CHAPTER
Twelve

“Mom, there’s a singing competition and I want to try out.”

Twelve-year-old Justin had just come home from school and thrown his bulging backpack on the yellow shag carpet in the living room. How I hated that carpet. But for $140 a month in rent, what did I expect? Marble floors?

I immediately noticed Justin was still wearing his boots. A glistening trail of dirty melting snow ran from the front door to where he stood in the kitchen. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times . . .

“Helloooo.” Justin annoyingly snapped his fingers in front of my face, trying to get my attention. “So what do you think? Can I try out or not?”

An audition? What on earth is he talking about? Is this about soccer? No, wait, didn’t he mention something about singing? “Tell me about it,” I said.

Justin hopped up on the chair next to me, fiddling with the papers that covered the table. A small goldfish would have had enough room to swim in the puddle of melted snow that had dripped off of his boots. “It’s called Stratford Star. It’s kinda like American Idol. Once you pass the auditions, you sing every week against other kids, and then judges vote you off and stuff until there’s only three left.”

Sounded like a competition for older kids. Justin wasn’t even a teenager yet. “How old do you have to be?”

“Twelve to eighteen.”

Wow. That was quite a range. I couldn’t imagine a twelve-year-old competing with an eighteen-year-old. That’s six years of more training, more experience, and more skill. I was actually surprised Justin even considered auditioning. Outside of busking on the streets of Stratford and Toronto purely for fun, he hadn’t performed in front of an audience, certainly not onstage in front of people tasked with judging him. Not to mention that even though I knew he had a great voice and natural talent, he hadn’t taken a single voice lesson in his life.

I had my reservations, but looking at Justin’s eager face and seeing how he was dying for me to say yes, I decided to give him my blessing—just not before I offered words of caution. I didn’t want to throw my son to the wolves or set him up for failure.

“Justin, listen to me. I believe in you and I know you can do anything. You’re talented and smart. Whatever you choose to do, I know you’ll be successful at it. I just want you to be aware of some realities.” I walked Justin through a short tour of my involvement in the theatrical arts as a little girl. “I can’t tell you how many times I auditioned for school plays and even community performances. I would pour my heart and soul into the auditions. And many times I believed wholeheartedly I’d get the part I wanted. But if I didn’t, I was devastated. It broke my heart.” Justin eagerly nodded, hopping off the chair to stand up.

“This is just an audition,” I continued. “Whether or not you make it does not have any bearing on who you are or how talented you are.”

Though Justin’s eyes were locked with mine and I knew he was giving me his undivided attention, I was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes on the inside. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mom, I know. If I don’t win, who cares? Yada yada yada.

I wasn’t going to say yes before I finished saying my piece. “And another thing. You have to remember, you’re competing with people much older than you, as much as six years. That’s a big difference, honey. I’m sure these contestants, especially the older ones, have been doing this for a while. It’s probably not their first time. I’m sure they’ve had training and more experience and a ton of practice. You understand that, right?”

Justin stood there, impatiently anticipating my answer. “So that’s a yes, Mom?”

I smiled. “Yes, Justin. You can try out.”

“Yes!” he said, complete with a Tiger Woods fist pump.

But I still had just a little bit more to say. “And one more thing.”

This time Justin groaned out loud.

“You’re going to do your best, and you’re gonna be awesome. And don’t worry, if you don’t get in, we’ll get you some singing lessons, we’ll practice a ton, and we’ll get ’em next year!”

Justin took off to hang with his buddies. I made a phone call to find out more information and was told the auditions started on December 19, less than two weeks away.

Up to the day before his first audition, I prepared Justin the best I could. There’s a fine line between encouraging your child and giving him or her a reality check. Sometimes the line is practically invisible. I had total faith in Justin. He obviously had talent oozing out of every pore in his body. I just wasn’t sure he could hold his own against older kids who’d spent hundreds of hours practicing for this very moment.

We had barely two weeks before the auditions. We went into overdrive, asking my musician friends who loved and believed in Justin to help us however they could. Even though my son was a natural, he still had plenty to learn. Every day after school, Justin and I would drive over and practice in the youth center (not the Bunker), a drop-in place for teenagers in the community, which had opened its doors for any wannabe contestant who wanted to use their sound equipment and karaoke machine.

Justin wasn’t the only one preparing for the auditions. Practically everyone who planned on auditioning took advantage. By four o’clock in the afternoon, the place was packed with teens playing Ping-Pong and foosball, shooting hoops on the half-court with their squeaky sneakers, and practicing for the upcoming auditions. It was a madhouse.

