game at the studio, NBA 2K8. You guys mind if we stop in for a bit?”
Justin piped up from the backseat. “Oh, I love that game! Can I play with you guys?”
Scooter looked at Justin in the rearview mirror. “Of course,” he said with a wink and a smile. “But be prepared to lose.”
It was game on for Justin. He wasn’t one to pass up a friendly competition. As the downtown skyscrapers started appearing in front of us on the horizon, Scooter and Justin kept up the smack talk.
I loved how the two of them immediately hit it off. Scooter was silly and had a knack for making Justin laugh, especially when he broke out in his “surfer dude” voice. I was quiet, observing the two of them, still skeptical of the opportunity and where it would lead. I was focused on being a mother, staying grounded and not getting caught up in the whirlwind of what could very well be a lucrative career for Justin in the music industry. I couldn’t afford to throw away my brain. I needed to observe without distraction.
By then, I didn’t doubt that Scooter was successful and had accomplished some big things. I was just a mama bear who wasn’t easily impressed. While I appreciate and respect talent and achievements, my priority was being Justin’s mother. My job, first and foremost, was to protect and watch over him, to keep his best interests in mind at all times. So while I respected Scooter, I really didn’t focus on who he knew or how well he was connected. I was on guard for the sake of my son. In the entertainment business, it’s easy to get swept away in the fame, the flash, and the glamour—all the sexy things most people believe encompass the music world.
Right when we pulled up to the studio, a black Range Rover pulled up alongside us. When Justin saw who got out of the truck, he practically cannonballed out of the backseat. Dressed in a leather jacket and wearing designer shades, Usher looked cool and almost aloof as he swaggered past us into the studio.
“Hey, Usher,” Justin called out, taking longer strides to catch up with one of his music heroes. “I’m a huge fan and I know your songs. Can I sing you one?”
Usher smiled and politely brushed us off. “Some other time, buddy. It’s cold outside.” We wouldn’t see him until our next trip a few months later.
Scooter asked if I could wait in the lobby while he and Justin went inside the studio. Of course I could. But I’ll be honest. Though I knew it wasn’t personal, I was disappointed. I knew Scooter wanted to play it cool and not make a big deal out of Justin meeting Jermaine (I think he even may have introduced Justin as his nephew). But to some extent, it made me feel left out.
Here I was, a mother who had spent the last thirteen years single-handedly raising her son. It had been us against the world. And now we were in another country, facing some important decisions, and we were apart. I never liked being away from Justin, even now. I walked around the lobby while I waited, trying to keep myself distracted. There were plaques lining the wall showcasing platinum and gold records from artists like Mariah Carey and Destiny’s Child. Pretty cool, I thought, but I still wasn’t sold.
Later that day, Scooter took us to his friend’s high-rise apartment, where we would stay for the week. The minute we walked into the posh pad on the thirty-second floor, I felt I had just been transported inside a luxury interior design magazine. The place was a stylish and sleek ultramodern bachelor pad. It boasted shiny hardwood floors, a white plush sheepskin at the foot of a candy apple red leather couch, floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views of downtown, and Justin’s all-time favorite, the biggest flat-screen TV he had ever seen. The bedrooms were stark white, almost blinding, and uncluttered, with little in them except for more flat-screen TVs and the most comfortable beds we’d ever slept in. It was official. Justin and I had died and gone to MTV Cribs heaven.
We had a blast just hanging out inside the apartment. We were fascinated by the unique decorative accents that adorned the place, like the box of dominoes with real diamonds and the alligator skull that Justin couldn’t stop touching. We must have taken a hundred pictures just of the stunning apartment. Justin was wide-eyed the entire trip, breaking out in “Oh, cool, Mom,” and “Check this out,” every two minutes. Atlanta was nothing like Stratford. It was a fast-paced metropolis and made the small town where I grew up seem even smaller.
In between our meetings with different producers and singers, Scooter got a call one day from his dad who lived in Connecticut. He was on his way home and had a layover in Atlanta. Scooter hoped the four of us could meet at the airport before his dad’s flight home.
Before we ever met in person, Scooter had talked about the importance of morals and family values and how from day one his parents instilled in him good character. But talking and living it out are two totally separate things. So I was looking forward to meeting with his dad to get a glimpse of Scooter’s roots and to see the dynamic of their relationship in action. If Scooter was going to be Justin’s manager and a significant influence in his life, I wanted to be sure he was a man of integrity. And what better way to find out than by meeting his father?
Ervin Braun, a dentist with a thriving practice, met us at the food court. I believe he had just come back from a wakeboarding trip. A tall, handsome man, he had an unmistakable presence, a self-assured but not arrogant ease. He was also remarkably down-to-earth, one of the nicest men I’ve ever met. At one point Scooter walked his dad over to a quiet hallway, away from the clamor of fifty simultaneous conversations and the bustle of fast-food joints, so Justin could sing for him. Ervin enjoyed the private performance.
