by Diane Keaton
Now that I’m in my sixties, I want to understand more about what it felt like to be the beautiful wife of Jack Hall, raising four children in sunny California. I want to know why Mother continually forgot to remember how wonderful she was. I wish she would have taken pride in how much fun it was for us to hear her play “My Mammy” on the piano and sing, “The sun shines east, the sun shines west, I know where the sun shines best—Mammy.” I don’t know why she didn’t appreciate how unusual it was when she took me to a room in a museum where a marble lion was missing the right side of his face; he also had no feet. The towering goddess in the other room had no arms. Mom was oohing and aahing, “Diane, isn’t it beautiful?”
“But everything’s lost. They don’t have their parts,” I said.
“But don’t you see? Even without all their parts, look how magnificent they are.” She was teaching me how to see. Yet she never took credit for anything. I wonder if her lack of self-esteem was an early symptom of forgetting. Was it really Alzheimer’s that stole her memory, or was it a crippling sense of insecurity?
For fifteen years Mother kept saying goodbye: goodbye to names of places; goodbye to her famous tuna casseroles; goodbye to the BMW Dad bought her on her sixty-first birthday; goodbye to recognizing me as her daughter. Hello to Purina cat food molding on paper plates in her medicine chest; hello to caregivers; hello to the wheelchair guiding her to her favorite show—Barney—every morning on PBS; hello to the blank stare. Somewhere in the middle of the horrible hellos and tragic goodbyes, I adopted a baby girl. I was fifty. After a lifetime of avoiding intimacy, suddenly I got intimate in a big way. As Mother struggled to complete sentences, I watched Dexter, my daughter, and a few years later little Duke, my son, begin to form words as a means to capture the wonder of their developing minds.
The state of being a woman in between two loves—one as a daughter, the other as a mother—has changed me. It’s been a challenge to witness the betrayal of such a cruel disease while learning to give love with the promise of stability. If my mother was the most important person to me, if I am who and how I am largely due to who and how she was, what then does that say about my impact on Duke and Dexter? Abstract reasoning is no help.
At the beginning of her last year, Dorothy’s small circle of devoted friends had all but fallen away. The people who loved her could be counted on one hand. It was hard to recognize the woman we had known. But then, am I recognizable as the same person I was when Annie Hall opened almost thirty-five years ago? I remember people coming up to me on the street, saying, “Don’t ever change. Just don’t ever change.” Even Mom once said, “Don’t grow old, Diane.” I didn’t like those words then, and I don’t like them now. The exhausting effort to control time by altering the effects of age doesn’t bring happiness. There’s a word for you: happiness. Why is happiness something I thought I was entitled to? What is happiness anyway? Insensitivity. That’s what Tennessee Williams said.
Mom’s last word was no. No to the endless prodding. No to the unasked-for invasions. No to “Dinner, Dorothy?” “Time for your pills. Open your mouth.” “We’re going to roll you over, Mamacita.” “NO!” “There, doesn’t that feel good?” “NO!!” “Do you want to watch TV? Lucy’s on.” “Let me get you a straw. Let me get you a fork.” “NO.” “Let me rub your shoulders.” “No, no, no, no, NO!!!!” If she could, Mom would have said, “Leave me and my body alone, for God’s sake. Don’t touch me. This is my life. This is my ending.” It wasn’t that the activities were administered without affection and care; that wasn’t the issue. The issue was independence. When I was a kid Mom would retreat to any unoccupied room with a longing that overshadowed her all-encompassing love for us. Once there, she would put aside the role of devoted mother, loving wife, and take refuge in her thoughts. In the end, no was all that was left of Dorothy’s desire to have her wishes respected.
“Finally freed from the constraints of this life, Mom has joined Dad—just as she has joined her sisters, Orpha and Martha; her mother, Beulah; and all her dear cats, starting with Charcoal, ending with Cyrus. I promise to take care of her thoughts and words. I promise to THINK. And I promise to carry the legacy of beautiful, beautiful Dorothy Deanne Keaton Hall from Kansas, born on October thirty-first, 1921—my mother.”
