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by Harper, Valerie

  Our delegation was greeted by crowds of gorgeous Somali women in vibrantly colored dresses and spectacular head wraps. Even the slings holding their babies were intricately patterned. I’d expected to see people in rags, ill and tragic, but here were these women of all ages, working with what little they had to make a functioning community. The only men I encountered were elderly. It was a stunning, accurate view of what hunger looked like in that region of Africa and of the brave people confronting it.

  Upon returning from Somalia, our delegation, along with Liv Ullman, John Denver, and John Amos (who played Gordy the weatherman on Mary Tyler Moore), appeared before a United Nations-assembled panel and the Congressional Committee on East Africa to report about our mission. One fact we were determined to communicate was that only about 10 percent of hunger-related deaths are a direct result of famine. The other 90 percent are due to chronic undernutrition that, over time, leaves people vulnerable to diseases and other conditions that result in death. The underlying cause is, of course, hunger.

  There were many organizations fighting world hunger with relief, aid, and food distribution. Getting food to hungry people is something that must be done. But it is only a temporary solution and cannot transform the underlying conditions that cause hunger to persist.

  Under the miraculous leadership of our extraordinary founding president Joan Holmes, one of the most wonderful people I have ever known, for over twenty-five years the Hunger Project has continually adjusted its course of action to achieve its purpose. It has pioneered ways to empower communities with the opportunities they need to end their own hunger.

  Since its inception, the Hunger Project was a brave endeavor that would take many, many years to be fully realized. It has been my observation that the media does not generally look for good news—“if it bleeds, it leads.” It is also an impatient beast, demanding an event to report rather than a process. Back in 1978, Mother Jones magazine in particular took exception to the Hunger Project, accusing the organization of indulging in “happy talk” and a whole lot of New Age nonsense. They published an insulting cover with a cartoon of John Denver, one of the project’s founders, and me wearing my Rhoda scarf, dancing in front of a pile of starved African babies. The accompanying article dismissed our mission, claiming that we were fools for thinking hunger could end. It was incredibly painful, as I was a big fan of the publication. In retrospect, the article was a reflection of the prevailing mind-set, that what was needed to end hunger was to provide goods and services to the poor, rather than provide an enabling, empowering environment in which people can end their own hunger. To their credit, after they saw the success of our organization, Mother Jones printed a retraction and an apology several years later.

  Ending hunger is not only a moral imperative but a practical necessity. It is central to resolving an entire nexus of issues—population growth, civil unrest, war, environmental destruction—that threaten the quality of life for everyone. These days it is almost universally recognized that the severe subjugation of women is a social condition that holds hunger in place. The vast majority of the world’s poor are women. They eat last and least, and their health often goes ignored. The deeply entrenched subjugation of women is reinforced by violence and the threat of violence. Inspiring women’s leadership at all levels of society is critical to ending hunger. The Hunger Project has made the empowerment of women one of the pillars of our programs. After thirty-five years, our mission continues to be the sustainable end of hunger worldwide. A tall order, but we are on our way.

  The est training and my subsequent involvement with the Hunger Project ushered in a period of intense personal change. Dick and I attended several est seminars together, including a six-day training in Northern California. We began to be happier with each other and less judgmental. We also began to examine the truth about our relationship. What did we want out of our marriage? Were we holding each other back from total fulfillment?

  I’m not sure when exactly our marriage stopped working. My career kept me so busy that there was never any time to sit back and examine what had become of Dick and me. I was always dashing from event to event, and Dick, naturally, was at my side. “Hey, Dick, grab your tuxedo!” I’d call. And we were out the door. I went, so he came; we were married, after all.

  Sure, we had our share of minor arguments, but nothing traumatic. We had just slowly grown apart. One day we were sitting on the bed chatting, and I said, “Hey, we’re roommates.”

  “Yes, but is that enough?” Dick replied.