Over deli sandwiches, I peppered Scooter’s dad with questions, repeating my fears and concerns about Justin being in the entertainment industry. Throughout our entire meeting, he stressed that his son was trustworthy, had integrity, and would take great care of us. I know Ervin’s assurance wasn’t merely a sales pitch. Every word was sincere. I had pretty good gut instincts; I just knew it.
But I didn’t just take Ervin’s words at face value; I read between the lines. I watched him interact with his son. The love between father and son was evident, as was a mutual respect and like-mindedness. Their relationship made quite an impression on me. I knew Scooter came from a good family, and meeting Ervin helped me eventually seal the deal.
We left Atlanta without making any official commitments. Justin was still in school, and I didn’t plan to take him out before the year was over. While I wasn’t ready to rush into anything, Justin was locked and loaded. If it were up to him, we would have signed on the dotted line before we headed back to Canada. I told Scooter we’d be in touch to discuss what it would look like if we did decide to move forward with him as Justin’s manager.
I was honest with my son, doing my best to walk the thin line of encouraging him while still doling out a healthy medicinal dose of reality. “I know all of this is amazing, an unbelievable opportunity,” I told him. “But don’t get your hopes up. I haven’t made a decision yet.” I didn’t want to be Debbie Downer, but truth was, I still hadn’t come to a definite conclusion. Yes, I had confirmation by way of the answers to my two biggest questions, but I was still wrestling with the decision. There was so much at stake, and it wasn’t about me. This was about Justin, my only child. I needed time and absolute peace before I took the leap and uprooted our lives to another country.
Two or three weeks after our trip to Atlanta, I made the decision. Between the natural progression of my relentless prayers, the confirmation of my two fleeces, the peace that settled my spirit, Scooter’s diligence, and Justin’s passionate drive, the answer was clear. I called Scooter—we were going to
take the leap and move to Atlanta. He started drawing up the contracts.
I was thrilled for Justin, excited to see how this new chapter in his life would unfold page by page. Of course, I still had my concerns about the unpredictability of the music industry and the harsh reality of what can happen to young artists. As a mother those worries—and frankly, worry in general—can entice me. Once the wheels were set in motion after Scooter officially became Justin’s manager, they spun so fast it was dizzying. It was time to plan our move to the United States.
I had plenty of serious talks with Justin during this time. I lavished him with encouragement and love, always quick to tell him how proud I was. But at the same time, I didn’t want him to have a false sense of himself. I never tired of reminding him where his gifts came from and how he found himself surrounded by incredible opportunities. As a mother, I needed to make sure I instilled in him a balanced perspective, a solid understanding of the backdrop of his rising popularity and future career.
I remembered the verse, “A gift opens doors for the one who gives it and brings him into the presence of great people” (Prov. 18:16). So many times, in different ways, I warned Justin, “You can take credit for being disciplined and working hard to hone your talents, but you can’t take credit for being naturally good at them. God gave you these gifts. And the only reason you’re in this position is because of Him.”
Though I never shoved my faith down Justin’s throat, I gave him a strong foundation. I equipped him with certain beliefs and values knowing full well he would have to make the choice how to live his life and what paths he would follow. It will always be his choice.
Though Justin was still in school and I didn’t plan on taking him out until the year was over, he was beside himself. Meanwhile, life continued its steady pace back in Stratford. I worked, Justin went to school, and we posted videos online. That was pretty much it.
Scooter and I worked together to build up Justin’s YouTube following. We stayed up endless nights monitoring the channel, posting videos, and watching his popularity climb. Though we piqued the interest of a few record labels, nobody bit until Scooter brought in Usher and Justin Timberlake. It was an honor just to be considered by both camps. Though we ultimately decided to work with Usher, I feel that we wouldn’t have lost either way.
I remember the trip to see Usher in February of 2008. Justin was stoked to meet one of his idols. I admit, I was pretty excited myself. I grew up listening to his music and admired him. The trip was short but eventful. Usher met us at what looked like a dance studio. A mirror lined one wall and chairs were scattered about. Justin did his thing, singing songs like “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain and even Usher’s “U Got It Bad.” In the middle of a riff in the latter song, Justin playfully asked Usher, “You gonna sing with me or what?” and kept right on crooning. He wasn’t nervous. Not one bit. A natural performer, Justin never gets nervous.
Justin and Usher hit it off. The two of them shared a competitive streak. Usher’s favorite game was Connect Four, and Justin mentioned he hadn’t played in a while. At one or two in the morning, hours before we were scheduled to fly back to Canada, Usher had a Connect Four game and a Rubik’s Cube dropped off for Justin. We were touched by the sweet gesture. And Justin was itching to practice so he could play Usher one day and beat him.
When I shared with my parents the news about moving to Atlanta after the school year, they were excited. They recognized the fact that Justin was presented with an opportunity for greatness. Like any grandparents would be, though, they were also heartbroken that their grandson would be eight hundred miles away. Bruce was crushed. He and Justin shared a special bond, one that Justin couldn’t replicate with another human being, not even his grandmother or me.
I had never seen Bruce shed a tear until Justin performed in the Stratford Star contest. Something about Justin evoked deep emotion. When we told him and my mom about our decision to move, Bruce was a blubbering mess. He was going to miss his little boy. The two of them were a team. Every Friday night, he and Justin would watch the local hockey game at the Allman Arena. Bruce also accompanied me to every one of Justin’s hockey games and even took him to most of his practices.
