by Hana Ali
Although the Iran trip was canceled, my father didn’t give up trying to find a way to secure the release of the hostages. Twelve days later he picked up the telephone and called Jeremiah Shabazz, his friend and Muslim minister from Philadelphia.
“I hate to wake you,” Dad said, “but something important has come up. Wake up—wake up—are you woke?”
“Yeah, I’m up.” Jeremiah yawned.
“I got a call from Arafat’s people a couple nights ago. One of them came by when I was at my brother’s house in Chicago and said that Arafat had invited me to Lebanon. He wants me to go with him to try and talk to the ayatollah—to release the hostages. He left three plane tickets. One for me, one for Howard Bingham, and one for whoever else I want to bring. I was wondering if you would go too?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with you.”
“Will it get us in trouble, meeting with Arafat?” Dad asked.
“No, not really . . . I’d meet with the devil himself to help somebody.”
“That’s a good one,” said Dad, “I’ll meet with the devil himself to help somebody. I like that . . . So the plane tickets are here. If Khomeini gives us an invitation, that’s some kind of small progress, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s progress,” said Jeremiah. “I think that Arafat can probably get in to see Khomeini. He knows his way around, and everybody knows him, and everybody knows you. The combination is pretty good, really.”
“What would you say standing in front of Khomeini—about releasing the hostages?”
“First I would tell him to keep the lines of communication open and to be open to reason. Mainly to keep negotiating—as long as they’re talking there is a chance. Listen, Ali, don’t think you’re going to go over there and get them people out. Just keep in mind that wherever you go and whatever you do, the world sees that you tried to do something. That’s the best you can do. You can say, ‘I tried.’ I agree that they should let them go, but you are not the powers that make up the United States and you are not against the United States. The only position that you stand for is justice . . .”
While my father wasn’t able to secure the release of the hostages in Iran, in 1985 he flew to Lebanon in an attempt to secure the release of four hostages. Then, in 1990, he flew to Iraq and successfully negotiated the release of fifteen American hostages. I remember watching him bringing them home on the news when I was a teenager and thinking that he was like a golden key that could unlock any door around the world.
Like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said after my father refused to be inducted into the United States Army, “You might not agree with Mr. Ali’s religious beliefs, but you certainly have to admire his courage . . .”
My father was called to rise many times in his life, and every time he rose to the occasion. He proved over and over, in and out of the ring, that he wasn’t afraid of a challenge. In my eyes, he was—and always will be—the measure of greatness.
After Dad got off the phone with Jack Elliot, my parents made plans to go out to dinner. As usual, I was determined to go with them. For as long as I can remember, I knew my tears were like kryptonite to my father; he was defenseless against them. All I had to do was turn on the theatrics or poke out my lip and he would melt. Dad had a weak spot for children and the elderly. While he was a fierce opponent in the ring, he never stood a chance against his three-year-old daughter. And he knew it.
“Hana, this is 1979 November the 12th and it’s about 8 p.m. Me and your mother, Veronica, are going out to have dinner . . .”
I interrupted, “Now?”
“Yeah . . . I’m going to take Mommy to have some dinner.”
“I want soooome! I want to eat with yoooou.”
Dad talked into the recorder, speaking to the future me. “Hana, this was you typically when you were a little girl, this is how you always talked . . .”
I could be heard pleading in the background. “I want to—I want to, Daddy—I want to go bye-bye with you . . . I want to go bye-bye with you, Daddy . . .”
“Why don’t you stay here, Hana? It’s dark outside. It’s time for you to go to bed.”
“No! You’ll be back?”
“I’ll be back. Every night I go out, you say this—every night—and you cry.” He returned to the recorder as I pulled out the kryptonite. “See, Hana,” he said to my future self as I sat listening beside him, “this tape is to show how little girls are persistent. They keep crying, using their feelings to get what they want from men. You’re three years old—one day you’ll be thirty years old, conning men . . .”
I continued to beg him.
“Okay, you can go. Give me a kiss. Daddy will take you. I just can’t help it.”
We walked down the hall together to my mother’s room. “I’m going to go out to eat with you, Mommy. I’m going to go bye-bye with you and Daddy.”
“You went bye-bye with Auntie Diane already,” she said.
I looked at my father. “Daddy . . .”
He looked at my mother. “Mama, I’m taking Hana to eat with us, you hear?”
I looked at my mother. “He said yes, Mommy!”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll let you go this time.”
Dad finished the recording as I talked to my mother in the background.
“The time is about 8:27 p.m., and I’m here upstairs with Hana and Veronica in the house at 55 Fremont Place in Los Angeles. The date is November 12, 1979, and Hana is in the background talking. What did you say, Hana?”
“She said she’ll go this time and tomorrow night she will stay home.”
“Oh good,” he said. “Come give me a kiss.”
“You’ll come back later and I’ll go this time—I’ll go now?”
“Yes. I’ll come back later and you’ll go now, but tomorrow you’ll stay home. Let me hear you say it.”