  To his credit, Dick never resented my success. He’d worked continually in film, on TV and stage, including numerous guest spots on both Mary Tyler Moore and Rhoda. He’d even costarred on Cloris Leachman’s spin-off, Phyllis. If he was unhappy about the disparity between our careers, I never saw or felt it. In fact, Dick used to joke, “How can I be jealous? We’re never up for the same parts.”

  In many ways, Dick and I were fundamentally different. I have always been a complete teetotaler and a nonsmoker. Dick, on the other hand, enjoyed both these things. At night, in front of the TV, he’d drink beer while I polished off a complete box of Van de Kamps chocolate chip cookies and milk without help. So I’d be throwing stones from a glass house if I called him an addict.

  Before taking any drastic measures regarding our marriage, we decided to go see Dr. Bob Lazalere, a relationship expert who was part of the est staff in San Francisco. We both knew and respected Bob very much and thought he would be a great resource for us. Our first consultation was over the phone. “Before you come to see me,” he said, “I want each of you to ask yourself one question. Don’t answer this question yet, just hold on to it in your mind for the few days before we meet. Think about it without answering. Are you willing for your relationship to work regardless of the form? When you come up here, we will discuss how to answer this.”

  I thought about Dr. Lazalere’s question all week. When we got to his office, he asked us some very basic things about our marriage. “Valerie, what’s something Dick does that has always annoyed you?”

  “He never washes the cat food fork,” I blurted out. I didn’t even have to think about it. Dick would dish out the cat’s food, then leave the fork in the sink to get all crusty. It was such a simple thing, but I had never mentioned it. It made both of us laugh.

  “Listen,” Dr. Lazalere said, “you two obviously love each other. But how invested are you in your relationship? Are you willing to make it work regardless of whether or not you stay together in a traditional sense?”

  “What do you mean, exactly?” I asked.

  “There are a host of options. You could stay married as you are now. You could be married but live separately. You could legally separate. You could divorce but live together. You could figure out a situation in which you see each other every other week. The possibilities are endless. Those are all forms that two people can agree upon. But the most important thing to do is ask yourselves, are you committed to having a relationship that works even if your marital status changes?”

  This was brilliant! I didn’t have to be furious with Dick or he with me. Divorce didn’t have to mean anger, hostility, recrimination, or bitter rancor—none of which I felt in any part of my heart for Dick. Nor did I want to.

  After our counseling session, I finally admitted to myself that I was lonely inside my own marriage. Dick and I were both going through the motions, which got in the way of each of us living to our fullest. We needed to acknowledge a simple truth—we were better off as friends and should keep it at that. And we didn’t have to end our friendship because we were getting divorced. Hurray!

  Thankfully, Dick felt just as I did. No one was hurt, humiliated, or deserted. We both wanted out of the marriage, and we both took responsibility for that decision. There was no blame, no finger pointing. It was a mutual decision, and once we made it, we both felt unburdened. I’ve often told pals, “Our divorce was better than many marriages.”

  Even though we had come t
o this landmark decision, neither of us wanted to move out of the house at that moment. I was busy filming Rhoda, and I had a couple of TV movies coming up. Since the tabloids had been viciously and erroneously predicting the end of my marriage since my first year on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, I was not going to give them the satisfaction of a big juicy story during production.

  Now, who would be the person to file for divorce? It was a mutual decision; why should one of us be to blame? But gentlemanly Dick insisted I be the plaintiff, which didn’t feel truthful to me. Then Gene piped up, “Val, you want to look like a puttana?!” (That’s Italian for “naughty lady.”) I really didn’t, so I agreed.

  Once our divorce proceedings got under way, my lawyer called and said, “Listen, Valerie, I know you and Dick are friends and all, but one of you has to move out of the house. It looks weird to the judge if you’re still living together.” Obviously, there was no room for a pleasant divorce in court.

  It was an easy decision that I should move out. Dick’s parents, both in their late seventies, were living with us at the Westwood house, and no way was I going to disrupt their lives. Besides, I was looking forward to getting my own place.