My musician friends came with us a few times to teach Justin about the basics of performing—things like how to hold a microphone, how to develop stage presence, and how to sing and groove with the music so it looks natural, not forced or awkward. While Justin had to learn about the basics, he didn’t have to learn the “it” factor. I knew it. My friends knew it. People at the youth center who watched him practice knew it. Whatever “it” was, Justin had it.

When the kids who were practicing for the competition took their turns at the mic to rehearse, they battled against the chaotic soundtrack of noisy and obnoxious teenage chatter and bouncing balls. One of the youth workers noted that when it was Justin’s turn to practice, the room fell silent. Everyone stopped what they were doing. She commented how all eyes turned toward Justin.

My son practiced all the time, everywhere—in the car, in the shower, at his grandparents’ house. Sometimes he even practiced on the hockey bench when he was waiting to get thrown into a game or before he’d run some drills. Justin wasn’t even aware he was singing out loud most times. Once he was on the bench and his buddy whipped off his helmet. “Dude, you realize you’re singing, right?”

My son and I bonded during this time. Without an athletic bone in my body, I admit I had a tough time relating to his love for sports. But when it came to music and the arts, we definitely found common ground.

As Justin prepared for his audition, I was more nervous than he was. But he (and nine other competitors) impressed the judges enough to make it through the auditions. There would be three weekly performance days, on which the contestants would sing two or three songs a night, until the final three were chosen. Those remaining competitors would then sing for the final time on January 27, 2007.

Justin and I kicked it into high gear. Together we picked songs that showcased his unique sound—my son definitely had some soul in him—and that he enjoyed singing. The latter was the most important requirement. The songs we picked ran the gamut of styles and feelings—from the lullaby-like melody of “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan to the catchy pop groove of “3 AM” by Matchbox Twenty to the universal favorite “Respect” by Aretha Franklin to his first taste at rapping with Lil’ Bow Wow’s “Basketball.” We had a bit of everything, from pop to country to R&B.

When Justin took the stage for his rendition of “Angel” and I aimed the video camera in his direction, I was nervous, probably more than he was. I quickly scoped out the audience filled with kids and parents, contestants and supporters. I wasn’t the only anxious one in the room. The nervous energy was almost tangible. Some girls couldn’t stop talking or fidgeting and had to be shushed by their moms or annoyed parents around them. Some kids were visibly nervous and leaned into their parents, who protectively wrapped an arm around their shoulders. Then there were the serious contestants, the ones who appeared confident and calm, quietly staking out their competition.

When Justin grabbed hold of the mic at the sound of the first notes of “Angel,” he looked a little uncomfortable, at least not as comfortable as he would look a few performances later. And his outfit? Oh my goodness. Looking back, what were we thinking? We never thought to choose an outfit to complement his song of choice. There he was, singing this beautifully hypnotic melody wearing a huge sweatshirt, a baseball cap, and a pair of oversized sneakers, hip-hop style. One of the judges actually mentioned his outfit. “Pay attention to what you’re wearing,” he suggested. “Your wardrobe reflects your song.”

Once Justin started singing, however, his outfit was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. He sounded amazing. His powerful voice echoed throughout the auditorium that was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. As my little boy sang the soothing tune, my heart melted. I could barely hold up the video camera. Do you know how hard it is to record when tears are welling up in your eyes? I videotaped every performance. I hated watching Justin through the lens and the videos are proof. They’re dark, shaky, and blurry. But hey, I got the footage.

Justin blew me away on this song, as he would every song he sang. I knew if the judges didn’t move him through that round, I would be just as proud. I stared at my twelve-year-old son onstage as he ended his performance with the sound of applause ringing in his ears. His smile was as big as the auditorium. It was obvious—he belonged onstage. It was home.

The truth is, Justin surprised me. He was the only twelve-year-old, the youngest competitor in the entire competition. So when he made it through, I was ecstatic. My jock of a son, who had never had a singing lesson, who had a late start preparing for the contest, who didn’t even know how to properly hold a microphone two weeks earlier, made it past the first round. I’ll never forget when it was the first judge’s turn to critique Justin’s performance. She was so overcome with emotion and tears, she had to wait a turn so she could compose herself and ultimately applaud his efforts.

The more Justin performed, the more his confidence grew. Each song was a little better. His body loosened up more. His personality started coming through. His presence got stronger. Even his outfits got better. And the audience started to fall in love with this adorable adolescent boy with the charming and contagious grin.