“I go now, but tomorrow I stay home.”
“Good girl . . . Signing off, until tomorrow.”
I was always worrying my father wouldn’t come home. It was as if I’d always known that one day he wouldn’t.
28
“Can you grab me a pencil and notepad?” I called out.
It was nearly 2 a.m., and Kevin was still watching his favorite movie, The Godfather. Any other film and he would have fallen asleep by now. He came to the bedroom door and gave me a look. “You have a drawerful in your nightstand,” he said.
“I can’t move!” I said, sitting in the middle of the bed. “I have these papers in order and I need to write down the stuff I want to ask my mother about. And the notepad is in my office desk drawer.”
He grabbed an ice tea from the refrigerator and returned with a notepad and a handful of pens and pencils. “Any chance of us going to bed soon?” he asked.
“Can you give me thirty minutes?”
“Okay,” he said, then kissed me and left the room.
As I flicked through one of Mom’s old decorating books, an envelope fell into my lap. I stared at the beautiful penmanship; it was my mother’s handwriting, and it was addressed to Laila and me. This letter looks ancient, I thought. But for a moment I ignored it. I told myself I was no longer in the mood to be reminded of things and places past. But who was I kidding? I’d been consumed with thoughts about the past since the moment my father revealed his tape recordings to me. I just wasn’t ready to face my own ghosts yet. I’d spent years trying to forgive my mother for leaving my father.
Curiosity and frustration battled within me. Why hadn’t Mom given this to us? And what in the world was it doing in a book about decorating? I started to call her but stopped myself. Knowing my mother, she would still be distraught over the discovery of my father’s letters, and if she’d managed to sleep, it was best she stay that way.
This is crazy, I thought. First Dad, now Mom. Mercury must have been in a perpetual retrograde when these two were born. I peeled the letter from its envelope, my mind racing. Would this also break my heart the way my father’s letters had?
Dear Hana
and Laila,
There was a lot you were too young to remember.
Love, Mom
I noted the date: December 22, 1986. She must have written this at the time of the divorce. I examined the pages. It wasn’t a letter but a copy of a long interview titled “Are You Anybody?” I read the opening lines:
Veronica is 5 feet 10 inches tall. She is very striking, with a wonderful face and regal bearing. She has light mocha skin and huge, dark brown eyes framed with thick eyelashes (not false). She wears little makeup—lip gloss, mascara, and cheek color. Her rich, long, wavy, henna-brown hair is pulled to one side with a barrette. Hers is the kind of face you don’t get tired of looking at! Veronica is the perfect mate for Muhammad Ali. They certainly make a beautiful couple . . .
I was quite impressed with Veronica’s sensitivity and intelligence. She understood her husband’s problem and found a way to handle the situation with great dignity. I could never have done as well . . . Her beauty, which is overwhelming, is far among her lessor assets . . .
I wondered if I should keep reading. Although I’d confronted similar memories before, this was different. My mother’s message made me feel guilty somehow. I knew where it was heading. It had something to do with the reason she left my father. This wasn’t the first time I’d been abruptly confronted by the past. When the memory becomes too painful, I block it from my consciousness. There isn’t much I remember about our final days at Fremont.
My father was my world. In my eyes, he was responsible for making the sun rise, and I had unfairly cast my mother in the role of the villain, just as she had been cast by the world over the break up of my father’s marriage to Belinda. Beautiful women often get blamed in these situations, but really, if anyone is to blame, it is the partner who is being unfaithful. Usually.
Now, for the first time in my life, I was forced to consider her feelings—what she went through. I knew it was time to face it, to finally admit to myself and the world—after all these years—that it was not entirely her fault.
* * *
In 1979, Marilyn Funt, then wife of Allen Funt, best known for his hit television show Candid Camera, conducted a series of interviews with the wives of famous men. She hoped to give a voice to the women—a chance to let their light shine. Getting Dad to agree to the interview was a story in itself.
Mrs. Funt arrived at my grandmother’s house at 1 p.m. for a two-hour scheduled interview. As she rang the bell, the pleasant empty street behind her suddenly filled with cars. Up front was my father’s convertible Rolls-Royce. My mother got out and invited Marilyn into the house: a five-bedroom home built by my grandfather with rich red brick, an ornately carved mahogany front door, and individually shingled roofing. The yard was landscaped with shrubbery and small trees. All the women in Mom’s family loved gardening.
Before they went inside, Dad called my mother back to the car to ask her a question. Mom then went to ask Marilyn if she’d mind going to the screening of Dad’s new movie, Freedom Road. Marilyn agreed and got into the back seat of my father’s Rolls. They drove through Los Angeles with the top down as Dad smiled and waved at fans all the way to the Film Institute. Mrs. Funt later wrote that she had the feeling she was in a presidential cavalcade. They watched the film. She was impressed with Dad’s acting. “He’s good,” she said.
