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.
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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…
People may have poked fun of his accent but his taste was sophisticated by Hollywood standards, which were more lowbrow in the early 20th century, not far removed from the vaudeville and burlesque circuit of broad, slapstick comedy. Grandpa spent a lot of time in England and associated with nobility and the upper classes, exposing himself to art, theater, literature and the intellectuals of the day.
My big take away via osmosis, was that when it comes to creating a legendary image, the public loves a story of the outsider who assimilates and becomes an insider, and thus, a status symbol for those aspiring to be part of the inner circle.
As a pre-teen, I was searching for where I fit in, longing for community but unsure where to find it. Because of my last name, and my grandfather being a famous Polish Jew, classmates and parents in the Beverly Hills school scene were always telling me I was Jewish and asking why my family wasn’t involved in the Temple and Hebrew school circuit. My father was baptized but was more new-age about spirituality than anything else and he’d never so much as mentioned his dad’s Jewish roots to me. As far as I know, my grandfather left Judaism behind when he left Warsaw back in the 1890s. My mother went to Catholic school as a girl, but given her feminism and pro-choice ideals, she had rejected the church and its strict doctrine. Further complicating matters, I was born on Christmas day. So as much as other people wanted to claim me as a fellow Jew, it often came off as me either denying my roots (I wasn’t) or being told that I couldn’t participate.
When I was 12/13 it was the time of the bar and bat mitzvah party circuit. These bashes were OVA THA TOP. I went to mitzvah afterparties held in fashionable Beverly Hills restaurants, clubs and fancy hotels featuring celebrity performers, DJs, show-stopping entrances and rad swag bags. I hear from my nieces and nephews who have been more recently on the Bev Hills mitzvah scene that it’s gotten even more extravagant with super expensive gift bags. Considering that the Kardashian’s have set the tone with kid bday parties costing close to a cool million, it’s no wonder the L.A. set feels the need to compete (while the kids are awkwardly dancing and sneaking drinks/ weed the adults are awkwardly dancing, getting wasted and making handshake biz deals.)
I went to so many bar/bat mitzvah ceremonies and parties in my day that I can still sing some of the blessing refrain Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, though I was never explained what it translated to. I was nonetheless fascinated and begged my parents to let me go to Hebrew school. This was not because I wanted a bat mitvzah of my own (but if I did my theme would have definitely been “Madonna;”) but because when I slept over on Friday nights at Jewish friends houses, I’d l accompany them to their Saturday morning Hebrew school classes where I discovered there were cute boys, flirting and good snacks. I was jealous of the easy access to sexual tension because I went to an all girls school and boys were a weekend opportunity that required an adult to drive. It seemed like at Hebrew school, there was more possibility of making out, and I was clearly missing out.
*Side note I loved this 2023 film You Are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah, starring veterans of the LA bar mitzvah circuit, the Sandler family— Adam, Jackie and their daughters Sunny & Sadie. This clip shows all the drama and make-outs happening on the Hebrew school circuit that I missed out on.
My parents, however, had a thing against me being involved in any organized religion. My father was somewhat less concerned about my curiosity around faith but it really rankled my mother. I remember her and her mom, my grandma Margie, having a fight about grandma wanting to take me to church when she came to visit us from El Paso. I played the Beastie Boys You gotta fight for your right to party full volume on repeat in my bedroom to drown out their argument.
I once asked my mom to take me to a Catholic store to get a rosary prayer necklace because I was obsessed with Madonna and wanted to emulate her style. As sacrilegious as it sounds, I’ve always had a thing for ecclesiastical fashion. My mom wouldn’t allow me to get a giant cross like my pre teen idol but I did get a guardian angel prayer card which I memorized and would secretly repeat before bed. When my grandma Margie died, the eve of my 13th birthday, mom wouldn’t let me go back to El Paso with her for my grandma’s funeral because it was in a church and she said it would upset me. I was upset—pissed off with my Mom for projecting her own shit onto me and that I wouldn’t be able to honor the sweet loving grandma who called me sweet pea, took me horseback riding Western style and let me eat Cool Whip out of the container. I certainly wasn’t upset about going into a church and being among people grieving her loss. Margie was the only living, breathing grandparent I’d known and it was years before I was able to go back to El Paso with my Mom for closure. Having now lost a parent I can empathize with my mother’s emotions and stress in the immediacy of her mother's death, but at the time, I felt I was being denied access to faith and mourning.
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The bar mitzvah scene was also a source of major arguments with my mom when it came to what I was allowed to wear to the parties. As a first-wave feminist, mom wasn’t into me expressing obvious trappings of femininity designed for the male gaze. All my friends wore strapless dresses, makeup and had their ears pierced—except for me. Of the strapless dresses, mom said that I didn’t have enough to fill it and she didn’t want me pulling up my dress all night. I didn’t feel like myself at all in a stiff ill-fitting puffy sleeved dress and baby fat and wished she would let me look like all the other girls. Beyond the boys and the fashion, there was a sense of community and mysticism that religion held for me, and having it withheld made it even more alluring.
Funny that expressing myself through clothing was what first got me noticed by international press and designers before I’d ever done anything significant on my own. A flair for fashion ran alongside a knack for propaganda in the Goldwyn gene pool.