I spoke these words at her memorial service in November 2008. Mom continues to be the most important, influential person in my life. From the outside looking in, we lived completely different lives. She was a housewife and mother who dreamed of success; I am an actress whose life has been—in some respects—beyond my wildest dreams. Comparing two women with big dreams who shared many of the same conflicts and also happened to be mother and daughter is partially a story of what’s lost in success contrasted with what’s gained in accepting an ordinary life. I was an ordinary girl who became an ordinary woman, with one exception: Mother gave me extraordinary will. It didn’t come free. But, then, life wasn’t a free ride for Mother either.
So why did I write a memoir? Because Mom lingers; because she tried to save our family’s history through her words; because it took decades before I recognized that her most alluring trait was her complexity; because I don’t want her to disappear even though she has. So many reasons, but the best answer comes from a passage she wrote using those fine abstract-reasoning capabilities she passed on to me. The year was 1980. She was fifty-nine.
Every living person should be forced to write an autobiography. They should have to go back and unravel and disclose all the stuff that was packed into their lives. Finding the unusual way authors put ideas into words gives me a very satisfying knowledge that I could do this too if I focused on it. It might help me release the pressure I feel from stored up memories that are affecting me now. But I do something terribly wrong. I tell myself I’m too controlled by my past habits. I really want to write about my life, the close friends I knew, the family life we had, but I hold back. If I would be totally honest, I think I could reach a point where I’d begin seeing ME in a more understandable light. Now I’m jumpy in my recollected thought, yet I know it would be nothing but good for me to do this.
I wish she had. And, because she didn’t, I’ve written not my memoir but ours. The story of a girl whose wishes came true because of her mother is not new, but it’s mine. The profound love and gratitude I feel now that she’s left has compelled me to try to “unravel” the mystery of her journey. In so doing I hoped to find the meaning of our relationship and understand why realized dreams are such a strange burden. What I’ve done is create a book that combines my own memories and stories with Mom’s notebooks and journals. Thinking back to her scrapbooks and our mutual love of collage, I’ve placed her words beside mine, along with letters, clippings, and other materials that document not just our lives but our bond. I want to hold my life up alongside hers in order to, as she wrote, reach a point where I begin to see me—and her—in a more understandable light.
PART ONE
1
DOROTHY
Extraordinary
Dorothy’s commitment to writing began with a letter to Ensign Jack Hall, who was stationed with the Navy in Boston. It was just after the end of World War II. She was resting in the Queen of Angels Hospital after having given birth to me. All alone with a seven-pound, seven-ounce baby, she began a correspondence that would develop into a different kind of passion. At that time, Mom’s words were influenced by the few movies Beulah had allowed her to see, like 1938’s Broadway Melody. Harmless fluff pieces with dialogue out of the mouth of Judy Garland. Mom’s “I sure do love you more than anything in the world” and her use of “swell” and “No one could ever make me happier than you” mirrored the American worldview of life and its expectations during the 1940s. For Dorothy, more than anything, it was love. It was Jack. It was Diane, and it was swell.
Mom wrote her first “Hello, Honey” letter when I was eight days old. Fifty years later I met my daughter, Dexter, and held her in my arms when she was eight days old. She was a c
heerful baby. Contrary to my long-held belief, I was not a cheerful baby or even very cute. Mother’s concern about my appearance was defined by a bad photograph. Photography was already telling people how to see me. I didn’t pass Dad’s pretty-picture test, or Mom’s for that matter. Holed up in Grammy Keaton’s little bungalow on Monterey Road in Highland Park, Dorothy had no choice. Through her twenty-four-year-old eyes she wanted to believe I was extraordinary. I had to be. She passed this kind of hope on to a baby girl who got caught up in its force. Our six months alone together sealed the deal. Everything for Dorothy became heightened because she was exploding with the joy, pain, fear, and empathy of being a first-time mother.