  After we came to that decision, we had a quiet dinner party to break the news to the Schaals, Dick’s daughter, Wendy, and her new husband, Stephen. Our caterer Maurice prepared and served a really lovely dinner. When dessert and coffee came, we made the announcement as gently as we could.

  Dick’s mother, Margaret, was flabbergasted. “But you’ve been getting along so well,” she exclaimed.

  “I know, Mom,” Dick said. “But one of the reasons we’re getting along so well is that we know we’re getting out!”

  I burst into laughter when he said this. It was true. We were both so relieved that the marriage was over that we’d really begun to enjoy ourselves. There was no tension, no drama.

  After we told our immediate family, I began to let my closest friends realize that I was moving out. Some of them took the opportunity to commiserate, calling me up to let me know they were on my side and had never liked Dick to begin with. “No, no. Don’t say it,” I said. “You’re talking about a friend of mine.” It remains so to this day. I didn’t want to hear anyone speak badly of him on my account. Cloris had a great expression for divorced people to use: “Never call him or her your ex, but rather your once-upon-a-time husband or wife.” Sweetly accurate, huh?

  Dick helped me hunt for a new place to live. I was eager for a major change, and I thought living near the water in Malibu was just the thing. Dick drove me out to Old Malibu Road, above the Malibu Colony, to look at a perfect little house at the water’s edge. I fell in love with it immediately. Unfortunately—or, as it turned out, fortunately—the week after I spied this house, a giant storm swept it out to sea. Luckily, I found a great apartment in a picturesque building farther up Old Malibu Road.

  Dick helped me move, and when I pulled out of our driveway in Westwood for the last time, he came out to wave good-bye. “Drive safe,” he said.

  “Of course. You taught me to drive,” I replied. We both smiled, with tears in our eyes. The moment was bittersweet, poignant, and celebratory—another familiar movie scene, except in this case the parting couple was happy to say good-bye.

  I loved my seaside apartment. It faced the ocean and had a fifty-foot balcony, much like a widow’s walk, from which I could watch the ocean. When my friends stopped by, they were tempted to pity me. “Oh, look at you, poor Val. You’re a lonely woman by the sea!”

  “No,” I said. “I’m anything but lonely. In fact, I’m thrilled to be alone.” And in beautiful, luxurious Malibu!

  It was true. I had shared a room all my life, with either my sister, a roommate, or Dick. I had never lived by myself. I was excited. I had worked hard for nine years, and now I was truly independent. Rhoda had finished. My marriage had come to a graceful end. The 1970s were wrapping up. I was ready for whatever came next. Now all I had to do was get used to the incessant pounding of the Pacific Ocean.

  chapter

  NINE

  As excited as I was to be living alone out in gorgeous Malibu, I kept waiting for a plague of loneliness to strike. It never did. As I had hoped, I found it liberating to be on my own.

  During the last years of my marriage to Dick, our house had become quite busy and full of activity. Leah’s children spent a lot of time at our house, sometimes their entire summer vacations. Penny and her husband, Zvi, visited with their four wonderful kids, Daphna, Michael, Danit, and Sharon, who to this day call me Aunt Val. Since we had the means and the space, they were always welcome. I loved taking them around Los Angeles—I went to Disneyland more times than Minnie Mouse. While my nephews, nieces, and friends were only temporary visitors, Dick’s parents had moved in on a permanent basis. Although my absolutely perfect housekeeper, Audrey Harris, was always on hand, it seemed I was constantly rushing between home and set, worrying about whether there was enough food in the fridge, trying to remember who needed to be shuttled where or who was expecting to spend the evening with me.

  In Malibu, for the first time in ages, I was free to do with my time exactly as I wished. Weird. With Rhoda over, I could finally relax. I loved sleeping as late as I pleased, buying only the food I wanted, staring out at the ocean from my balcony with no lines to learn. I’d worked hard from a very young age to find success, and now I actually had the time to relax and enjoy myself.