While some of the other contestants who remained in the competition week after week were better trained, had more experience, and were more polished, Justin had a certain je ne sais quoi. He had a raw talent that made his mistakes forgivable and sometimes even unnoticeable. The crowd certainly didn’t seem to mind how young and inexperienced Justin was. They were just blown away by his natural confidence on stage.

The judges gushed after his performances, aside from the one constructive criticism to choose an appropriate wardrobe. They called him a “natural born performer” and “Mr. Personality” and told him to “never lose that soul passion.”

And then there were the girls. There were always the girls. Not long after Justin’s first audition, word started spreading like wildfire across town about this cute kid who could sing. I remember walking into the auditorium one week and noticing more commotion than usual at the entrance. The closer we got, the louder the screams. With ponytails whipping in the wind like lassoes, a pack of preteen girls jumped up and down, invisible springs strapped to their feet.

As Justin passed, they squealed. Some of them seemed almost embarrassed at their bold enthusiasm, but when Justin smiled and waved and thanked them for coming, they screamed louder. There were only a handful of them, but I tell you what, they were loud. Even today, I am amazed at the sheer volume a tiny group of girls can make; three of them can easily sound like ten.

By the final week, the audience had grown so much that only a few empty seats remained in the place. There were more girls. More screaming girls. The screaming girls started bringing homemade signs that read in bright glittery letters “I love you, Justin Bieber” and “I vote for Justin.” What a taste of things to come. After one of his performances, one judge, amused by my son’s fans, joked, “I’ve been playing for twenty-five years and I’ve never had girls coming up to me like this.”

Before Justin took the stage and after he performed during the final round, the crowd would chant his name. Girls, mostly. Twenty or thirty of them. “Justin! Justin! Justin!” The rhythmic chant was hypnotic. The chanting alternated with the screaming, voices so loud the judges had to plug their ears. Outside of the proud mama feeling, I found the whole spectacle hilarious. But there wasn’t a doubt in my mind—Justin was the crowd favorite. (I know, I’m a little biased.)

My mom and Bruce faithfully showed up to each of Justin’s performances, as did Jeremy and our extended families (grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—you name it, they were there). Unfortunately, Justin’s grandmother Kate, Jeremy’s mom, lived a five-hour plane ride away and wasn’t able to come. She loved her grandson, and not being able to support him in person devastated her. Justin and I knew she felt left out. He adored Kate and wanted to somehow make her feel involved.

We were at the house one day, Justin preparing for the next day’s competition. He was belting out one of the songs he was thinking of using when he stopped cold. The melody turned into a yell.

“Mom!”

I was washing the dishes, my arms covered in suds and the rush of running water drowning out sounds except for the clanging of dirty dishes. I was about to yell back, “What?” but Justin was too impatient.

“Mom!”

This time Justin barreled into the kitchen like a horse that broke out of the gate. I was so startled I almost dropped a drinking glass on the linoleum floor.

I turned toward him, the dishwater dripping on my jeans. “What’s up, honey?”

“Can we put the videos of the competition on YouTube for Grandma Kate?”

And that’s the inception of Justin’s YouTube journey. He went online not for the random local. Not for the stranger in the next town. Not for the province of Ontario. Not for the world. Justin posted the videos for his grandmother.

Because I was familiar with technology, I was able to not only upload the videos but also tag them for the search engine in such a way that his grandmother and even other relatives and family friends could easily find them in the YouTube video jungle. I even set up a channel specifically for Justin’s videos called “Kidrauhl.” The name was spun from his dad’s online screen name, “Lordrauhl.”

Grandma Kate loved the fact she could watch Justin online. It made her feel special. She was so proud of her grandson, she left one of the very first comments: “Well done, Justin. Hope the other one will be posted too, with the standing O intact!” Ironically, his first comment was from a stranger: “Holy [blank] . . . this kid is awesome.” His cousin followed up with, “Yep, he’s awesome. He will be famous. He’s only 12 now . . .”

Justin made it to the final three with “Basketball” by Lil’ Bow Wow and “So Sick” by Ne-Yo. He gave it his all during these performances. As the opening beats sounded on “Basketball,” Justin strutted onstage, raising his hands and clapping. He didn’t have to psych up the crowd to join in; almost everyone in the audience instantly clapped along with the beat, some even cheering him on.

