Alretha Thomas's Blog - Posts Tagged "love"
Alice in Wanderland
I met Alice twenty-seven years ago, and like the Alice in the 1865 novel, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” she was beautiful inside and out, with blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, and a spirit that lit up a room. Over the years, Alice and her husband Mike have been my biggest fans—attending my numerous plays when I was pursuing acting and more recently, when I was producing and directing. When I discovered my purpose and passion—novel writing, they cheered me on and have never doubted once that I’d be successful.
When I met my husband, I couldn’t wait to introduce him to Alice and Mike. I’ll never forget the look on Alice’s face when my husband walked into their house. She held her head back and peered up at his six-foot, three-inch frame and he looked down at her barely four-feet, eleven-inch frame and they both curled over in riotous laughter. “My you’re tall!” Alice who never failed to speak her mind, proclaimed. I couldn’t help but think that Alice had drank the same potion Alice in Wonderland drank that made her small and that my husband had eaten the cake that had made her tall.
From that moment on, my husband grew to love Alice and Mike as much as I did and sometimes I felt, even more. If too much time passed, he would ask “Have you called Alice and Mike recently?” I would scrunch my face and murmur, “No.” Then I’d grab the phone and call them. As soon as he would hear my voice, Mike would ask, “Alrita, is that you?” I didn’t mind him mispronouncing my name. There’s something endearing about it. Then he would yell out to Alice, “It’s Alrita.”
Alice and Mike became our favorite couple friends and we admired how much they loved each other. So when I called them last month, I was saddened to learn that Mike had to have Alice put in a home. Alice has Alzheimer’s and Mike is no longer able to give her the support she needs. He said it all started with her mind wandering aimlessly. He said she began to forget things and even who he was at times. I could hear him choking up while he talked about how difficult it was to put her in the home.
Yesterday, I visited Alice and as soon as she laid eyes on me, she lit up with her trademark smile, and her blues eyes, now a little cloudy, still had a familiar spark. She smothered me in kisses and held my hand. She looked well. I took in the house where she lived and the other residents. I got a good vibe and thanked God that Mike had found a nice second home for her. We talked and she appeared to be confused about things, and I wasn’t sure if she knew my name, but I got a sense that deep within the parts of her mind that were still lucid, she knew it was “Alrita”—the woman she had known for almost three decades, the woman whose dream it is to become a published author.
While Alice squeezed my hand, we exchanged knowing looks and told each other how much we loved each other. Life’s amazing and the only sure thing is change. Here was the vibrant woman I had met twenty-seven years ago, in a different place and space with a different mind, but with the same love that has held our friendship intact over the years. I guess it all makes sense. My husband’s nickname for me is “Rabbit.” There I, the Rabbit sat, next to Alice, praying that she doesn’t fall down any holes and that she holds onto what little memory she has left and the love she and Mike have shared for more than fifty years.
When I met my husband, I couldn’t wait to introduce him to Alice and Mike. I’ll never forget the look on Alice’s face when my husband walked into their house. She held her head back and peered up at his six-foot, three-inch frame and he looked down at her barely four-feet, eleven-inch frame and they both curled over in riotous laughter. “My you’re tall!” Alice who never failed to speak her mind, proclaimed. I couldn’t help but think that Alice had drank the same potion Alice in Wonderland drank that made her small and that my husband had eaten the cake that had made her tall.
From that moment on, my husband grew to love Alice and Mike as much as I did and sometimes I felt, even more. If too much time passed, he would ask “Have you called Alice and Mike recently?” I would scrunch my face and murmur, “No.” Then I’d grab the phone and call them. As soon as he would hear my voice, Mike would ask, “Alrita, is that you?” I didn’t mind him mispronouncing my name. There’s something endearing about it. Then he would yell out to Alice, “It’s Alrita.”
Alice and Mike became our favorite couple friends and we admired how much they loved each other. So when I called them last month, I was saddened to learn that Mike had to have Alice put in a home. Alice has Alzheimer’s and Mike is no longer able to give her the support she needs. He said it all started with her mind wandering aimlessly. He said she began to forget things and even who he was at times. I could hear him choking up while he talked about how difficult it was to put her in the home.
Yesterday, I visited Alice and as soon as she laid eyes on me, she lit up with her trademark smile, and her blues eyes, now a little cloudy, still had a familiar spark. She smothered me in kisses and held my hand. She looked well. I took in the house where she lived and the other residents. I got a good vibe and thanked God that Mike had found a nice second home for her. We talked and she appeared to be confused about things, and I wasn’t sure if she knew my name, but I got a sense that deep within the parts of her mind that were still lucid, she knew it was “Alrita”—the woman she had known for almost three decades, the woman whose dream it is to become a published author.
While Alice squeezed my hand, we exchanged knowing looks and told each other how much we loved each other. Life’s amazing and the only sure thing is change. Here was the vibrant woman I had met twenty-seven years ago, in a different place and space with a different mind, but with the same love that has held our friendship intact over the years. I guess it all makes sense. My husband’s nickname for me is “Rabbit.” There I, the Rabbit sat, next to Alice, praying that she doesn’t fall down any holes and that she holds onto what little memory she has left and the love she and Mike have shared for more than fifty years.
Disappearing Dad
What do Father Knows Best, The Brady Bunch, The Waltons, and The Cosby Show have in common, besides being some of the most beloved television shows in America? You guessed it—great dads—the kind of dads a fatherless girl like me longed to have. As I’m sure you know this Sunday is Father’s Day. It’s a day of celebration for many and for others it’s a day that conjures up bittersweet memories, feelings of loss, and abandonment.
