Sammy Davis Jr.

by Tracey Davis

  The Mastin Trio marquee at the Apollo in New York, 1954

  By September 1954, Pop had found his singing voice thanks to a new recording contract with Decca Records, and his first single, “Hey There” climbed to #1 on the Cashbox record charts. The Trio headlined to rave reviews at the Copacabana in New York City the same year. Table by table at the Copa, the audience stood, clapped, roared, and demanded encores. It brought my grandpa, Uncle Will, and my father to tears right on the stage. On closing night, Pop gave the staff at the Copa gold watches engraved: THANKS, SAMMY DAVIS, JR. Pop was a bona fide class act.

  The following day, the Trio, Mama, Morty, and Pop’s entourage all headed to Hollywood to rent a house—no easy task given the racial tension of the day. No one wanted “niggers” as neighbors, even if they were superstars.

  When the crew arrived in Los Angeles after their success at the Copa, my grandfather and Uncle Will bought my father a brand new Cadillac convertible to cruise around the Hollywood Strip in.

  As tacky as it sounds, yes, the car had “SD Jr.” painted on the door. My father told me and recounted in his autobiography, Yes I Can, that he would never forget the first time they all rode in that new Cadillac.

  Pop was smoking like a chimney, filling up the ashtray, and said to his father and Uncle Will, “Hey, guys, what do we do when this thing gets filled up?” His father smiled and said, “Son, we throws this car away and gets us a new one!” Uncle Will laughed and roared, “You boys keep up those old jokes and we’ll be back riding in the back of the bus!”

  After more than twenty years of performing, Pop was becoming a superstar.

  Twenty-five or so years later, he was a superstar who was not going in a bedpan.

  “God, I hate it here . . . ,” Dad muttered as the nurse assisted him back into his hospital bed.

  Pop always detested hospitals. It started from his 1954 nearly fatal car accident that took his left eye. During the mid-1970s, Pop’s addictive lifestyle gave him liver and kidney trouble that sent him to the hospital for several months. Uncle Frank cut off his friendship with Dad for a short period to force him to clean up his act. Dad turned to cooking to fight his own addictions, and it worked. My father became a gourmet cook.

  In 1974, Pop suffered a heart attack, but recovered and continued his relentless work pace. From 1975 to 1977, Pop hosted the television variety show Sammy and Company, performed in the Broadway musical Stop the World—I Want to Get Off, cut more singles, and continued to perform in casinos and nightclubs across the nation. Pop was back in the hospital in 1985, when he had reconstructive hip surgery (so he could dance again).

  The hip recovery coincided with his birthday in December 1985, and the only thing that cheered Pop up was a letter from the President of the United States himself, Ronald Reagan. It read:

  Eventually the Will Mastin Trio became the “Will Mastin Trio—Starring Sammy Davis, Jr.”

  Dear Sammy,

  Nancy and I understand that Altovise has planned a wonderful surprise birthday party for you. We send our warmest congratulations and our special hope that you are well along the road to recovery from your recent surgery.

  If this occasion brings some reflection on your part you should have a fine time musing over the fullness of your life. From childhood on you have been a dynamic force in the entertainment industry. Whether it be singing, dancing or acting, you have done it with rare talent and dazzling energy. You have given audiences some of the finest performances they have ever seen. So, when you think about your accomplishments, don’t forget all those fans—including Nancy and me—who are captivated and delighted by “Mr. Entertainment.”

  Happy birthday, Sammy, and may God bless and keep you.

  Sincerely,

  Ronald Reagan

  Now here he was back at Cedars-Sinai, in the hospital—with carcinoma growing behind his vocal cords. Pop was beyond ready to go home.

  “Just think of it this way, Pop. Hospitals are one place where laziness is rewarded,” I said.

  “I was always lousy at being lazy . . . ,” Pop replied.

  “So your ex-wives claim.” I chuckled.

  “Heck, I’ve only had two so far! Loray [White, from 1958 to 1959, a “proper” marriage to a black woman that diffused Dad’s scandalous relationship with blonde superstar Kim Novak]—my dancer chic mistake, and [from 1960 to 1968] your blessed mother, May [Britt].” Dad grinned.