January 13, 1946
Dearest
Jack,
You should be just about getting into Boston, and I’ll bet you are pretty worn out from the trip. It’s hard to realize it could be so cold there when it’s so nice here. I’m sorry I acted the way I did when you left. I sure didn’t want to, but the thought of you leaving got me so upset. I tried awfully hard to stop crying, because I knew it wasn’t good for Diane.
It’s 8:00 p.m., and your daughter’s asleep. She’s getting prettier every day and by the time you see her you may decide to have her for your “favorite dish.” That’s not fair, honey—I saw you first, so I should be first choice in your harem, don’t you think? Chiquita and Lois came over today. They agreed she was swell, even though she has one bad habit—whenever anyone comes to look at her she looks back at them cross-eyed.
Well, honey, I think I’ll wake little “Angel Face” up. We’ve certainly got a prize, no fooling. Every time I look at her I think I can’t wait until you can see her, and we can be by ourselves.
Good night, my love,
Dorothy
January 18, 1946
Hello, Honey,
I wish I wasn’t such a crybaby. I don’t understand me. Until I was married you couldn’t make me cry over anything. I thought I couldn’t cry—but now all I have to do is think of you and how swell you are and I miss you so much before I know it I’m bawling just like Diane. I sure do love you more than you could know, honey. Even if I don’t tell you very often when I see you, I’m always thinking it.
Diane & I had our picture taken—just small cheap ones. I’m afraid they can’t be too good of her—she’s so tiny—and naturally they won’t be good of me, but that’s to be expected. I hope you can at least see what she looks like a little bit. The photographer said she was very good for a baby her size & age. She’s not fat like her mother used to be. Incidentally I’m still on the plump side = darn it. She weighs over 9 lbs. and, as I say in every letter—gets cuter everyday. I think that’s a nice idea of yours, sending her $2.00 bills. I’m putting them away for her. It’s adding up. Maybe pretty soon we could start a savings account for her. Good night, my Honey.
Love,
Dorothy
February 21, 1946
Hello, Honey,
I’m so disappointed. Those pictures are just as I expected—awful. Diane looks kind of funny. I’m not going to send them cause you’ll think I’ve been kidding you about how cute she is.
You said in your letter today that you wish we could relive those good old days again. I sure look back and dream about how swell they were. We don’t want to ever change, do we? Even though we have a family and more responsibilities, I don’t think that’s any reason to act older and not have the fun we used to.
Right?!
Good night, Darling Jack,
Your Dorothy
March 31, 1946
Dear Jack,
Right now I’m so mad at you I could really tell you off if you were here. I don’t know whatever gave you the crazy idea that I might have changed and “start liking someone else.” You aren’t the only person that believes in making a success of their marriage—it means just as much to me as it does you, and if you think I go around looking for someone that might suit me a little better, you don’t think too much of me. Don’t you think I take being married seriously? You ought to know how much I love you—so why in the world would I try and find someone else? You said you wanted me to be happy—well, believe me, you couldn’t make me any more unhappy if you tried. If you would just have a little confidence in me and trust me more you wouldn’t think such things. You don’t have to keep reminding me of the fact that we promised to tell each other first if things had changed. That applies to you too. Would you like it if I kept telling you I didn’t think it would last long and you would soon find someone else? Well, I sure don’t like it one bit so please don’t write like that again.
I probably shouldn’t send this but the more I think about it the madder I get! But no matter how mad I get, honey—I love you as much as I can and if I looked the whole world over I couldn’t see anyone but you because no one could ever make me any happier than you always have and always will. I feel better now—not mad anymore, but I’ll be really mad if you ever write that way again—don’t forget.
Love,
Dorothy
P.S. I’ve decided to send you our photographs after all.
