The Legend—and
Legacy—of Mama Jean
A WRITER SETS THE TONE FOR HIS FUTURE RELATIONSHIPS AFTER REALIZING
HIS MOTHER CLAIMED HIM AS HER PRIMARY COMPANION FOR MUCH OF HIS LIFE
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ON A STEAMY AUGUST DAY IN 1982, the summer before my freshman year of high school, my
Texas tornado of a mother, Mama Jean, and I were flying down the I- 10 freeway in her black
Cadillac, belting out songs from the original Broadway cast album of Evita. As we sang to the cas-
sette player as if it were our audience, I absorbed every detail of her in quick close-ups: the jade-
green high heel floor-boarding the gas pedal; the raven mane immobilized by an ozone layer of
Aqua Net; makeup shiny and shellacked. She pointed a perfectly sculpted red fingernail at the
tape deck and asked, “Don’t you just love that music?” As I sang “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,”
I nodded my head yes. That may have been the gayest moment of my childhood. »
YOUR FAMILY