  “And Altovise Gore. Oh, I’m sorry, Altovise Davis . . . when are you going to divorce that one?” I said.

  “You are fierce, Trace Face. Divorce? And let her take half? Hell no. It’s easier just to lock her out of the master wing of the house. Forget cancer, I’m more afraid of Altovise. If she got high enough, she could fall on me and kill me!” Pop laughed.

  “I can see the headlines: Sammy Davis, Jr., crushed to death by drunken wife!” I said.

  “That’s the New York Times version. The New York Post would say, Entertainment’s only black, Puerto Rican, one-eyed Jew crushed to death by drunken wife.”

  “Pop, Altovise only wants you because you made it,” I told him.

  “Made it? Me? I made it?” Dad chuckled.

  “Seriously, Pop,” I said.

  “I did make it, didn’t I? I’ll never forget that time—the time I really knew in my heart that I had made it. It was November 1954. We headlined at the Frontier Casino in Las Vegas. What made it taste so sweet was the contract. The Trio pulled in $7,500 a week, but more importantly, our contract allowed us ‘colored folks’ to stay in the Frontier’s best suites and have free run of the facilities—the casino, the restaurant, even the pool! All lodging, food, and drinks were free of charge. Beautiful!” Pop explained, hand over his trachea tube.

  “Done with Ms. Cartwright and her colored boarding house across town, huh, Pop?” I asked.

  “Done. Still mountains to climb, but we were making quantum leaps on both sides of the color spectrum. We were not a colored act or a white act, we were just an act. Huge crowds opened up for us as we walked through the front door, not the back door, mind you, of the Frontier. The sweet taste of freedom felt like stardom to us.” Dad smiled with nostalgia in his eyes.

  “It was a landmark achievement, Pop,” I replied.

  “Yes, it was. Doors were swinging open for us. Until I made that late night trip to Los Angeles . . .” Pop’s smile turned on me.

  “The car crash. Your eye,” I said softly.

  “You know the story, Tracey, and I am in no mood to repeat it!” When Pop said “Tracey” as opposed to Trace Face or Trace, I knew it was firm and serious.

  “Where’s that Glory film Denzel gave you?” I said, trying to move on.

  “Ask Shirley,” Pop said.

  I went out to the outer chamber to retrieve Glory from Shirley. I brought it back and slipped it into the VCR. It was about time my dad rested his strained voice, anyway. I propped the pillow behind Pop’s back and sat down on the bedside next to him. He grabbed my hand as the film started to roll.

  I could not focus on Glory. My mind was on the car crash that took my father’s eye the moment he got to revel in the adulation he strove so hard to win.

  The car accident happened on November 19, 1954. Fans roared as my father exited the Frontier stage. “Make room for Sammy, Swinging Show, Sammy”—voices echoed in the halls as he headed up to his suite to pack a few items for Los Angeles. He called his driver, Charley, and told him, “No party tonight, we have to drive to Los Angeles.” After showering, he put on a pair of Levi’s and a sweater, packed casual items for his trip, and called room service for a burger.

  What knocked on his door a short while later was not room service at all, but a chorus girl who motioned him straight into the bedroom. He went with the flow, but would have preferred the burger, he later said.

  Charley was waiting in the car as my father climbed in the backseat. It was late. Pop watched the neon lights flash his name on the Frontier marquee as they drove off. The taste was sweet. Loo
king back at the marquee he knew a new era had opened up for him: success.

  Dad’s pictured here wearing the mezuzah given to him by Eddie Cantor—it was Pop’s “good luck charm.”

  Dad once told me when we were sitting out on his patio that “Hey There” was playing on the radio the night of the car accident. Dad said he was listening to himself on the radio thinking it can’t get better than this. There he was, headlining at the Frontier, listening to his own #1 single on the radio. Dare he dream for more?

  Dad on his TV show in 1966, embodying his nickname—“Mr. Entertainment.”

  He told his driver, “Keep it under fifty, Charley. Let’s break this car in so smooth that she’ll sing ballads,” Pop said, unaware that a star was born and would nearly die the same night.