  In addition to my new bachelorette pad, I thought it was time for a new car. I no longer needed my large white Cadillac Seville, which I called Blanca—a family car that could accommodate Dick, his parents, and Leah’s children when they were in town. So supportive pals Norma Donaldson and Charlotte Brown, accompanied me to Beverly Hills Mercedes and encouraged me to buy a cream SL convertible with a brown soft top—a sporty little car for my new single lifestyle. I named her Crème Caramel. Delicious!

  Charlotte, Norma, Arlene, and other friends often came out to Malibu. I hosted small but raucous dance parties to the tunes of Rod Stewart and Donna Summer and celebrated this new phase in my life. Soon I discovered that Helena Kallianiotes, a raven-haired Greek-American actress who had been in the classic Jack Nicholson film Five Easy Pieces, had organized a Monday-night private event for actors and their pals at the Reseda roller rink, calling it “Skataway.” Disco roller-skating with flashing lights and mirrored prom-ball was the epitome of cool at the time, so Charlotte and I bought skates and had great fun at the immensely popular event. Helena went so far as to have white customized roller club jackets made for people who regularly came to the rink. My Skataway name was “Valve Job.”

  The place was always filled with famous and familiar faces. I remember one evening when Jon Voight turned up. It was shortly after the Academy Award ceremony when Sir Laurence Olivier had been presented with a lifetime achievement award. Olivier had made a tremendous speech about what it meant to be an actor. His words were erudite, inspiring, and very beautiful. As he was wrapping up, the cameras cut to Jon, who was looking on with an expression of rapture, awe, and appreciation, as if Olivier had given voice to something essential to Jon’s soul. I think he had.

  I didn’t know Jon personally, so I decided to write him a note: “Olivier’s speech was exceeded only by your reaction to it.” I handed it to him and told him to read it at his leisure. As I skated around, he waved, smiled, and gave a courtly little bow. Soon we became friends and fellow advocates for a wide range of issues from poverty and homelessness to the Hunger Project.

  Some people, I guess, might be unnerved by so much change—being newly single and, in a sense, out of work. But I embraced it. I visited my family back east before Ginger enrolled at MIT. As she moved into her dorm room, several classmates inquired, “Are you Valerie Harper’s sister?” Ginger’s “Yes, I am” was followed by excited girlish chatter. Then a boy in the corner calmly asked, with his Southern drawl, “Yo’ name Brenda?” Life becomes art. That Christmas I got Ginger a T-shirt bearing the p
hrase.

  During each season of Rhoda, I had done some theater during hiatus, and I thought now that the show was over, I would return to the stage. Instead of theater, however, the early eighties presented a slew of movie roles, both theatrical and television.

  My first feature film after Rhoda was The Last Married Couple in America by John Herman Shaner, which starred George Segal and Natalie Wood. Arlene was also in the picture, playing their neighbor. George and Natalie were a married couple, and I was a divorced friend of Natalie’s chasing after George. Some friend, huh? The legendary eight-time Academy Award winner, Edith Head, was costume designer for the film, and Mimi and I were thrilled to work with this extraordinary woman. Mimi assisted her and even got screen credit. During a fitting, I remarked about Edith’s lovely gold chain necklace with eight miniature Oscars hanging from it. “Yes, Valerie,” she said, “I find it helpful to wear this to job interviews.”

  The Last Married Couple in America was one of Natalie’s last movies before her death. She was a dream to work with, relaxed and calm, which is often the case with a star of her magnitude. She was a gorgeous little thing but never fussed about her looks and never seemed insecure over her appearance. During a touch football scene, Natalie noticed that the elastic on Arlene’s tracksuit pants had snapped and insisted that her own personal wardrobe assistant do a quick alteration so that Arlene didn’t have to deal with safety pins. So thoughtful! When I told her I had been an extra on her 1973 film Love with the Proper Stranger, she laughed and said, “I loved that film. Lots of nominations and Steve McQueen.” (Trivia: Arlene Golonka was also in this movie!)