by Davis, Sammy
May was waiting to hear what it was all about. I explained. “The reporter used it out of context and changed its meaning into the most vile-sounding statement in the world.” She was deflated, bewildered, like a child who’d been punished but couldn’t understand why.
We read several of the English papers again and without exception they had printed it exactly as it was said and meant. Nobody in England got the idea that I didn’t care if I had polka-dot children. Only in my homeland were the readers offered that choice bit of dishonesty.
May’s shock was turning to anger. She strode up and down the living room. “What a rotten thing! What do you think we should do about it?”
“Nothing.” She looked at me, surprised. “Darling, it’s done. Smashing this guy’s face won’t change anything. Maybe I could call somebody and get him fired but it won’t erase that quote from the millions of minds that have already absorbed it, right?”
She nodded, reluctantly. “But I sure do hate that guy.”
I had the sensation of an emotional paralysis at the sound of the word “Hate”—a four-letter word that had directed the course of my life. Like a person who has seen death by gunfire and can never look at a gun again, I could never take up hatred as a weapon of my own. That emotion was dead in me—not by design or by logic but by simple overexposure to its evil and waste.
I walked over to her and took both her hands in mine. “Darling, I’m not going to do wise-old-man bits but don’t exhaust yourself hating that guy. He earned it, but what you and I want is not going to be found by hating him or anybody. There’s just no such thing as happiness endowed with hatred.”
The phone rang. It was Frank, consoling, reassuring. After we’d talked for a while, he said, “Let me say hello to your old lady.”
As she listened she was nodding and smiling and I saw tears forming in her eyes. When she hung up she said, “Can you imagine Frank and Hugh … to call us overseas. It’s so beautiful, Sharlie Brown.”
I put my arm around her. “I don’t want to do Pollyanna bits but look at how even out of something lousy and rotten something good emerges.”
I was leaving the hotel to do some shopping when I felt Arthur staring at me.
“Arthur. What in the hell are you looking at?”
“I’m not quite sure. You’ll think I’m putting you on, but since you’ve been over here—you’ve become good-looking.”
Murphy said, “He’s right, Sammy. I’ve been noticing it myself. You look different. You really do. There’s something about your face …”
I had an idea what they meant and how it had happened. I had stopped thinking of myself as a Negro. The awareness wasn’t there because the constant reminders were gone: there were no El Morocco’s I couldn’t go to; I wasn’t invited to “the best private clubs which accept Negroes,” I was invited to the best private clubs, period. I could go anyplace that was open to the position I’d earned in life, and without the automatic evaluating: Do I dare? Is it worth the aggravation? I could walk down a street with May and enjoy the simple pleasure of feeling her hand in mine and knowing that I was walking down a street with the girl I love; there was no wondering who was revolted or infuriated, or frowning, or tolerating us. There was no looking for the security of a friendly face. Without the presence of disapproval I had stopped searching for approval.
The weeks in London had been a vacation from fear and tension, a chance to take a breather and refurbish and rebuild my moral fiber. It was as though all my emotional mechanisms had been sent out, dry-cleaned and put back again. And I’d reacted to it physically. My face wasn’t tight. The jaw had relaxed. The skin lay smooth on my face. I hadn’t been aware it was happening. It just sneaked up on me like a gentle sleep for all the nerves and reflexes.
When we finished shopping I went on alone to the Dorchester to keep an appointment with some picture people at the American Club.
It was like stepping out of an air-conditioned room, into the heat of the outside. The moment I entered I felt the old familiar atmosphere. The awareness returned. I sat there watching them watching me. They weren’t cold, they were friendly, but they were appraising, measuring, discussing me and I was listening over my shoulder again, on guard, defiantly uncaring of what they thought. I’d merely walked through a door and I was back in the vise.
And this was only the road company. In a week I’d be going back to the heart of it, back to the cooker, back to the constant anticipating of problems that might or might not materialize—the eternal war of nerves. And suddenly I thought: why should I? Why drag May through pointless agonies? Why not live in London and be treated magnificently? Why not travel half the world free of unnecessary burdens? I can accept any one of countless English offers, stay over on an extended visit and return to the States for a few months every year—nobody’d even realize what I was doing. I projected to the day when we’d have our first child. I knew I could provide a high wall of love that would block out most of the problems, but no wall is high enough or strong enough to keep out everything. Why sentence children to a life of built-in scorn and hatred? Why pass as close to hell as man can get when there’s another road?
When I was able to make an exit from the club I hurried to the street like a man groping for air. A workman in a pit popped up, “Oh, I say … would you mind terribly if I asked for an autograph?” I gave it to him, thanked him and continued down the street, smiling back at people who recognized me. An English bobby stopped me on the corner. “Mr. Davis, may I impose upon you, sir? Saw you on the telly.” “Congratulations, Mr. Davis. When’s the happy day?” “Have a big family, sir. That’s the best kind.” “No offense, sir, but your fiancée Miss Britt is such a beautiful lady.” …
I burst into the living room. “Murph! Get busy on the phone and place a call to Will. Tell him I’m not coming home. Tell him to cancel out everything. I’m staying in London.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, Sammy.”