There’s never been a Father’s Day that I haven’t wondered about my biological father. Why did he leave me? Where has he been all these years? Did he ever try to find me? Is he still alive? While growing up at one point I thought my stepfather was my bio-dad. When I found out he wasn’t, I was ecstatic, because he was a far cry from my favorite television dads. My mother told me my father’s name was Aaron Cooper and she said that I was just like him. Unfortunately, she told me ‘I was just like him’ when I did something to get on her nerves. I remember wanting to ask her more questions about my father, but I was afraid. Back in the day, children were to be seen and not heard. Now I wish I would have given her the third degree. “How did you meet him?” “Did you love him?” “Did he love me?” “Why did he leave?” My mother died when I was fourteen and I never built up the nerves or had the opportunity to drill her. Maybe deep down I didn’t want to know. Maybe I was afraid of the truth. She did tell me he has people in Pasadena and I did see pictures of him.
He was short and good-looking. I remember a black and white photo of him standing at a chalk board teaching. He was a Black Muslim and taught in the mosque. There was another snapshot of me as a toddler in the bath tub with him. His hair was slicked back and so was mine. We looked like twins. When I think about that photo of me in the tub with my father, I get a good feeling inside. He had to have loved me to take a bath with me or is that just wishful thinking? My oldest sister said he was crazy about me. Well, if he was so ‘crazy about me’ why did he let his little girl slip away?
Once I became an adult, my fascination with my father began to wane. I did contact a private investigator many years ago to see if I could locate him, but I never followed through. Yes, it was difficult growing up without my bio-dad and not having the unconditional love of a father did impact me in negative ways. Like a lot of women who grow up without a father, I looked for love in all the wrong places and I had negative self-worth. Thank goodness for God, healing, my grandfather, and other male role models in my life.
I’m not sure what I would do if I ever meant my father. He would have to be in his seventies. A lot of years have passed and he’s probably no longer living. By the way, I forgave my father many years ago for disappearing. And as an adult, I know relationships are tricky and life gets in the way. If my father is alive or dead, I hope he has or had a good life. I know in my heart of hearts, he’s thought about be over the years. Like every writer, I have a fertile imagination. With that said, here’s a conversation I oftentimes imagine my father having with someone who asks him if he has any children.
“I have a daughter somewhere in California. I haven’t seen her since she was a baby. I remember putting her in the tub with me. We both wore our hair slicked back. We look like twins. I miss her. You know her mother and I broke up and she just got away from me. One of these days I’m gonna find my baby girl. I pray she’s okay. I love her, I really do. I should have never left. So many years have passed and I feel so guilty. I wish I would have done better in life. I feel ashamed for her to see me like this, broke down, penniless. But that’s no excuse. A girl needs her father and a father needs his girl. One of these days…for real…one of these days…”
There’s never been a Father’s Day that I haven’t wondered about my biological father. Why did he leave me? Where has he been all these years? Did he ever try to find me? Is he still alive? While growing up at one point I thought my stepfather was my bio-dad. When I found out he wasn’t, I was ecstatic, because he was a far cry from my favorite television dads. My mother told me my father’s name was Aaron Cooper and she said that I was just like him. Unfortunately, she told me ‘I was just like him’ when I did something to get on her nerves. I remember wanting to ask her more questions about my father, but I was afraid. Back in the day, children were to be seen and not heard. Now I wish I would have given her the third degree. “How did you meet him?” “Did you love him?” “Did he love me?” “Why did he leave?” My mother died when I was fourteen and I never built up the nerves or had the opportunity to drill her. Maybe deep down I didn’t want to know. Maybe I was afraid of the truth. She did tell me he has people in Pasadena and I did see pictures of him.
He was short and good-looking. I remember a black and white photo of him standing at a chalk board teaching. He was a Black Muslim and taught in the mosque. There was another snapshot of me as a toddler in the bath tub with him. His hair was slicked back and so was mine. We looked like twins. When I think about that photo of me in the tub with my father, I get a good feeling inside. He had to have loved me to take a bath with me or is that just wishful thinking? My oldest sister said he was crazy about me. Well, if he was so ‘crazy about me’ why did he let his little girl slip away?
Once I became an adult, my fascination with my father began to wane. I did contact a private investigator many years ago to see if I could locate him, but I never followed through. Yes, it was difficult growing up without my bio-dad and not having the unconditional love of a father did impact me in negative ways. Like a lot of women who grow up without a father, I looked for love in all the wrong places and I had negative self-worth. Thank goodness for God, healing, my grandfather, and other male role models in my life.
I’m not sure what I would do if I ever meant my father. He would have to be in his seventies. A lot of years have passed and he’s probably no longer living. By the way, I forgave my father many years ago for disappearing. And as an adult, I know relationships are tricky and life gets in the way. If my father is alive or dead, I hope he has or had a good life. I know in my heart of hearts, he’s thought about be over the years. Like every writer, I have a fertile imagination. With that said, here’s a conversation I oftentimes imagine my father having with someone who asks him if he has any children.
“I have a daughter somewhere in California. I haven’t seen her since she was a baby. I remember putting her in the tub with me. We both wore our hair slicked back. We look like twins. I miss her. You know her mother and I broke up and she just got away from me. One of these days I’m gonna find my baby girl. I pray she’s okay. I love her, I really do. I should have never left. So many years have passed and I feel so guilty. I wish I would have done better in life. I feel ashamed for her to see me like this, broke down, penniless. But that’s no excuse. A girl needs her father and a father needs his girl. One of these days…for real…one of these days…”
