Mr. Wonderful opened on March 22, 1956 at the Broadway Theater, closing on February 23, 1957 after 383 grueling performances. Joseph Stein and Will Glickman were the authors of the original book upon which the musical was based. The music and lyrics were composed by George David Weiss, Jerry Bock, and Larry Holofcener.
Pop was back with a vengeance. He even hit the big screen in movies like Anna Lucasta and Porgy and Bess. By 1959, he was about to take over Las Vegas with the baddest and coolest cats in entertainment history, better known as the Rat Pack. But that was a story for another visit with Dad.
After Pop’s accident and his conversion to Judaism, there were fans who supported his decision to become a Jew, and some members of the Jewish and African American communities that would not embrace him. But it made no difference to my father; he had fought bigger battles in his life.
Pop always took the road less traveled, the road that takes you to the heart of human understanding, generosity, and fellowship. In Pop’s view, Jews and blacks not only shared a history of oppression, but were all related as seen by their darker complexions and curly hair from Northern Africa, Egypt, Israel, and neighboring countries. Why not embrace his own race as well as Judaism? In the Davis family, that is what we did.
My mother, Swedish actress May Britt, converted to Judaism before she even married my dad. The Davis family would be raised Jewish. Every Friday night we would celebrate the Sabbath at sundown with my mother. We had a nonsecular Christmas tree, simply because my mom liked to decorate it.
Our summer vacations were spent in Lake Tahoe, where Dad would perform at Harrah’s or in Reno. After their divorce, my mother moved us to Lake Tahoe permanently, and she continued to raise us Jewish. There was no Jewish community or even temple at the time in Lake Tahoe. We would travel over an hour away, to Reno, just to attend temple, go to Hebrew school—or to see Pop’s show. My brother, Mark, had a bar mitzvah, and we would celebrate the traditional Jewish holidays like Hanukkah and Passover with friends. We built our own little Jewish community in Lake Tahoe led by Dr. Phillip Charney, a Jewish dermatologist turned rabbi who graciously opened his home to us.
The Davis family were Jews, period. Well, except for Mom’s soul food cooking! Not exactly kosher. Despite Pop’s best efforts—my Swedish mom had no rhythm, wasn’t very musical, and was always off-beat. Mom remembered being at Pop’s show at the Sands, the whole audience was clapping in rhythm, then came one off-beat single clap. Pop stopped the orchestra and said, “That must be my wife!” He got a big roar of laughter that night. Now as for her soul food attempt, as told to me by my mother:
Mom said they we are in Lake Tahoe—for the family it was a summer getaway, although Pop, of course, was working. He was performing at Harrah’s, for his lifelong friend Bill Harrah. At the time, early ’60s or so, Harrah’s Hotel area was pretty barren, so they built a little place just for entertainers. It had a small kitchenette, with three burners, no oven. Mom got this idea that she would make soul food. Loving to cook and born in Harlem, Pop gave her some simple soul food tips—simple being the key word. Mother decided she was going to master this. Good Lord!
Mother called the local Tahoe town market, “This is Mrs. Sammy Davis, Jr. I need pig tails.” Dead silence on the other end. Then she hears, “One moment, please.” Someone else picks up the phone. “I would like to order some pig tails,” she says again. Dead silence. “I want for six people,” my mother said in her Swedish accent. The six people included Dad’s musicians and some key staff. She tells the guy on the phone, “And also some neck bones please.”
Finally, they tell her they don’t have any, but can get what she needs delivered in three days. She also gets some black-eyed peas, collard greens, and rice. She waits three days.
When the pig tails arrive, they don’t look so good, but the neck bones looked okay. There was my mother in this little kitchenette with six pots, three burners. After cooking for four hours, she had created her first soul food dishes.
When it came time for the dinner party she’d arranged, everybody sat down. Pop sat at the head of the table. Being a Harlem boy, he was thinking this is going to be sheer humiliation. So immediately my father announced to his guests—who were all on his payroll—“If you don’t eat it, you’re fired!”
My father told me that my mother was the love of his life. She was a calm and loving presence in his life. They were married in 1960, amid a storm of controversy. In fact, their marriage was illegal in thirty one states.