“Well, don’t just sit there. Get hot on it.”
“Sure, Sammy. I’ll take care of it right away.” But he didn’t move off the sofa. He just smiled like Charley Philosopher.
“You son of a bitch. You think you know me pretty damned well, don’t you?” I slammed the door to the bedroom and sat down near the window.
It had felt good to get it out of my system, to rebel, but I knew I was far from ready to put my country down to adopt another. As much as I loved being in England it is not Utopia, and the colored cat who goes there thinking he’s walking into heaven is going to be disappointed. Despite all the problems, America is still the best country in the world. Even with all the tensions, the equality which is still only a technical thing—despite these things I became a star. With everything going against me I was able to make it in America. It could never have happened for me in England. I don’t know of any Negro who started with nothing and made it there. Social equality is all they have for the Negro there. In America, although we have far less social equality, we have constantly expanding opportunity, and that has to be the best. Social acceptance is delightful, but it’s only ice cream and cake—opportunity is the meat and vegetables.
I looked through the window at the garden of the hotel where I’d thought May and I would be married. If I got married in England I’d be running, just as surely as if I moved there permanently. I couldn’t start off by ducking the first problem that faced us or it would be one compromise after another.
At Siegi’s, after we’d ordered dinner I explained it to May. “I want to get married in America. I want to stand up in my own country and be married like anybody else. I want us to have a real wedding, with close friends and family.”
“That’s what I always wanted until you said it would be easier to do it over here quietly and come back as Mr. and Mrs. Davis …” a smile spread across her face. “Hey—I like the sound of that.”
I saw the trust in her face and I felt tears welling in my eyes for love of her. “Darling, try to be serious for a min
ute because I want you to understand what it involves. I don’t know what to expect at home. Maybe they won’t want me any more and I’ll go down the drain professionally. There’s a chance of it. But one thing is positive: there can be no sneaking around, no cop-outs, no code names.
“Aside from personal reasons, when I got out of the army I did a lot of shouting ‘Let me live like I want to live’ but nobody heard me. Today I whisper it, and millions of people read it the next day. Now, it’s beautiful to hold this position, but with it comes responsibility. I owe it to my people never to let anyone say, ‘Sammy Davis knew he shouldn’t be marrying May Britt so he sneaked out of the country to do it.’ And I owe it to my country, too. I’ve gotten a lot out of America—more than anybody has the right to even hope for—so the very least I can give back is a show of confidence. I can’t be an expatriate. I won’t let the rest of the world say, ‘Hey, a colored guy had to run away from America to marry the girl he loves.’ I believe in the integrity and the fairness of my country as a whole and I have to back my beliefs by putting everything on the line.”
As our car approached the club the chauffeur said, “There seems to be a commotion outside the Pigalle.”
A truck with loud-speakers on top of it was in front of the club. Pickets wearing swastika armbands were carrying signs: “GO HOME, NIGGER.” … “SAMMY, BACK TO THE TREES.” … “GET DIVORCED FIRST, SLAG.” …
The chauffeur said, “Mosley’s men.”
“Who’s Mosley?”
“He’s got the Nazi party here.”
“I didn’t know there were Nazis any more.”
May asked, “Do you know what they mean by the word ‘Slag’?”
I shook my head.
She asked the chauffeur. He didn’t answer immediately. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s a slang word for a white woman who associates with Negro men.”
The sound-truck driver spotted us and followed our car to the stage entrance, his loud-speakers blaring savagely, venomously.
In the dressing room May picked up a magazine, sat down and began to leaf through the pages. “Have you got a Salem, Sammy?” I gave her the cigarette and lit it for her. “Thank you, Sharlie Brown.” She continued reading.
“May?”
She looked up.
“Don’t you care about what happened out there? Doesn’t it bother you?”
“The only thing that bothers me is that maybe it bothers you. Did it?”
“It could have been worse, I guess.”
“Okay.”
She was smiling as she read, but I saw the moisture around her eyes. She was playing a beautifully corny scene, trying to give me support. She had all the guts in the world, and it was all the more pathetic to know that she had absolutely no preparation for this, no experience to help her through it.
Cassandra, the most widely read columnist in England, ran a front page editorial in the Daily Mirror:
CASSANDRA WRITES
A LETTER TO SAMMY DAVIS, JNR.
Dear Sammy Davis,
I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I have never seen your show and I assume you have never seen mine. All I know is what I read in the papers.
But this is just to tell you that the beastly racial abuse to which you were subjected outside the Pigalle Restaurant, when Mosley’s louts followed you waving banners with the words “Go Home, Nigger,” has nothing to do with what English people feel and think.
I, and maybe I can speak for a few others (say 51,680,000 minus 100 of the population of this country), feel revolted, angry and ashamed at what happened.
