by Tatum O'neal
When we ran out of Chinese food, Kyle went to the corner store to buy us cookies, and we ate them as we watched The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. He reflected on how different I was from the Beverly Hills housewives in his beloved reality shows. I had no showy jewels, no gowns, no hair extensions. Kyle thought it was nice that I presented a different model for an age group of women that is too often portrayed as desperately wanting to be younger.
The next day was the funeral, a sad, painful affair. That night, back at Kyle’s apartment, my father called to see how I was. It felt good to lean on him during a time of grief. It wasn’t a long conversation. My father is a man of brevity. But we were talking like father and daughter, and it didn’t feel awkward or clunky. I saw hope in the future. I felt in my gut that things were going to be okay. We’d made some ground. Before we said good-bye, we talked about going to an Academy Awards party together. Through my sadness at losing Perry, I felt the solid, happy heartbeat of my life back in L.A.
I didn’t know where we would end up. I have grown and changed so much over the years. I came into this wanting him to understand my experience. I wanted to help him see our history. I thought I could help him. Now, at last, long after it was probably clear to everyone else around us, I finally realized that might never happen, and that it wasn’t my responsibility to make it happen. It was that simple.
I didn’t know where we would go from here. I couldn’t think that far ahead. But we were both trying, and that in itself was a miracle.
I WENT HOME. Pickle greeted me at the door with such unbridled enthusiasm that I decided to take him on a walk. The new house was right near Temescal Canyon Loop, a beautiful four-mile hike in the Santa Monica mountains. Pickle and I strolled through the neighborhood toward the entrance to the trail. As we passed houses, I imagined the lives they contained. A mother making herself coffee. A grandfather checking his e-mail. Women, men, families, children—all those separate, beautiful lives forming delicate paths that wind up and down, crossing one another in familiar and unexpected junctures. Normal people leading an infinite range of lives. I thought about what theirs might be, and how I might want mine to be.
My father and I were truly working to have a relationship. I had come to a place I didn’t know I’d ever be. I valued what I had. I didn’t have my father for many years. I was past that. I had him now, as much as I needed him or wanted him. This was what he continued to tell me in all the ways he knew how.
We soon reached the trail. Along it, true to L.A.’s reputation, strode many exceptionally fit, healthy people. As we walked, we passed a little park off the trail, where there was a wedding in progress. The sun was shining through the trees. I could see that it was a nice family, giddy with the spirit of the day. A beautiful place for a wedding. A beautiful day. It was inspiring to glimpse the beginning of a life.
After walking for about an hour, Pickle stopped short in the middle of the trail. He was done. I could see I wasn’t going to convince him to go any farther, so we turned around and headed home.
BACK AT THE HOUSE, I watched the sunset from my bedroom. It was stunning. I thought about how bright this house would be in the summer, with the sunlight streaming through all its windows. There were four bedrooms—enough room for me and all of my children. There was a backyard for Pickle. When I moved in, I hadn’t thought of this place as permanent. But after that walk, I saw how the calm beauty of nature washed over me, even in the midst of the revelations I’d been having. Being in the mountains brought me a peace that overrode even the toughest emotions. I started thinking about what it would be like to stay here for a while. I felt the urge to put down roots, to stay—maybe for several years—in a place where I could take walks and feel close to the sea. Come spring, I could plant some flowers in the garden. I could make a home for myself. If things continued on this path with my dad, in the future, if he needed help or company, I could be closer to him. It was nice to think about settling somewhere. A pleasant feeling surged through me and I smiled as I recognized it. Hope.
I STRUGGLED OVER whether to write this book, casting yet another spotlight on the troubled, messy ups and downs of my efforts to find peace with my father. Was I doing the right thing? Was it another betrayal? Would he see it as such? Could I get in trouble? Would I ruin our chances at reconciliation? I turned to my elder son, Kevin, who is a writer and wise about such things. He said, “Yes, write it, Mama.” He told me, simply, that my struggle was part of the whole story.
I came up with the title for this book before I’d finished writing it. I was beginning the process of coming home to Los Angeles and going home to Ryan. I thought that Ryan and I would find each other, and that we would both discover the comfort of being found. But every journey is full of question marks. In Ryan’s beach house—the place where I had spent most of my childhood—I realized that this home was not the best place for me right now. Life changes. This could change, too.
Journeys don’t really end. Even when you reach a destination, the lessons learned are like organisms, stretching and evolving in ways you could never anticipate. When I came to L.A., I didn’t feel whole. I thought my father was the missing piece. In some ways, he was. My father and I are not what we could have been, what I’d hoped we’d be. But, corny as it may sound, I found me. My reasons for living, my weaknesses and strengths, my hopes for the future. Knowing myself—that is fulfilling. That makes me whole.
