Sammy Davis Jr(26)

Mom decided to convert to Judaism before her wedding to my father and on October 17, 1960, a spokesman for Hollywood’s Temple Israel announced that she was accepted into the faith of Judaism. My father always joked with me about her conversion. As the story goes, he was driving with my mother and she blurted out:

“Sammy, how come you never asked me to convert? To become Yewish?”

My father laughed and said, “Well, for openers, if you keep giving it that Swedish J—I don’t think they’d even take you.”

My mother smiled, and whipped out her certificate of conversion from Temple Israel. She explained how she was satisfied as a Lutheran, but thought it would add unity and support to the family, once they married and had children, if both parents were of the same religion. Now they could be married by a rabbi.

“Darling, there’s no nicer present you could have ever given me,” my father said.

Mom replied, “Then you wanted me to convert? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I didn’t feel I had the right to. I wanted you to do it, only if it was your own desire. I’m the last person in the world to say, ‘Do it my way because my way is better,’” Dad said. My father took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

Only eight days later, three youths wearing swastika arm bands paraded outside the Huntington Hartford Theater where my father was headlining. Officers had to take my parents into protective custody. But that did not stop them. On November 9, 1960, Mom and Pop took out their marriage license in Los Angeles.

My father postponed the wedding yet again due to the racial tension in the air, the press, and Sinatra’s allegiance to JFK. Frank was planning to be his best man, and Dad didn’t want him to suffer in the press for it. He just couldn’t believe his friendship with Frank could affect a national election, but for JFK, every vote counted, from the liberals to the bigots. Pop had told me that he received a letter one day that read: “Dear Nigger Bastard, I see Frank Sinatra is going to be the best man at your abortion. Well, it’s good to know the kind of people supporting Kennedy before it’s too late.”—An ex-Kennedy Vote

Mom said, “We got death threat letters all the time, but we didn’t save them. We just hired a bodyguard. It just became a way of life. We heard it so often, we shrugged it off; otherwise we would go crazy. Your father had met JFK several times, was fond of him. He asked me if I would mind putting off the wedding until after the election. It was disappointing, but I was prepared for anything. I knew what I was getting into.”

Ostensibly trivial incidents would escalate into major threats and even hate group demonstrations outside places where my father was entertaining. Outside the Lotus Club in Washington, D.C., white picketers carried signs: MARRIAGE TO MAY BRITT WILL BE AN INJUSTICE TO THE NEGRO RACE! and GO BACK TO THE CONGO, YOU KOSHER COON! To my father’s credit, when he walked onstage that night, the audience rose to their feet, applauded his courage, and exclaimed, “To hell with ‘em, Sammy. We’re with you!”

Despite the support from my father’s fans, family, and close friends, my mother’s parents were forced to send a telegram to all the guests invited to the wedding:

The wedding of Miss May Britt Wilkens and Mr. Sammy Davis, Jr. will be postponed until Sunday, November 13. We sincerely hope your attendance will be possible for the wedding reception at the Beverly Hilton Hotel on this day at 4:00 p.m. RSVP 9057 Dicks Street, Los Angeles 46, California.

—Mr. and Mrs. Ernst Hugo Wilkens





My parents on their wedding day, 1960


The thoughts of my parents’ unyielding love was disrupted by a nurse who came outside to check on my father. He woke up as she tried to quietly adjust his IV and trachea tube. Lessie Lee had already placed some beverages and snacks on the table by his chaise lounge.

“Hey, Trace Face, you get uglier every time I see you.” His eyes sparkled with joy as if I had just entered.

“How are feeling, Pop?” I asked.

“How are you feeling is the question, Ms. Pregasaurus?” Pop said.

“I’m fine. Sam’s kicking a bit.”

“Learning how to kick butt early, that’s my grandson!” Pop replied, holding his trach hole to speak.

I thought about how exciting it was that here I am, married and having my first child. I recalled a story my father had told me about his wedding to my mother.

First of all, since my father had to postpone the wedding for almost a month, thanks to death threats, demonstrations, and JFK’s election, by the time they got married, my mother was already pregnant with me.

My parents wanted a dignified wedding, not a publicity circus about this taboo interracial marriage. So they had a small, private ceremony at their Hollywood home on Evanview Drive off the Sunset Strip. The reception was at the Beverly Hilton Hotel with around two hundred guests. Some of the press claimed my mother was twenty-four but she was really twenty-six. My father was thirty-four. Since my mother had already converted to Judaism the Jewish rites were performed by Rabbi William Kramer of Hollywood’s Temple Israel. It was beautiful, so I heard.