Growing Up With Britney Spears: Part Two

Does Adryan get blocked from BritneySpears.com? Does their mom take Britney away from them?

Photo credit: Setlist.fm / Adryan Corcione

STOP! This is part two of a two-part personal essay. Read part one here if you haven’t already!

No rebuttal. My mother fiddled with the old-school mechanical keyboard to bypass the blocker. From that moment on, my mother would disable the blocker whenever I needed to check BritneySpears.com and then quickly enable the blocker again when I was finished. She never made any other exceptions when other websites were blocked and mislabeled as inappropriate.

I lived and breathed Britney more than ever. At school, I recited the countdown daily to Britney’s next album release—the self-titled, Britney— to my peers. They were tired of hearing about it and dismissed me as “annoying.” I didn’t care if I was a martyr. Britney was my God; the world would hear about Her gospel through me.

When I came home from school, I shared the countdown with my mother, until The Day. 

“Halloween?” She asked. Coincidentally, the third record, Britney, was set to be released on October 31, 2001, but the fall holiday didn’t carry nearly as much weight as a Britney album drop.

“Until Britney’s new album comes out!”

In anticipation for her new record release, Britney prepared for her upcoming The Dream Within a Dream tour, which would later be distributed on DVD. My dad would buy me the DVD during a weekend night trip to Best Buy. My copy is one of the only relics of my childhood still in my possession.

Sometime shortly after the album was released, my dad came to me with the most exciting news he could possibly deliver, just below meeting Britney in person. He’d snagged tickets from his coworker for Britney’s Atlantic City tour date at Boardwalk Hall. My dad’s new colleague said he had connections to a local radio station and to pick up tickets at the will-call booth the night of the concert.

I counted down the days until the concert, this time to everyone I knew, not just my friends and parents. My third grade teacher even once told me to “cut it out” because even she was tired of hearing me talk about it.

When the night of December 1, 2001 came, I wore the nicest dress I owned with stockings and Mary Janes. I’d imagined myself wearing a crop top, bra, or other kind of shirt that exposed my midriff—or a “belly shirt” in my infantile vocabulary—like I’d draw my friends and I wearing in crayon on spare computer paper, yet I wore a garment that could be worn to church. Nothing from my primary school wardrobe remotely matched any trendy clothes I saw Britney or other pop stars wear. Even if they could be found in the girls’ section in clothing stores, my mother forbade me from even thinking about trying on anything that exposed my chubby little girl tummy.

In the elevator of the parking garage, someone carried a bright colored poster board with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRITNEY” handwritten in black marker. Tonight was the night before her 20th birthday, the last night of her teens.

Once we arrived at the venue, my dad hopped in line to retrieve our tickets at the will-call booth. My mother and I waited behind. She held me close and told me to not let go of her hand. When it was finally my dad’s turn in line, he stood in front of the will-call window, talking to the worker behind the intercom and glass. 

As I stood by my mother’s side, I thought about what outfits Britney would soon perform in during the down time. Would she replicate the sweaty look from her “I’m a Slave 4 U” video on stage? I asked my mother for her opinion. She ignored my question.

Minutes passed as my dad talked back and forth to the will-call employee. 

I tugged on my mom’s hand. “Why is dad taking so long?” 

My dad finally walked away from the box office. He pulled out his Nokia phone to make a call. 

I again turned to my mother. “What’s going on?” 

No one picked up on the other line. He then approached us, looking defeated. “There’s no tickets for us.”

I was so devastated that the next memory I recall is one with an older man with a gray beard outside the venue. The sky had darkened. Music from the opening act, O-Town, could be heard faintly from inside the venue.

The man overheard our conversation and said he had three tickets to sell us. He’d gotten complimentary tickets to the concert as a high roller, or someone who gambles large amounts of money, often at once. In casino towns, high rollers are frequently granted free tickets, hotel rooms, and other gifts from casinos because they spend so much money on the casino floor. My dad knew the tickets were legitimate.

“200.” He offered.

My dad pulled out his wallet. He revealed how much cash he had on him: $116.*

Already teary eyed from the earlier scene in the venue lobby by the box office, I started walling. The hardest I could. I held onto the glimmer of hope that’d taken form of resale concert tickets, which was instantly shattered in this moment.

The man took a single look at me sobbing. We made eye contact that I’ll never forget. In between tears, it felt like I looked right into his soul. He somehow looked as devastated as I did, as if it were a mirror of just our eyes.

The high roller turns to my dad. “Deal.” They both shook hands.

Our family of three then raced inside to our seats, which were better than what my dad’s coworker had promised. O-Town wrapped up their set as we settled into our seats.

Moments later, when I heard the opening “yeah yeah yeah”s to “Oops! I Did It Again,” my heart skipped a beat.

*To fact check for this essay, I recently called my dad to verify the original quoted price and how much cash he had on him. “He said $200,” he told me over the phone. “I had $115 cash in my wallet.” “You actually had $116,” I replied. My dad laughed and corrected himself.

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Special thanks to Lindsay Patton-Carson and Karina Vahitova for your feedback in earlier drafts of this essay. 🫶 Also special thanks to Isabel Manimbo for designing my new logo!