Then Again. Diane Keaton
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Hotel and Dad’s unhappiness about having to share her with others.
We found our way to better conversations after I won a debate at Willard Junior High School. Thus began many nightly discourses over solutions to family problems and local politics. Dad was a Republican. He argued for lower taxes and better behavior. Mom, a determined Democrat, believed in higher taxation and more leniency with us kids. I chose to argue in her defense. What happened in the heat of our deliberations became a determining factor in my future. The more intense things became, the better I argued my point. Following my impulses did something wildly exciting; it triggered thought. Fighting for something within the safety of a formal context became my path to personal expression, but, more important, it gave me the opportunity to know Dad in a different way. He was a great debater. And fun too. It wasn’t the subject or the content of our deliberations; it was the shared experience that meant so much. I couldn’t care less if I lost. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a turning point in my relationship with my dad. I was learning how to navigate something new: Dad’s mind.
C-Minus
In my fourteenth year, Mom handed me “My Diary” after a parent-teacher meeting in the eighth grade. It was her way of addressing my C-minus in English. I had been put in the so-called dumbbell section, with bilingual Mexican girls, bad boys, and drifty dreamy types like me. Bound together by a lack of skills, the buxom Mexican girls and I became friends. They took prepubescent, big-personality Diane under their wing. They were kind and generous and a great audience to my pratfalls. After three years in remedial English, I still didn’t know a conjunction from a preposition or a proper noun from a common noun. In those days there were no alternative teaching methods to help kids like us. I had a lot of feelings, but I didn’t understand what we were being taught. Were we even being taught? I don’t think so. I think we were being “dumped.” Mom was not a stickler for homework. She was more comfortable addressing my aspirations. For example, it was her idea to black out my teeth when I auditioned for the talent show with “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” When I was a Melodette, she advised me to approach Mr. Anderson, our choirmaster, about singing duets like “Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better” before trying to convince him I could handle “When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along” as a solo. Mom encouraged all of my performing-based activities, but that parent-teacher meeting must have convinced her that “My Diary” would help teach me to respect the power of words.
Dear Diary,
I wish I had a boyfriend. Boys are never going to like me because I’m flat. Well, maybe one boy might, but I’m not sure. There’s Joe Gibbins, but he got caught sniffing glue today. Man. That’s really getting bad. I hope I never know another boy who does that. Not ever.
I wish I could sing like Megan. She gets to take lessons with Kenny Akin. And she gets all the solos too. Of course everyone thinks she’s neat. I’m going to ask Mom to let me take vocal lessons with Kenny Akin too. He puts on a lot of shows in Orange County.
Dear Diary,
Today, I went downtown with Virginia Odenath and Pat Amthor. All they did was talk to each other. Plus Pat told Virginia I like Larry Blair. I cannot stand one thing about her or her big fat mouth. And then of course Virginia couldn’t wait to tell me Larry likes Genene Seeton. Well, he can just have her. Not only that, some person predicted the world will end tomorrow, and I got a D on my Algebra test.
One good thing though, Mom said yes to the lessons. So, I’ll be singing with Megan at last. This is so neat.
Dear Diary,
I just don’t think it’s fair that Kenny Akin never lets me have a chance at a solo. I’m just a nothing around there. That’s for sure. Maybe my time hasn’t come yet. Oh well.
Dear Diary,
Today I found out that Megan is adopted, and her sister went insane and tried to kill herself. It was so sad. Why would anyone want to die? I wish no one ever had to die in the first place. It’s too scary. I pray to God that in heaven everyone is happy and can’t remember what it’s like to wish they wanted to kill themselves like Megan’s sister.
Dear Diary,
I finally got the nerve to ask a boy to the Girls Ask Boys dance. And he said he would go with me. Isn’t that neat? He’s in the popular crowd. He’s scads of fun. He always calls me “stupid.” Guess who it is? Ronnie McNeeley. I can’t wait to tell Mahala Hoien, my new best friend. His shirt size is 18. This is just about the neatest thing ever. The girls are supposed to make the boys a shirt that matches their blouse. Isn’t that just so cool?
Dear Diary,
The worst thing of all was the Girls Ask Boys dance. I thought it would be a blast. But it wasn’t. Ronnie acted like he was too good for me. He even asked Pat Amthor to dance instead of me. And he had the nerve to leave before the whole thing was over. I dispise (spell) him. He should have at least danced with me once. It’s awful. Boys just don’t like me. I’m not pretty enough.
Dear Diary,
For Christmas Kenny put on a production called Amahl and the Night Visitors. Megan was the lead. Boy, does everybody primp over her or what? For instance, Judy says, “Megan, are you cold?” Virginia says, “Megan, here, take my coat.” Meanwhile, I’m freezing. Do you think they’d offer me their coat?
Kenny had a long talk with me today and said that he would be using me a lot next year. And that someday I’d be a great comedian. Har de har.
Kenny Akin
Kenny Akin was known as “Mr. Music of Orange County.” He looked like a six-foot-four version of Howdy Doody without Buffalo Bob pulling the strings. Even though I couldn’t process the meaning of my student-teacher relationship with this larger-than-life character, I must have instinctively known he was a means to an end. Besides producing and directing Kismet, Oklahoma!, and Babes in Toyland, Kenny Akin managed his own voice-and-dramatics studio and portrayed leading tenor roles in numerous productions from Los Angeles to San Bernardino County. Kenny’s protégée, Megan, and I were both thirteen, but Megan was poised and attractive and had an all-out killer voice. No getting around it: Kenny thought Megan was as close to perfection as a person could be. In his eyes I was one thing only—WRONG.
Thank God he never bought into my brand of appeal. His rejection gave me the will to persist long enough to find a loophole that would force him to give me a chance. As always, my loophole was Mom. Over a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter, I told her how Kenny gave all the big parts to Megan. Mom didn’t say anything; she just shook her head. But I know for a fact she had a little chat with Mr. Akin, because a few days later I saw them through a crack in his study door. All I can say is Dorothy Deanne Keaton Hall could be very convincing when it came to her children.
After Mother’s chat, I was assigned bit parts that led to Raggedy Ann in Babes in Toyland. I must have scored big, because Kenny started to take me more seriously. That’s when I started to take him less seriously. It wasn’t long before I told Mother I didn’t want to study with Kenny anymore. I’d learned all I needed to know from him. I couldn’t articulate my thoughts, but with enough experience under my belt, I’d learned how to hold my own at least long enough to find my way to an audience. The audience would decide my fate, not Mr. Kenny Akin. I always thought I’d be crushed by people who didn’t buy into me. But I wasn’t. There would be many Kenny Akinses who found themselves stuck with me whether they liked it or not.
Applause
There was no discussion with my parents on the night I sang “Mata Hari” in our Santa Ana High School production of the musical Little Mary Sunshine. Under the direction of our drama teacher, Mr. Robert Leasing, the production was worthy of Broadway—at least, that’s what it was like for me. I was Nancy Twinkle, the second lead, who loves to flirt with men. Little did I know that her big song, “Mata Hari,” would be a showstopper. I ran around the stage singing about the famous spy “who would spy and get her data by doing this and that-a,” ending with a grand finale featuring me sliding down a rope into the orchestra pit. That was when I heard the explosion. It was applause. When Mom and Dad found me backstage,