I couldn’t help but think back on Justin’s first performances. He hadn’t quite connected with the audience, and they hadn’t warmed up to him. It was a struggle for Justin to get them moving. He tried getting them excited and encouraged them to clap as he sang, but it was no use. Outside of the few people who kept the beat, the auditorium was deathly quiet.

His final performances were nothing like that. As the crowd roared during the introduction of “Basketball,” Justin broke out in a breakdance windmill, then a stall. The cheering was so loud you couldn’t even hear the music. He grabbed the mic to start rapping and threw out his baseball cap into the audience. Girls screamed. Parents laughed. The judges couldn’t help but smile and shake their heads. This was it. The audience had a spot in their heart reserved for Justin. He knew how to entertain them. He knew how to get them hyped. And he definitely knew how to make the girls squeal.

He was on fire as he flew through the song, egged on by the boisterous crowd. On this song and his last of the evening, Justin did what he did best. He gave the audience what they wanted—an awesome performance. His passion was evident. It streamed out of him and melted into a puddle at the feet of the crowd. You can’t teach passion like that. You can’t manufacture that kind of spirit. And you can’t fake it. You either have it or you don’t.

Justin was in the final round with seasoned female performers. When he performed “Respect” and busted out moves during the sax solo, the crowd went bananas. Wearing his signature baseball cap backward and baggy pants, he let loose a playful rendition of air sax and didn’t even miss a beat when the microphone fell out of his hand. The audience laughed and Justin broke out in a teasing smirk. He picked up the mic and continued his passionate air sax solo. The snafu made Justin even more lovable, especially because it didn’t affect his performance in the least.

When the winners were to be announced at the end of the performances, Justin stood onstage with the two girls. Being so young, he looked tiny, like a grasshopper in the land of giants. I knew if he didn’t win, I’d be somewhat bummed, but the fact that he shared the stage with talented singers who’d had years of vocal lessons and coaching was an honor in itself. I was proud of him. Proud that he took a chance to even audition and proud that he made it to the top three. Justin’s cheering section of girls was screaming so loudly in support I was sure their voices would be gone by the end of the night. Family and friends joined the hysteria, keeping our fingers crossed and anxiously hoping that he would come in first place.

I know Justin was disappointed when sixteen-year-old Kristen Hawley was announced as the winner. But he knew not to be a sore loser. Whether he was playing hockey or soccer, I always taught him how to be a good sport. As the crowd cheered for Kristen and her face glowed, soaking in the win, Justin reached his hand out to hers. He firmly shook it and whispered, “Congratulations.” That small gesture touched my heart. As confident and bold as he was as a competitor, he always gave respect where it was due. I admired that about my son. And it made me even more proud.

I could see the disappointment building as we chitchatted afterward with the crowd. Judges, friends, family, and random members of the community came up to us, shaking Justin’s hand and telling him how awesome he did, even if he didn’t come home with first place. My son was polite, nodding and saying “Thank you,” shrugging and smiling when others told him he could always try again next year.

I knew he was putting on a brave front. He couldn’t hide from his mother how devastated he was. All mamas can tell what’s really going on behind a mask. Justin was born with a fierce competitive streak. He loved to win—at everything—so losing crushed him. He had poured his heart and soul into the competition. And week after week Justin beat the odds. Week after week, the crowd fell more in love with him. Nursing a loss was like losing a battle. As one of the judges patted his back and praised his performances, I knew it was only a matter of time before those raw emotions of disappointment would surface.

We drove home in silence. From the corner of my eye I could see the tears welling up. I knew that no matter how many times I told him I was proud of him, no matter how many times I told him he had done an amazing job, my reassurances wouldn’t even put a dent in how devastated he felt.

Justin was always hardest on himself. He’s still that way today. If at the end of a concert, he doesn’t feel like the performance was up to his exceptionally high standards—even though everyone else thought he did an outstanding job—he’s miserable. Justin has always been a perfectionist and works hard to be the best, whether he’s playing soccer or hockey or performing onstage in front of thousands of people.

What started as a way to connect with his grandmother morphed into random strangers finding the videos and even making specific requests. Justin and I started recording oodles of videos of him singing all kinds of songs. But we didn’t just make videos for YouTube. I have thousands of videos of Justin simply being silly. He would fool around and make crazy faces and sounds, beatbox, and even make up raps.