When I was little, I was a little troublemaker. A feisty, provocative schemer. That part of me is gone. I don’t spend much time thinking about that little girl, but I’ve sometimes wondered what she wanted and what became of her. I turned into someone who’d been scolded once too often. Sometimes I felt like I was missing an outer shield, a thick layer of skin to protect me from the piercing outside air. I was the sensitive pink underbelly. Life was too intense for me. Growing up, being famous confused me—I had external success and it took me a while to feel comfortable admitting that it wasn’t enough, because it didn’t bring meaningful inner happiness. I dealt with my inner struggles and protected my raw vulnerability by hiding behind a mask of suppression and determination. The layers of protection are so much a part of me that I don’t think of stripping them away, but little by little I feel like I am less defined by the world around me and more confident in who I am at my core.
I worry less now about the people around me. My father, my brothers, the people I grew up with, the new friends I’ve made. I don’t need to succeed on their terms. I’m okay, with or without them. They don’t make me me. I’m my own person. I’m a fighter and will continue to fight. I am proud of myself and my accomplishments.
My journey continues. I think of my brother Griffin. Our lives are forever bound together, and in reconnecting with Ryan I opened up a wound for Griffin, ripping off the scab that may have been on its way toward being healed. I hope and pray that the show doesn’t make things worse for him. That is the last thing I want. I still wish that we could all be a family and that my brother and father could resolve their differences. The show is called The O’Neals: Ryan and Tatum, and Griffin, whether or not he is on-camera, is an O’Neal, too. I want him to know I see him as part of our family, always, no matter what.
As my children begin their own journeys, my pride carries me alongside them. I come from no schooling, no parenting, no nothin’. I have no idea when Columbus landed. I missed the explanation of how north, south, east, and west work. I don’t understand math at all. Algebra? No idea. My children have already learned and achieved more than I ever could have imagined. They have overcome a lot. They are survivors, like me, and they are thriving. Like any parent, I want the best for them, and more than anything, I want us to stay as close as we are today. Forever, if possible.
NO ONE IS a perfect parent, and forgiving my own imperfections means forgiving Ryan his.
There are reasons for Ryan and me to find a way to get along. He is happy having me around. For my part, I see that having a careful, cautious relations
hip with a difficult parent can be better than having no relationship at all. There is much I still have to heal, and Ryan could help, if he so chooses.
For a time, Ryan and I had the funniest, best relationship that a father and daughter can have. That is preserved on the silver screen forever. Now we have something more nuanced and complex, but just as beautiful.
I was first to try to reconcile with Ryan. I held out an olive branch, asked for some forgiveness, and chose to forgive. It was a challenge for me, and I know it was a challenge for my father, too. Ryan told me, “I hadn’t seen you for twenty-five years. You reappeared at Farrah’s funeral. You looked wonderful. But I felt like I hardly knew you. I was suspicious. I was torn. I’m less torn now.”
I can’t exactly say we came to a shared truth, but we forged some inroads. Both of us, in our ways, really tried. Ultimately, in spite of those inroads, I don’t think Ryan changed very much in the course of my writing this book. I have learned so much, and I wanted my father to have some of the same revelations I had. I wanted to help him, but I realized that Ryan may not want for himself what I want for him. He, like so many people, may be most comfortable with the status quo. He may never change. Forgiveness, I learned, isn’t just about helping, understanding, or changing. A lot of it is just plain acceptance. And I learned that as much as I want to help Ryan, I don’t need to help him. I can only work to improve myself, and that is what I plan to keep doing.
I still hope that Ryan learns that his truths won’t kill him. I hope he finds a way to forgive himself for his failures and break the cycle of dealing with his pain through rage and denial. It would be an amazing thing for us to speak openly. There is still so much that we just don’t talk about. He has a chance for peace, and, although I’m not going to hold my breath waiting, I’d still do anything to help him find it. Whatever happens from here on, I will live my life without regret. Let’s see what happens.
Children are wired to love their parents, and I think I will give my father as many chances as I can, as long as we both live. My father is kinder now. He’s more aware of my feelings and sensitive to my needs. As he puts it, “We’ll soldier on and pray we keep our dignity.” He and I may never see eye to eye, but I hope to keep him in my life. No doubt we will have ups and downs over the years. We may never reconcile our memories of the past. We will certainly struggle in the present. And the future is still a mystery. I can live with that. What I know for certain is that I tried my hardest, I’m a very courageous survivor, and I’m still out there trying.
LIFE IS FULL of loose ends. For all the time and thought I have given my father, I can’t help thinking of the mother I lost, even while she was still alive.
My mother died in Palm Springs in 1997, the week before Thanksgiving. She had three DUIs the year she died. As I got older and looked back at my mother, it was much easier to see the woman she might have been. She had a big laugh. She called everyone Honey Bunny or Snicklefritz or Pumpkin Doodle. Her heart was as big as the state of Georgia. I choose to think of my mother in a loving way. I have enough conflicts in my life. And I feel horrible for any time I didn’t treat my mother with the respect that she deserved. My mother never intentionally hurt me. She was so sorry about her failings. She was easy to forgive. When I found out she was dying, I managed to tell her, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but it wasn’t enough. I wish I could go back as the woman I am today with the time to mend our fractured relationship. I just wish she were still here. I miss her terribly.