  Not yet a Jew, Pop had received a gift of a mezuzah from Eddie Cantor. Pop used it not as a traditional blessing over a door, but wore it around his neck like a good luck charm. The only time Pop did not wear it out, was that night of the car crash.

  Dad reached around his neck for the mezuzah, but it wasn’t there. He couldn’t recall taking it off at the Frontier, but with the frenzy of packing and the chorus chick frolicking about, it must have slipped off his neck. He thought about returning to retrieve it, but Charley was already twenty minutes away. It was late and they had a long drive ahead of them to Los Angeles. Dad opened his backseat window, and let the stars and clear desert breeze lull him to sleep.

  The car crashed in San Bernardino, California, at a fork in US Highway 66 at Cajon Boulevard and Kendall Drive. A woman driving ahead on the highway got off at an exit, only to realize that it was the wrong exit. Dad had taken over in the driver’s seat by this time. The lady backed up from the exit ramp onto the highway, and that’s when the collision happened. Dad slammed his eye on the pointed cone in the middle of his steering wheel. The last thing he remembered was reaching for his left eye that was dangling out of its socket.

  Dad woke up in the Community Hospital of San Bernardino, in total darkness, bandaged up like an Egyptian mummy. The impact fractured the bones of his face. His mind raced. He heard the random cacophony of hospital staff rushing in and out of his room. He felt the warm breeze of an open window; it felt like day, but it was pitch black. What time was it? He felt iron bars under his hands and realized he was strapped like a prisoner to the hospital bed. Was he paralyzed? His heart beat violently, throbbing with terror and fear. He moved his legs under the bed sheets, relieved to find he had working legs and feet.

  But why was it so dark? Where was the sunlight? Was he blind? Would he live like a madman in the dark for the rest of his life? More terrible still was his imagination that plunged him into a deeper abyss of uncertainty: Would he ever perform again? Was God punishing him for becoming a star? Had he lost his way along the path to stardom, forsaken some moral, some principle, some holy commandment that forced God to take his sight from him? What was happening here? He yelled out, “Help me!”

  A nurse rushed into the room and removed his hand restraints, telling Pop not to touch the bandages over his eyes. She told him that he was in a nearly fatal car accident, but he was going to be fine.

  Fine? Dad felt his head. He felt no skin, just ominous bandages. His head hurt as he lay in the dark. He was not fine. My father pleaded with the nurse to tell him if he was going to be blind. He would rather die at that very moment than live blind. The nurse simply replied that he was not going to be blind, and that he needed to rest. Pop knew the nurse would not be the one to break it to him; he would have to wait for the doctor, so he demanded the nurse page the doctor.

  January 1955: In rehearsals for his return to performing at Ciro’s in Hollywood after losing an eye in a car accident. Will Mastin is behind him.

  Dad’s first public performance, at Ciro’s, after his car accident. You can see Dick Powell and June Allyson at a front table in this photo.

  Within minutes, my father heard the heavy footsteps of a man entering his room. He introduced himself as Dr. Hull. In a solemn and gentle tone, the surgeon announced that he operated on my father the night before and was forced to remove his left eye.

  What? Just like that, so matter of fact, he removed his left eye? My father touched his bandages, thinking perhaps he hadn’t heard the doctor correctly. Pop grabbed for the bars on his hospital bed, steadying himself from the nausea of what he just heard. The horror of it all scared him beyond comprehension—it was an insidious and brutal entrapment.

  Dad shot a myriad of questions at the surgeon. Dr. Hull explained that he was a vision specialist called in to advise the doctors on duty struggling to save his eye after the crash. There was, at best, 10 percent vision possible for the left eye. However, as an expert in his field, he felt the strain on the healthy right eye would weaken both and result in “sympathetic blindness,” that over a few years would result in total blindness. There was no choice but to remove his left eye, and once healed, replace it with an artificial eye that he would have to wear for life.

