Rodeo concerts won’t be the same without Mom, but she’ll still be singing the loudest
My mom loved the rodeo. I don’t mean the horses or the carnival or the deep-fried candy bars. Her favorite part was the concerts.
Loved. It still doesn’t feel right to refer to my mom in the past tense. It’s been just over a month, and my brain and body still want to believe she’s here. For a split second, every day, something happens to make me think, “I need to call Mom.” A funny story about my son. A new restaurant we should go to. A moment of anxiety that I know will be eased by her no-nonsense, “You’re fine.”
It hurts, literally, to look at photos or talk about her. I feel it in the center of my chest, in the tingle of my shoulders, in the panicked gasp of breath that comes out when I realize she’s gone. I understand now when people say it feels unreal or like a dream. It’s as if everything has stopped, gotten shaken around furiously and flung on a new, unfamiliar path. I’m unsure how to move forward.
I’ve been to every single Rodeo-Houston performance for more than a decade, and my mom was with me for many of them. Every year, she was my first call or text after the lineup was announced.
“Which of these do you want to go to?” I’d ask.
She’d pick a few or several: Luke Bryan, Brad Paisley, Miranda Lambert, Chris Stapleton. Even if she wasn’t a big fan, she’d see almost anyone once.
She was with me when Garth Brooks made a surprise appearance in 2017 on the NRG grounds to announce his 2018
Rodeo-Houston shows. He’s a kind, genuine man and took selfies with everyone who asked. The smile on my mom’s face when he grabbed my phone and took a photo of us was pure joy.
“What were YOU doing this evening?” she captioned it on Facebook
I bought tickets to see Martina McBride, who became one of my mom’s favorites after she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer in 2003. McBride’s song “This One’s for the Girls” became an anthem for my mom who, despite ag-
gressive chemo and a grim outlook, maintained her humor, wit and absolute faith that she would survive. And she did. She didn’t so much battle cancer as she did decimate it. I am absolutely convinced that she did so by sheer force of will. It was incredible to witness.
I still remember sitting in her living room, watching the video for McBride’s song on TV:
“This is for all you girls about 42 Tossin’ pennies into the fountain of youth Every laugh, laugh line on your face Made you who you are today…”
I knew instantly it resonated with her. I swear in that moment you could feel a warm energy rise in the room and wrap itself around us. My husband, who was with us, felt it, too. I put it on a “survivor” mix CD I made for my mom that also included jazz singer Holly Cole and Shania Twain.
I’ve always credited my love of music to my dad. He had a huge role in teaching me to appreciate multiple genres and artists. His astounding collection — 8-tracks, vinyl, cassettes, CDs, mp3s — includes everything from Tejano and R&B to disco and rock. He took me to see Whitney Houston at The Summit, my first real concert. I tagged along countless times with him and my mom to see Selena at local clubs. When I got a little older, he and my mom would drop me off at shows and pick me up afterward, shopping nearby or just waiting in the parking lot. I remember wearing my Madonna Blond Ambition Tour shirt to school, my friends in awe that I went to the show.
Even today, he introduces me to new K-pop acts and went with me to see Blackpink at Toyota Center. (Yes, my dad loves K-pop.)
I realize now that my mom, in a different way, also had a lot to do with my love of music. She reminded me of the joy in it, that it was OK to be excited and to be a fan. So many music writers become cynical and close-minded. I can honestly say that’s not me.
My mom loved Kenny Rogers and Enrique Iglesias and BJ Thomas. She shared in my lifelong love for Debbie Gibson, whose song “Cheers” made me teary the first time I heard it. She wrote it after losing her mom, and it felt like it was for mine, too.
“To those never gone, traveling on to their new frontiers Cheers All those with us in spirit Come on let ’em hear it Cheers...”
She found a soul sister in Soraya, the Colombian singer and activist who died of breast cancer in 2006. They met at the Komen Houston Race for the Cure, where Soraya performed in 2004. We were there for the first time, and Soraya’s words of encouragement and music were a lifeline for my mom.*
“In my darkest hour When I could barely see I found the essence of a woman I never dreamed I could be…”
My mom loved Josh Turner and saw him at the rodeo with me. Years later, she still regularly wore the shirt she got at the show. She went with me to see Madonna and Bruno Mars and Juan Gabriel and Thalia, among countless others. Every show was followed by a Facebook post full of slightly blurry photos and exclamation points.
She was a huge fan of local musicians, including RoZY, Amanda Solis, The Suffers and Tianna Hall. I produced Pride Superstar for a decade, a weekly singing competition for the LGBTQ+ community. It started after 10 p.m. and ended well after midnight on a weekday. My mom was there every week, cheering on her favorite contestants: Morena Roas, Christina Wells, Patrick Montoya. To her, they were all stars.
My mom’s favorite, however, was Kelly Clarkson. “I just love the way she is,” my mom would say. She’d voted weekly for Clarkson during her winning run on “American Idol” and loved her version of “Without You,” the heartbreak ballad previously covered by Harry Nilsson and Mariah Carey. She marveled at Clarkson’s voice and was a fan of her talk show, frequently pointing me to her favorite moments from “Kellyoke,” Clarkson’s soaring renditions of various songs that opened each episode.
My mom was near tears when she met Clarkson in 2016 during a book tour for “River Rose and the Magical Lullaby.” During the photo op, I purposely went first to explain the crying woman behind me.
“My mom is behind me, and she’s probably gonna freak out,” I told Clarkson. She was gracious and sweet with my mom, who told Clarkson how her music was an inspiration.
“YES, YES, YES, I started crying, when Kelly Clarkson Congratulated Me on being a Breast Cancer Survivor and Hugged Me. I was so Excited and Nervous and Overwhelmed. She Is The BEST!” my mom wrote on Facebook.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger Stand a little taller Doesn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m alone What doesn’t kill you makes a fighter Footsteps even lighter...”
That’s the joy I keep when I listen to music. When I go to concerts. When I meet someone whose music soundtracked my life. It keeps my mom in the present tense.
Even in death, she maintains that sense of joy. My mom had long mentioned several songs she wanted played at her funeral: McBride’s “This One’s for the Girls,” Cole’s cover of Johnny Nash’s “I Can See Clearly Now,” Anne Murray’s “Could I Have This Dance.” We played them during her church service and all wore bright colors. No black, she insisted.
The most important song that she insisted on repeatedly was “Que Me Lleven Canciones” by Tejano group Mazz. The title translates to “May They Bring Me Songs.”
“May they bring me songs When I have died Let them bury me singing Ranchera songs Out loud…
“Let a concert be formed May they sing songs for me Pretty and cheerful…”
We’re singing them with you, Mom. And I know your voice is still the loudest.