April 25, 1946
Hello, Honey,
So you didn’t like the pictures, huh? Please don’t think your daughter looks like that because I assure you she doesn’t. And even if she wasn’t cute, she would be darling just from her personality alone. She has one already—very definitely. I think I’ll wait awhile before I have her picture taken again.
You know, of course, that we have a very remarkable and intelligent daughter. I was reading my baby book about what a 4-month-old baby should be doing and she was doing everything they mentioned when she was 2 months, really. She tries her hardest to sit up, and they don’t do that until they are 5 or 6 months. She really does take after you in every way—looks, smartness, and personality. Don’t worry, she will surely be a beauty.
Well, honey, only 38 more days until that wonderful day when I see you again. Diane said, “Whoopee!”
Well, anyway, she smiled—
Bye, honey,
Love,
Dorothy
Looking West
My first memory is of shadows creating patterns on a wall. Inside my crib, I saw the silhouette of a woman with long hair move across the bars. Even as she picked me up and held me, my mother was a mystery. It was almost as if I knew the world, and life in it, would be unfamiliar yet charged with an alluring, permanent, and questioning romance. As if I would spend the rest of my life trying to understand her. Is this memory real? I don’t know.
Certain things stand out: the snowstorm in Los Angeles when I was three; the Quonset hut we lived in until I was five. It had a wonderful shape. I’ve loved arches ever since. One night, Mr. Eigner, our next-door neighbor, caught me singing “Over the Rainbow” on Daddy’s newly paved driveway. I thought I was going to get into trouble. Instead, he told me I was a “mighty talented young lady.” Daddy worked at the Department of Water and Power in downtown Los Angeles. I’d go visit him at his office when I was five. There was something about looking west from the Angels Flight trolley car that mesmerized me. Tall buildings like City Hall peeked over the hill. I loved Clifton’s Cafeteria and the Broadway department store. Everything was condensed and concrete and angled and bustling with activity. Downtown was perfect. I thought heaven must look like Los Angeles. But nothing compared to the joy of tugging on Mom’s arm, telling her to “Look! Look, Mom.” We both loved looking.
It was hard to know what Mom loved more, looking or writing. Her scrapbooks, at least when I was a little girl, were ruined by endless explanations underneath the photographs. As I got older, I avoided the unwanted envelopes with her “Letters to Diane” like the plague. Who cared about letters? I just wanted pictures. After my incident in the darkroom with Mother’s journal, that was it for me. But when I made the decision to write a memoir at age sixty-three, I began to read Mother’s journals in no particular order. In the middle of this process, I came across what must have been an at
tempt at her own memoir. Embossed in gold at the top of the cover was 1980. That meant she began to write it when she was fifty-nine. Each entry was dated. Sometimes Mom would start an excerpt, then stop, leaving dozens of pages empty. Or she would write a paragraph on an incident one year, only to return to it a couple of years later, only to restart with yet another approach months after. Over the course of five years, she skipped in and out of her childhood events almost as if she was free-associating. For the most part Dorothy’s tone was forgiving, sweet, and sometimes elegiac. But sometimes it wasn’t. She must have been taking stock of her life by dredging up memories of those days in the thirties when she was sandwiched between the harsh rules laid down by the Free Methodist church and the lure of life outside Beulah’s constraints. I hate to believe it’s true, but life threw Dorothy some punches she didn’t recover from.
Family Feelings
My father, Roy Keaton, nicknamed me Perkins when I was very young, maybe three or four years old. He used it when he had “family feelings.” When he felt estranged, he called me Dorothy. Daddy made it clear with all three of Mother’s pregnancies that he wanted a boy. As we girls grew, it became obvious that I was the one he wished had been the boy of his dreams. I was the tomboy, a quiet girl who gave no one trouble. I don’t know why Dad favored me over my sisters. Sometimes he confided thoughts he didn’t even share with Mother. I always listened wordlessly. When he finished he would say, “Isn’t that right, Perkins, huh? Huh?” He knew I would always agree. I think he also knew I always agreed with Mother too.