  Questions flooded my father’s mind: Was this man serious? An artificial eye? Jeopardize his new stardom? Would he dance again? What about his balance on the stage? Who would do the show at the Frontier while he was recovering in the hospital? All his dreams came to a halt as he scrambled to make sense of it all in the dark. His cry for answers was primal. He demanded the right to dignity, to work—nothing else, nothing more—just to work.

  Dad had many supporters in Hollywood after his comeback. Here he is with James Cagney.

  With Milton Berle

  As my father convalesced, Frank Sinatra and others came by to console him. Flowers and cards from fans poured in. Dad’s friend, actor Jeff Chandler, offered one of his own eyes if it would keep Pop able to perform. But medically, there was nothing to be done. Pop would have to wear an eye patch for at least six months and later be fit with an artificial eye that he would wear from then on. As an entertainer, my father would have to master a balancing act with one eye, so as not to dance right off the stage.

  Pop joining the party after a performance with the Will Mastin Trio.

  As my father recovered from the removal of his left eye at the Community Hospital of San Bernardino back in 1954, he did a lot of deep and painful self-analysis about his rise to stardom. He examined his belief systems, his needs, desires, and the undercurrent of his own human spirit.

  With Jack Carter in Mr. Wonderful, Dad’s first Broadway show

  My father and Eartha Kitt in Anna Lucasta, 1958

  He dwelled on the fact that the only time he did not wear his mezuzah from Eddie Cantor was the night of the car accident. It turns out it had fallen behind the hotel bed before he left for the drive to Los Angeles. He didn’t even realize at the time that a mezuzah was not traditionally worn around the neck, but the self-scrutiny of not wearing his “good luck charm” was enough to trigger my father to meet with a rabbi in the hospital.

  My father’s family was Baptist and until the accident he had not paid religion much thought. As my father spoke with the rabbi, he was enlightened by the abundance of spiritual and historical parallels between his own embattled identity as an African American and the oppression of the Jews. He learned that Judaism taught justice for everyone, particularly those who had been oppressed for centuries. It gave Pop an exhale of “I get this, I am a part of this.”

  A year later, in one of the first satellite interviews on the Edward R. Murrow Show, Pop said that the accident made him a better person, that it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Maybe an odd thing to say, but as a rising entertainer, doors opened up for him, and he got wrapped up in himself prior to the accident. He came to the realization that there were more important things than stardom—essential fellow goodness, generosity, kindness. His friends rallied around him and supported him through his recovery.

  In the hospital, from his conversations and readings with the rabbi, Dad discovered more similarities that Jewish and black cultures both faced. Dad learned tha
t in the early twentieth century, Jewish publications spoke of violence against blacks, and often compared the black racism in the South to pogroms, the violent mob attacks against Jews.

  Dad also discovered that Jews played a major role in the founding of the NAACP in 1909. Dad learned that leaders in the American Jewish community used their economic resources, time, and energy to fight for black civil rights. The more he read, the deeper his conviction became to become Jewish.

  Dad made his final decision to convert to Judaism after the hospital rabbi gave him Paul Johnson’s A History of the Jews to read. One passage hit home with Pop: “The Jews would not die. Three centuries of prophetic teaching had given them an unwavering spirit of resignation and had created in them a will to live which no disaster could crush.”

  Dad singing his heart out in Porgy and Bess, 1959

  My father never allowed himself to stay in a gloomy reality for long, no dark clouds over his head. Pop recovered from the 1954 car crash at Frank’s place in Palm Springs. Frank drove seventy miles to bring my father to his home to recuperate and get his stride back. Frank was determined not to let his handicap stop him from being a star. Pop’s talent was once again his weapon, the only way out of this madness. He wore his eye patch for at least six months and almost fell off the stage a few times, but eventually learned to keep his balance again as he danced. He even appeared on What’s My Line? wearing the patch.

  He was fitted with an artificial eye and rolled on to become a bona fide star. Pop always combatted horror with humor, and continued to joke onstage about being the only “black, Puerto Rican, one-eyed Jewish Entertainer” in the world.

  In 1954, the same year as the accident, Pop sung the title track for the Universal Pictures film Six Bridges to Cross. In April 1955, my father’s first LP, Starring Sammy Davis, Jr. rose to #1 on the charts.