Yours sincerely,
Cassandra
Dozens of others of the English press came roaring into the fight, indignant and embarrassed by the pickets. Letters and telegrams came avalanching in by the thousands from all over England from people who felt personally affronted by the Nazis, embarrassed that an American or any foreigner might think, “So this is England.” The English people rallied toward us en masse. In every restaurant and shop, down every street I walked, I received apologetic looks and disgusted head shakes, and as I found the club overflowing every night and the lines growing longer I saw that like so many other problems or handicaps I’d encountered throughout my life, Sir Oswald Mosley was working for me instead of against me.
On closing night, the Pigalle was so jam-packed that tables had to be put onstage. The waiters stopped serving drinks and the cooks came out of the kitchen to watch the final show. I came onstage wearing a bowler and carrying a cane, hoping to make the audience understand what I felt for them—what I had experienced within myself by being there.
I did a two and a half hour show, dreading and delaying the end, until finally I’d run through everything I could remember or invent. I cued the band for my closing number and I sang the song Vera Lynn had done at the Command Performance: “We’ll meet again, who knows where, who knows when …” But I couldn’t sing more than a few words and the audience rose to its feet and picked up where I’d been unable to continue. I could hardly see them through the prism of tears, but I could hear them and I could feel them as surely as if they had wrapped their arms around me. I dropped my head and bowed to them with all the gratitude and love a human being can feel.
I saw May off on a plane to Sweden and a few hours later boarded my own plane to the States. As we taxied down the runway I settled back in my seat and tried to anticipate my return home and the reception there. I was fully aware that my intended marriage seriously jeopardized everything I had worked for, but I’d achieved all the golden dreams and they’d far from fulfilled the promise. If club owners said, “Sorry, we can’t book you any more” there would be no decision for me to make; if it meant packing all my gun-belts and my records and tape machines and moving to another country, I’d do it.
The Mosley thing was a forecast. For me hate held no unknown quantity. It might take a different form but essentially there was nothing they could do or say that hadn’t already been done and said, and above all I had the experience of surviving it. But could May withstand its pressures? She’d shrugged off the friends who’d stopped calling, she’d absorbed the Mosley thing, but would she be able to absorb constant disapproval, suddenly closed doors, expulsion from movies? Sure, she’s a strong girl with a mind of her own but no man no matter how strong he is can step into the ring for his first fight and take on the heavyweight champion. I had to protect her from as much of it as possible. I had to keep every ounce of my strength and experience constantly at her side. I had to be thinking ahead of them, running interference, blocking, shielding, anticipating, softening anything that might be waiting. But ultimately, her ability to endure, the final measure of her strength, would be in the extent of her love and need for me.
The huge engines were roaring to their peak, the pilot released the brakes and we began hurtling up the runway. I looked out the window, glad for the chance to delay my involvement with the problems of the future and dwell for a few moments on the happiest weeks of my life. As we climbed into the sky I watched London grow smaller until it resembled a fictional place in children’s storybooks, a setting for fables which describe the beauties of the world and overlook the realities of harshness and unkindness. Ten thousand feet below me I’d left the hurt of Sir Oswald Mosley and a wire-service reporter, and as our jet moved into the clouds and London disappeared I took with me only memories of a fairy-tale city.
33
The thousands of delegates in the jam-packed convention hall applauded wildly as Frank’s name was called and he stepped forward. One by one we were introduced—Peter, Tony and Janet, and the others who’d been invited to appear at the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles to make a show of allegiance to John F. Kennedy. My presence on that stage brought me the extra satisfaction of knowing that through television and the thousands of newspapers focused on the moment, millions of people from Los Angeles to Moscow who’d been exposed to race riots in Little Rock were also seeing democracy proving its defin
ition.
My name was called and I stepped forward, the applause rang out clear and loud across the hall. Then there was a loud “Boooooooooo … boooooooooo… booooooo …” My head snapped upward involuntarily and almost every head in the hall turned with mine, searching. It was the Mississippi block. Four or five men were standing, hands cupped around their mouths, still booing me, the sound cutting grotesquely through the applause.
I finished my bow and stepped back. I focused on a flag in the back of the hall and clung to it, standing there, torn to shreds inside, hurt and naked in front of thousands of people, in front of the world. Frank, looking straight ahead too, whispered, “Those dirty sons of bitches! Don’t let ‘em get you, Charley.” The tears exploded in my eyes and cascaded down the front of my face, blinding me from everything but a haze of color and light. I gouged my nails into the palms of my hands but the tears kept pouring out. “Hang on, Charley. Don’t let it get you!”
“It’s got me, Frank. What’d I do to deserve that?”
A voice on the public address system boomed across the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, our National Anthem.” I sang The Star Spangled Banner, humiliated, fearful that I’d hurt the very thing I’d flown three thousand miles to help; if I might have swung a few votes toward Kennedy, how many might I be costing him?
Thousands of voices roared across the hall: “… what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming …” And as I sang the words I could hear my own voice telling reporters in London, “This could never happen in America.”
“… and the rockets red glare … the bombs bursting in air …” The whole world is watching what’s happening here today. How can anyone hate me so much that they’d let the rest of the free world see that the men who might be selecting the next President of the United States are men who feel racial prejudice?