By five o’clock they were back at my grandmother’s house. She and my mother sat down on the living-room sofa. Before they could begin, Dad said, “I can’t think of any reason why I should let her talk to you,” and walked into the kitchen, where he began eating rice and beans. Marilyn followed him in and sat down at the table to face him.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I can’t think of any reason why I should let her talk to you about our personal life.”
“I can’t think of any for you either. The interview is not for you, it is for Veronica. It will make her feel good about herself.”
“She feels good enough! She’s my wife!”
“The world sees her as some kind of doll you keep locked away. She needs to express herself.”
“That’s the last thing she needs!”
“You seem to be a man who is afraid to let her speak.”
Dad was having fun with her now. “Why does she have to speak?”
“Because she is a human being. Do you want everyone to think you are controlling her this much?”
“Yeah, hell yeah! As soon as she would be in your book, everyone will be coming around after her. What do I want that for?”
“This book is a very special collection of women. Obviously, I think she should be a part of it. I do understand your feelings, but because of the way you have her hidden people assume she can’t even think. She happens to be very intelligent and nobody knows it.”
“How do you know they think she can’t think?”
“The image of her is not flattering because of how you keep her locked away.”
“Good! That’s what I want. I have the whole Muslim world to think about.”
“So, what should we do? Do you want me to interview you? I came all the way from New York.”
“I’ll talk to you. I’ll give you all you want.”
“How about if the three of us talk together? You will be there the whole time.”
“Well, let’s see how it goes.” He called Mom to come back in. Then he left. “What do you think happened to change his mind?” asked Marilyn.
“I don’t know; it is hard to say. He changes his mind quite often. I don’t think he remembers you are the same person he talked to on the phone.”
Dad entered the room again, and my mother left to check on me.
“Why don’t you pay her?” he said. “Your bosses are going to make a lot of money. Why should she talk for nothing?”
“It’s a good question. I don’t know. No one asked it before.”
“She’s a lady. She wouldn’t ask. She would do it for free.”
“I haven’t paid anyone, but I will consider it. These women, who are in this book, are not interested in the money; they want to express their values, their thoughts, and their identities. If I offered Veronica a lot of money now, would you care or are you just looking for another reason for her not to do it?”
“This just doesn’t make sense,” he said. “This is a stupid idea—for someone to talk about their marriage. That’s nobody’s business.”
“I respect your feelings. Even though you said okay to me when we spoke before. You have every right to change your mind.”
“You caught me when I wasn’t thinking,” he said.
“You had reservations then, so I understand how you feel.”
“I’m sorry about it; I think she would have enjoyed it. Do you think she would have enjoyed it?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“All right . . . go on . . . just let me hear the kind of questions you will ask, all right?”
“Here are a few: What are some of the things you do well? What are some of your favorite pleasures in life? How do you spend time with your children? What do you and your husband like to do together? How do you handle jealousy? What do you hope for as you grow older? I’m not going to trick her. You will be right there anyway.”
“Okay,” he conceded.
* * *
“Well, alone at last,” said Marilyn. “I suppose you can begin by telling me about your background.”
“I am twenty-three. Muhammad is thirty-seven. My parents are both from Louisiana, and they both moved here before I was born. My father started as a baker, but then he got into the construction business. He is retired now. As long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a nurse. My mother was a nurse. It was sometime in elementary school that I began to have that desire, but by the time I was twelve, my sister and I went to a boarding school. It was there that I decided I wanted to be a doctor, not just a nurse. I think it’s because I wanted to do something more . . . but I always wanted to be the best at whatever I did.”
“You mean when you were growing up, you actually thought about being the best?”
“Yes, I wanted to be the best nurse—until I realized it would be even better to be a doctor.”
“‘The Best’ and ‘The Greatest’—quite a combination. Were you very influenced in these feelings by your mother?”
“Not really. My parents were always interested in me, but I was very independent. I motivated myself. I never needed pushing to get me to get out and do something. I was always good in school. I’ve been lucky because I didn’t really have to try hard.”
“What kind of a man was your father?”
“He is pretty quiet now, but I can remember that when my father said something he meant it, and when my mother said something you could wonder and try to figure out ways to work on her emotions and get around her. I am the same way with my children. I have to practice being firmer. I feel sorry for my daughters when they do something wrong—they look so pitiful when they are crying that I can’t help myself.”
“What type of financial environment were you raised in?”
“We were always comfortable. I have three brothers and two sisters, and I never remember being hungry. We were a happy family. My whole family is artistic, especially my older sister Diane; my brothers are too. My father, who is in construction, is also artistic. He rebuilt this whole house with the help of his friends.”
“Why did you leave your family to go to boarding school?”
“I spent two years in boarding school in Louisiana. My sister was going, and I just went with her. We went because a good friend of my mother’s told her about this particular school and she thought it was a good idea. It was there that I became more disciplined as far as studying and keeping a schedule was concerned. I was there until I was fourteen, and then I returned to Los Angeles to finish high school, where I was a very active student at Belmont High.”
My mom as a girl
My mom’s parents on their wedding day.
“What were some of your teenage activities?”
