perfect in every sense. Britney was, in her own words, ‘obsessed’ and cites her favourite book among the titles as Ramona the Pest, who ‘…struggles to make a place for herself in an uncomprehending world’. Just like Ramona, Britney Spears always wanted to fit in and be accepted.
Ensconced in her bedroom, lying prone on her bed, with her legs in the air, she jumped into the pages and then rushed into the bathroom—directly opposite her door, on the other side of the hallway—armed with her doll collection and teddy bears. There, behind the locked door of this mock VIP room, she lined up twelve dolls and six bears in the sitting position as her pretend audience; she perched and stood with the bath’s edge as her stage and then performed before a giant mirror on the wall (her television camera), using a shampoo bottle as a microphone. In a town where everyone listened to Dolly Parton, Randy Travis and Reba McEntire, she belted out hits from Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston and Madonna. In that box of a bathroom, she was, she said, ‘the biggest star in the world—bigger than Madonna.’
At the age of five, Britney set her sights high and ‘rehearsed’ in that little room for hours on end, cut off from—and unconcerned about—the rest of the household.
‘Brit-Brit, please keep it down, baby,’ Mum Lynne pleaded from the wood-panelled kitchen.
‘BRITNEY! You’d better shut up this minute!’ yelled her brother Bryan from the couch in the wood-panelled living room.
Whether Dad Jamie heard her at all was debatable, but the bathroom door remained locked and Britney kept entertaining her dolls, focussed on the world where her singing blocked out everything and everyone else. In that zone, she found her entrance to a Narnia-like world of music, applause and uninterrupted bliss. That perhaps explains why, even to this day, she’ll sing in the bathroom, usually while soaking in the tub surrounded by candles, because, she says, you can’t beat the acoustics. It is the same in elevators, minus the candles. A lot of what Britney experienced and was influenced by as a child would continue to make its impression known in adulthood, from the trivial to the emotional, to the deep psychological imprinting which effectively began from the moment she was born.
Britney’s official birthplace is actually 15 miles away, across the state border in McComb, Mississippi. She was born Britney Jean Spears on 2 December 1981, a daughter to boiler-maker Jamie Spears and wife Lynne, who worked as a day-care supervisor; sneaking into the world six months after a certain Lady Diana Spencer married Prince Charles in another fairytale that was just beginning on the other side of the Atlantic. The royal marriage didn’t merit a mention in the Kentwood News, unlike Britney. When she was eight months old she made her first headline: ‘BABY OF THE WEEK: A Scoop of Happiness’. A black-and-white photo showed Britney, wide-mouthed with a baby’s laughter, above a caption that read: ‘Happy Baby! That’s me!’.
Dairy farmer’s daughter Lynne couldn’t contain her excitement over her ‘extremely active, precious bundle of joy’—her first daughter and a sister for four-year-old son Bryan. Family lineage on both sides had always produced boys so she’d yearned for a girl, no doubt to repeat the mother-daughter bond shared with her English-born mother Lillian Portell, who emigrated from London in 1946.
‘You can imagine how excited I was,’ Lynne recalls in Heart to Heart, ‘an adorable baby girl to dress up like a little doll! A daughter to have little tea parties with!’ It seems a strange, child-like reaction for a mother to have, recognising the accessory and companion before the actual child. There is no doubting the genuine joy Lynne felt, or the doting adoration she heaped on her second child, but embedded within that natural reaction is the first sign that Britney was unconsciously regarded as an object or a possession; an attitude that would follow her through life. She was a living doll back then as much as she remains a commodity today. Such an unintended insight suggests Britney was objectified from the moment she was born. As the psychotherapist consulted says:
Lynne reveals much with her response to Britney’s birth because when people don’t have a sense of self, they tend to objectify others and babies can be viewed as ‘dolls’ to fulfil a parent’s need to be merged with their child, and to be In control of love. But when this happens, there tends to be trouble ahead. It’s almost as If Lynne was telling Britney, ‘You’re going to be my love object, and all my needs are with you.’ And she wanted everyone to know how happy this first daughter made her, showing her as ‘Baby of the Week’.
The honey-coated pedestal was already being prepared. Around the same time, Lynne’s sister, Sandra Covington, also gave birth to Laura Lynn. Though cousins, she and Britney grew up side by side as if they were twins, sharing the same crib by day, wearing matching outfits, and attending dance recitals together. The family photo albums are filled with pictures of Britney and Laura, always hand in hand, wearing identical dresses, nightgowns, tutus, shoes and hairstyles. The girls played dress-up, and often did so with garish make-up and adult attire, all dolled-up to the mutual delight of their mothers. They even had the same toys and gifts to open at Christmas, so that they wouldn’t feel as if they were being treated differently. But Britney was different.
The family recognised her precocious talent and, within their community, friends and neighbours commented on the little girl’s gifted voice and rare agility. At friends’ houses or the farm of Lynne’s brother Sonny, a three-year-old Britney often showed off a dance routine acquired through watching a toothpaste commercial on television.
‘Go on, Brit-Brit, show ’em what y’all can do!’ encouraged her mother, uncles and aunties.
‘I’m convinced that baby was born with a microphone in her hand!’ said museum curator Hazel Morris, who has known Britney since she was born, ‘she really was the sweetest of children, who shone from day one.’
From an early age, Lynne was both curious and perplexed by the bundle of energy that she sometimes struggled to contain. Britney was ‘the doll’ that wouldn’t sit still—jigging, singing, dancing or cartwheeling around the house, on the trampoline in the backyard, in the back-seat of the car or across the front lawn. She only ever seemed to stop to watch favourite TV shows, Growing Pains and The Wonder Years, or to continue the adventures of Ramona Quimby.
Lynne’s best way of harnessing that irrepressible energy was to find suitable outlets: the Renee Donewar School of Dance in Kentwood, and gymnastics lessons in Covington, 55 miles away. Her daughter attended classes three nights a week and every Saturday.
Britney’s first dance class was at the age of two and her first solo on-stage recital came at four. Dance teacher Renee Donewar described her as: ‘unusually driven, focussed and a perfectionist.’ Here was a girl, who for some inexplicable reason, was determined to perform and throw her heart and soul into being the best by turning in foot-perfect recitals. If there was a new technique to master, Britney mastered it; if there was a new dance routine, she owned it. She was clearly one of those potentially annoying, but gifted children who wanted to outshine everyone, with a poise, intent and concentration that belied her years. It therefore surprised no one when she often earned the Best Attendee in Class awards. As she grew older, Britney would write out scorecards and judge her own performances with marks out often. Then, as now, she was her own worst critic.
In gymnastics, she walked away with trophies and medals for impressive floor shows, and went on to win her junior level at the State Louisiana Gymnastics competition, performing a triple back-flip followed by a somersault in her lucky, all-white leotard. From the age of six to nine, Britney excelled, and different coaches suggested she had what it took to go all the way; a budding Shawn Johnson of her time. But when such high hopes led to more gruelling practice, and when the fun of performing became secondary to the need to work, her enthusiasm popped.
‘Mama,
