The public outrage after the wedding was so vitriolic, my parents were forced to hire bodyguards—again! More frenzied hate letters, more death threats. Uncle Frank was hosting Kennedy’s inaugural party. Pop even got removed from the list of entertainers. He was deeply hurt by that. In her column, journalist Dorothy Kilgallen wrote at the time, “Scuttlebutt from the Clan indicates Frank Sinatra and chums will take over a whole floor of Washington’s best hotels for the inauguration ceremonies in January. Big question: Since the nation’s capital isn’t very integrated will Sammy Davis, Jr., be allowed to share a suite with his bride, May Britt?”
I started to think about my own interracial wedding decades later. My husband, Guy Garner, was Italian; I am mixed, so the potential for future hardship ran through my father’s mind. Dad used to talk about his love for Guy. He gave us his wisdom about interracial marriage: “Just remember, it’s their problem, not yours.”
When I got married, Pop and I had just overcome obstacles in our father-daughter relationship—my father had been too busy to attend childhood birthday parties, my college graduation, and such. To make up for the past, my father was determined to do everything right at my wedding. He watched Father of the Bride like he was studying for a role, to prepare for my wedding. It was sweet, and he nailed it.
I remember when my husband and I were at Pop’s private pool at the Desert Inn one time in Vegas. We decide to head to the main pool to swim. Dad stopped us and screamed, “No!!!!!” Then he caught himself and said, “Sorry, kids, I forgot we’re not in the ’60s anymore . . . go on, have fun!”
I glanced over at Pop in his chaise lounge. His head was down. I guessed he was still thinking about not being invited to the JFK inaugural party. I tried to cheer him up, “So not long after your wedding to Mom, I was born! Tee hee!”
“July 5, 1961. Best day of my life after marrying your mom!” Pop perked up.
“Mom said she went to the bathroom and realized her water broke,” I said.
“A couple of weeks early at that! We jumped in the car along with our close friends, the Boyars. Anyway, I drove to the hospital, and your mom sat next to me in the passenger seat—moaning.”
“Mom said in the car on the way to the hospital, you heard on the radio that you were on the way to the hospital!” I said.
“Yeah, isn’t that a kick? We all got a good laugh out of that one!” Pop chuckled. “Once we got to Cedars, your mom was given a spinal. In those days the fathers had to wait in the waiting room, so that’s what I did.”
“Mom says if you had been in the operating room, you would have fainted!” I said.
“Your mom couldn’t be more correct!” Pop smiled.
“But when I first laid eyes on you in the private room, I got so teary eyed, I just couldn’t believe how beautiful you were,” Pop said.
“Mom said, all you kept saying was, ‘she’s so beautiful, she’s so beautiful . . .’” I replied.
My parents agreed to postpone their wedding at the behest of Frank Sinatra, because they thought it might hurt JFK’s run for the presidency. By the time they were wed, my mother was already pregnant with me. I was born July 5, 1961, eight months after their marriage.
Family photos with Mom, Dad, and my brother Mark, 1962
“Correct again! But your beauty faded quick when you were a toddler, Trace Face,” Pop joked. “You liked to pee on me when you were pissed!”
“But . . . for three days in that hospital, your mother and I were so touched, so moved by you, our first child, our only daughter, Tracey Hillivi Davis.” [Hillivi was my Swedish grandmother’s first name.]
“When we left the hospital, press was swarming everywhere. They kept asking ‘What color is the baby?’” Pop said.
“I heard they asked, ‘What color is IT?’” I chimed in.
“Even worse!” Pop exclaimed. “We climbed into our Rolls Royce and took off, thrilled to leave the press behind. You know, Trace, I never used to let those type of comments get to me. Even when my own people would complain to me about racism, I would always say, ‘You got it easy. I’m a short, ugly, one-eyed, black Jew. What do you think it’s like for me?’”
The nurse came out to give my dad some medication and check on him. Pop motioned her away, so we could continue our talk. He was enjoying our moment. He was having a good day, feeling better.
My parents on the steps of the courthouse after adopting my brother Jeff, 1965
“Your mother and I spoke about adopting kids way back when we were dating. We both believed in providing a good home for children in need. In November 1962, we adopted your brother, two-and-a-half-year-old Mark. A couple of years later, we adopted your brother Jeff. He was four months old. What joy they brought to our lives. What a kick to watch your white Swedish mom carting around three black children!” Pop said.