There are many questions I never got to ask my mother. She was such a flurry of cigarettes, coffee, and white wine. It was impossible to get her to sit down, slow down, and tell me anything about her life and her roots. Much as my children only know the McEnroe side of their family, I only ever knew the O’Neal side of mine. Someday I hope to find out more about the family I’ve never known.
My mother lost her parents when she was six. I lost my mother when I was six. And my children lost me for a while there, too. That’s three generations of loss and abandonment, and it is my hope that the buck stops with me. If that is my only legacy, I will be proud.
Repairing the trauma of my childhood is a lifelong process. It really has been two steps forward and one step back. But I am still trudging the road of happy destiny. If you look at my path, I am always moving upward and onward, and my life has gotten better, one day at a time. I have never been happier than I am today, and I am waiting eagerly to see what the future holds for me and my children.
When I came back to L.A., I thought I was returning to old friends. Then the move became much more about reconciling with my father and building my career. Now I find myself turning to the physical world of L.A., the solace and joy there is in space, air, sun, and mountains.
The greatest dreams I have are within reach. I dream of one day having Christmas with my whole family: my children, Griffin and his kids, my brother Patrick and his kids, Redmond, my uncle Kevin, and my father. After a lifetime of separation—my God, how great would that be.
I know there must be a reason I have this particular life, and I am grateful for all that it has given me. I am truly blessed.
Acknowledgments
I WANT TO thank the following people who are my allies, my guides, and my friends: My dad, because he’s shown me through this journey that he is a courageous parent and a wonderful father. Jodi Peikoff, whose love and support has been unwavering, and everyone in her office. Ron Castellano, the hardest-working man in the world and the most reliable. Kyle White, whose hair color makes me want to sing into the clouds. I love you, Kyle. Patty Baret, whose words of wisdom and experience, strength and hope, I rely on every day. Pickle O’Neal, whose crazy energy keeps me warm at night and keeps me smiling all day. I love that dog. Birnie Francis, who has stuck with me for thirty years. I love you, old man!! Oprah Winfrey, because she is Oprah and has helped me and millions of women believe even when we didn’t. I would like to thank all the wonderful people from the OWN network: Lisa Espramer and Rod Aissa. David Goldberg for taking a chance on us! Greg Johnston, who is an O’Neal at this point. Gilda Brasch, who is right beside Greg in the O’Neal DNA pool. Griffin, Redmond, and Patrick O’Neal, my three brothers whom I love dearly now and forever. My uncle Kevin O’Neal. Andie O’Neal, Joanna O’Neal, Rennon O’Neal, Dillan O’Neal, Damie Deil. All my extended family, whom I don’t know now but hope to know one day. And Garrett O’Neal, whom I love and miss. Anjelica Huston for teaching me class, style, and taste. Denis Leary, who has supported me through my ups and downs. Gary Mantoosh, whose spirit and enthusiasm keep me smiling every day. Jen Brehl, another fierce woman advocate and my inspired editor. Hilary Liftin, because she is totally awesome and without her you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Hunter Hill, because you are my hero! Rob Parr, who has been dedicated to my physicality for more than twenty-five years. Tracy Cunningham, my L.A.-based hair genius. Steven and Stuart, you know who you are and I love you! Carrie White, you bring light to any room you enter. Sandy Bell, who taught me to let go of the rope. Alexa Lynette, who keeps my bookkeeping in perfect order.
I also am grateful to and want to thank the following people: David Kuhn, Angela Cheng Caplan, Dawn Andrews, Douglas Friedman, Johnny Stuntz (aka Johnny Kat), Mela Murphy, Paul Thomas, Lesley Morrison, Esmé Evans, Sue Mengers, Barry Fox, Shari Sedlis, and Caroline Copley. Ines Taylor, for devoting so much of her life to me and my children. The crew of The O’Neals. Wallis, my cat, for being part of my family for seventeen years and now for keeping my dad warm at night. Fariba, hands and feet, always so sweet. Maura Egan, class, grace, and beauty.
About the Author
The youngest actress ever to win an Academy Award®, TATUM O’NEAL has been a public figure for the past three decades. An actress, author, and mother, she makes her home in Los Angeles, California.
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A Paper Life
Photo Section
With my parents—so much hope and promise.
My favorite picture in the world of my dad and me.
As a baby in Ryan’s arms. Our early bond is what pulls us back together.
Farrah, Ryan, Griffin, and me in the 1980s. There were times when all was well. (Brad Elterman/Getty Images)
Playing pool with Ryan at the beach house.
Young Tatum, baby Kevin, and young John in happier times—England, c. 1986. (Dave Hogan/Getty Images)
My mother and my daughter, 1994. I wish we could all look at this picture together and wonder what was in the sky.
With my three beloved children around 1998. I appreciate every moment with them.
Kevin, Emily, me, and Sean at Kevin’s college graduation in 2006. This is one of my favorite pictures.
With Emily out on the town in New York, 2007. (Jim Spellman/Getty Images)
At the 2008 Tribeca Film Festival with Perry Moore (left), Emily, and Hunter Hill (right)—with no idea Perry wouldn’t make it. (Bryan Bedder/Getty Images)