My grandpa Sam completely (re)created his identity; from his name, to his clothes (suave, with a Saville row custom made flair;) to a gentile wife, my grandmother Frances, who insisted on baptizing their son, Sammy Jr. Apparently my paternal great-grandmother was anti-semitic and this was a sticking point in the negotiation of allowing her daughter to marry a Polish Jew whose first language was Yiddish—even if he was already a wealthy film mogul and a catch.
My grandfather left his family in Warsaw at 12 or 13 (the accounts differ, some say he left at 11) with no money. He walked across Europe to cross the English Channel; worked as a blacksmith’s helper to earn enough to travel in steerage to Canada, eventually making his way to Gloversville, New York where he became a glove salesman long before he dreamt of the motion pictures. The international press mythologized my grandad as the ultimate rags to riches “American Dream” story. He may have ended up in a Beverly Hills mansion with a full staff, driver and multiple studios to his name, but he never lost his strong Yiddish accent and penchant for butchering the English language with phrases like “a verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” that later became known as “Goldwynisms.” The first time I heard a recording of my grandad’s voice was when someone gave my dad tapes of an interview he’d done for a talk show back in the 50s. I was surprised how thick, low and growling his accent was— to me he sounded like a Polish Oscar the Grouch.
Below are tales of the Beverly Hills bar mitzvah scene; baby fat, The Beastie Boys, Catholic store accessorizing; strapless dresses and how to become an insider…