As apprehensive as I continued to be about the potential pitfalls and temptations that colored the entertainment world, I knew there would be more of a safety net around my son in Atlanta than there would have been in high school back home. Without being around Justin 24-7 in Stratford, known on the streets as the “meth capital” of Canada, I wouldn’t know what kind of trouble he could get into, and believe me, even though it was a small city, there was a lot of trouble around.
From the start, Scooter and I were careful to choose the right people to work with and be around Justin. Though we may not agree on everything and may hold different philosophies, Scooter and I have the same commitment to protecting Justin. We made a conscious decision not to surround him with “yes” men or women. We wanted people on his team who would challenge his character and encourage his integrity. So while the move made me anxious for various reasons, I felt confident about my son’s well-being. I knew Scooter and I would always have our fingers on the pulse of Justin’s daily comings and goings.
Reality has a way of doing a disappearing act when you’re caught up in the upheaval of a major life change. Emotions get sidelined as lengthy to-do lists take precedence. But once the cyclonic fury of tasks—like downsizing your life of thirty-three years into a few suitcases, gathering together medical records and school transcripts, and working out the logistics of moving to another country—dies down to a manageable lull, it happens. Reality pops in like a distant cousin coming for a surprise visit. I had to face the inevitable of saying goodbye to the comforts of the familiar and greeting the uncertainty of the new.
The last month before I vacated my apartment was full of tears. Lots of tears. The days merged into one another as I mourned the loss of the familiar place where I had been born and raised. I took long drives on miles of empty roads alongside picturesque farms on the outskirts of the city. I drove through the charming streets of downtown Stratford, past the library where Justin and I would pore over books like Clifford the Big Red Dog and the Arthur series. I drove past old neighborhoods, reminiscing to myself about my best friends on the block and throwing penny carnivals.
I was leaving behind places and things that provided comfort, that gave me joy, that made me laugh, that offered safety. Everything I had ever known and grown to love about Stratford—from the beautiful river where my son and I admired graceful swans and fed quacking ducks to the theater stage I had performed on and called my second home to homey diners and cafés where my best friends and I would spend hours talking—would be mere memories, eight hundred miles away from my new hometown of Atlanta, Georgia. (Not to mention, there was no Tim Hortons in Atlanta! I had drunk Tim Hortons coffee every day of my adult life! What was I going to do?)
As soon as I gave my landlord notice, my mom swept in like an army general. She got the ball rolling and began the task of getting rid of my stuff. We couldn’t take much to Atlanta—only whatever could fit in a suitcase or two. Room by room, corner by corner, piece by piece, most of my belongings and furniture started disappearing. My mom made quick decisions. This was sold. That was donated. This was thrown out. That was given to a friend. I was grateful for her support, but sometimes she moved at such a rapid pace I couldn’t keep up.
There were moments I needed time. I needed space. I needed to process the fact that bits and pieces of my life, all that I had accumulated over the years, were making their way out of the apartment. In the time it takes to blink—at least that’s how it felt—I found myself a week or two before the move, living in an apartment furnished only with a mattress in the middle of the living room. A handful of Justin’s clothes were strewn in one corner, and a few outfits of mine hung in the closet. The apartment wasn’t the only thing that was bare. I too felt empty. I cried. I didn’t even know where I could find an extra
blanket.
Before my apartment was stripped bare, I had a lot of cleaning to do. I’ll never forget one time when I walked around holding an overstuffed trash bag in one hand. I filled it with old, broken toys that Justin had stopped playing with years ago. Tears fell. Again. He wasn’t a baby anymore. He wasn’t even a little kid. Justin was growing up and literally going places, trekking into unknown territory, a strange landscape I didn’t have a manual or GPS system to help navigate his way through. It seemed not but a day ago when Justin was banging on his high chair, playing the drums for the first time. Was it really over a decade later?
I would stand alone in the empty apartment on moving day, surrounded by the awful off-white walls that looked permanently dirty. As I gazed around the rooms—past the kitchen counter I could never get clean enough, the old appliances that had seen more than enough years, the nicks and scratches on the walls—my eyes landed on the floor of the hallway. I stared at it for a few minutes for no particular reason. The vinyl tiles always looked cracked. It was hard to tell simply by looking at it if the floor was dirty or purposely patterned that way. Though my heart ached from the roller coaster of memories that sped through my mind, I felt sure about one thing: I was definitely not going to miss this dingy apartment.
As my friend Scott, a lifesaver in those last few weeks, helped move some of the heavier things out to the garbage dump one day, I crumpled into his arms like a rag doll. I sobbed on his shoulder, feeling the unbearable weight of this new transition. Though a new chapter was about to be written, I felt my very life, the one I had built, slipping away from my fingers. When we walked out toward the end of the street, from the corner of my eye, I could see the local convenience store where Justin got slushies almost every day after school. Another round of tears fell, turning Scott’s white T-shirt into a saline-soaked mess.
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