I got a kick out of every performance he did—whether it was a song for his YouTube fans or him breakdancing to Michael Jackson in front of no one else but me. When Justin sang or played music, I couldn’t help but notice how much soul and passion he emanated. When I watch these old home videos, absent of professional lighting, proper audio and visual equipment, or even a good videographer (my skills still have not improved), I love how raw and organic they look and sound. They are the most natural expressions of my son’s talent. Where he began. How it all started.

I stayed awake many nights past midnight, a Tim Hortons caffeine fix to my right and my laptop opened in front of me. While Justin slept, I was up monitoring the YouTube channel, uploading new videos, keeping track of stats, and checking comments to make sure they weren’t offensive. Maintaining the channel was time consuming and required a lot of energy and effort, but I loved it. I looked forward to it. It was something fun to do. Every time I posted a video, I would refresh the page every two seconds to see the new comments and the change in view count.

Friends and family weren’t the only ones watching Justin’s videos. I had strategically tagged all his videos by the song title and artist, so searches for that particular song or artist would bring up Justin’s video. That’s how so many people were able to find his videos so effortlessly. While comments came in pretty quickly after we posted the first video, they started pouring in over the next few weeks from people all over the world.

“Wow, dude. You’re pretty good.”

“Nice voice, you’re so talented.”

“Justin, you’re amazing. Watching this makes me want to marry you, lol.”

“He’s going to change the world.”

YouTube is different today than it was back when we were first posting Justin’s videos online. Back then, YouTube had thirty or forty different awards in different categories—ranging from “Most viewed of the day” to “Most favorited” and “Most responded to,” to name a few. The site would give out a number of different awards every day. One afternoon while Justin was gearing up for a hockey game, I noticed one of his videos got a YouTube award. It was his first, something like “10th most viewed video of the day.”

I was so excited I started laughing. Right before my eyes my little boy, who really wasn’t so little anymore, was attracting a crazy amount of attention on the internet. “Justin, you’re not gonna believe this,” I called out while he grabbed a Gatorade out of the fridge and started chugging. “You got a YouTube award.”

Justin looked at me and nodded. “Cool,” he said with a smile. My son was nowhere near as excited as I was about his videos and online following. His channel was on my radar all the time, even at work.

Freelance jobs designing websites were slow in coming, so I took a part-time job at Conestoga College doing administrative work. I was also still teaching some basic computer courses to senior citizens at nearby nursing homes and giving private home lessons. Whenever I had a break in the middle of showing sweet old ladies how to use social media to stay connected with their grandkids, I would check the YouTube channel. How many more comments did Justin get? What did they think of his new song? How many people viewed his video since last night?

When Justin would get home from school, I was a nonstop blabberfest, giving him a play-by-play update on the responses from his videos. I was a vocal Energizer Bunny. My chatter eventually got on his nerves. Even proud mamas need to back off sometimes and give their child a little space. I admit, it was hard for me to simmer down my enthusiasm, despite Justin groaning at my incessant status reports of his growing fan base.

After his channel started gaining popularity, I cocreated a YouTube channel with a man named James, a statistics genius and video editor, whom I met in an online community. We designed the channel so well-known YouTube kids could collaborate on videos together. Through working together, we formed a friendship, and he ended up helping me with Justin’s YouTube channel. It was great to have someone to share my excitement with since Justin seemed so nonchalant about his rising online fame.

The success of his home music videos snowballed in the blink of an eye. Six months after Justin lost the Stratford Star competition, his YouTube popularity was at such a peak, monitoring his channel was like having a part-time job. I was diligent at first in sifting out the negative comments from haters—and boy, some people who had never met Justin and didn’t know anything about him had some awful things to say; I don’t know how people can be that mean to anybody, let alone a child. But the comments poured in faster and in such great numbers (as many as a few hundred a day) that they became impossible to monitor.

I would have needed to dedicate every single hour of my day to keep track of everything. For a short while, James helped me pick up the slack (thanks, James!) until finally we had a team of our own to help manage the channel. Ironically, when Justin’s manager Scooter came on board, he and I would obsessively monitor every video of Justin’s, just like James and I used to do, except on a larger scale.

Soon enough, Justin was a YouTube celebrity. That was enough for me. It was such a fun, entertaining, and exhilarating experience, I couldn’t even imagine what real stardom was like. Frankly, I didn’t even want to imagine that kind of life.

His popularity got to the point where it wasn’t just random strangers who had something to say about his rising YouTube fame. He piqued the interest of a few nationally syndicated talk shows that wanted him on their program. As honored as I felt, I was nowhere near ready to even consider those opportunities.