An odd thing happened when I was around seventeen. Miss Owen, the extremely pugnacious woman who was in charge of the school
play, aggressively confronted me in the hall one day. She was angry that she didn’t see my name on the list of people who
were going to audition for the senior class play. I explained to her that I wasn’t available because I had to work in my dad’s
store, but she wasn’t buying. She just flat-out didn’t believe me! I had never given a thought to acting.
My plan was to go to the University of Pittsburgh and major in journalism. I had been the humor editor of my grammar school
paper and also worked on the high school paper.
Miss Owen absolutely believed that I wasn’t auditioning because I didn’t like her. I’ve never been big on disliking people
unless they gave me a really good reason, and Miss Owen certainly hadn’t. I didn’t even dislike any of the people who kept
kicking me out of things. Oh, maybe for a moment, but generally I can understand someone kicking me out, even if I don’t agree.
That remains true today.
What was really odd about that confrontation with Miss Owen was when I asked her why she was so vehement about my auditioning
for the class play, since she had never seen me act. She said with great certainty, “I know you’d be good and you know it,
too!”
My only theatrical experience had been playing the role of Don in
Getting Gracie Graduated
, our eighth-grade class play. Miss McCallum gave me the part because (surprise, surprise), just like Don, I asked so many
questions. Since I had no idea how to act, I only distinguished myself by learning all my lines and everyone else’s, so I
could whisper to them if they forgot, which is what happened. In any case, because of my obligation to work in my father’s
store, I never auditioned for the senior class play.
There’s so much I don’t understand about what we were asked to study in high school, and talking to high school kids today
confirms for me that it’s still largely the case. There were many courses that I and most others had no interest in at all.
Latin, algebra, and geometry, not to mention the dreaded trigonometry, quickly come to mind. Let’s throw in chemistry. In
spite of my questioning nature, I generally went with the flow as far as the courses were concerned, because I felt I had
no choice.
I don’t understand why those courses were obligatory. They made most of us want to run out the back door screaming. I got
high grades only because I have a retentive mind, not because I was interested—that, and they sometimes graded on the beloved
curve, meaning other kids were close to having breakdowns.
About twenty years ago I asked an algebra teacher what the purpose of algebra was. She couldn’t answer me. One friend who
claims to know everything, including where we were before we were born and where we go after we die, said, “Algebra teaches
logic.” I love my friend, but I wouldn’t say logic is his strong suit. The metaphysical? Maybe.
I’d be for developing a curriculum that includes teaching how to get through life the best you can. How to be a good partner,
a good friend, a good daughter or son, a good parent, the importance of helping those in need, and so forth are subjects that
quickly come to mind. Do we have people who could teach those courses? On the other hand, I didn’t find the teachers of the
courses I was told to take effective. They never explained why we were studying these things, and I who was never at a loss
for questions must have been—in the science and math areas anyway—too numb to ask. Ironically, I once took an aptitude test
that said I should be an accountant. In the future, I would
play
an accountant, but
be
one? Yeah, right.
I also didn’t question my third-grade teacher’s right to hit us across our knuckles for talking or how the shop teacher could
whack seventh- and eighth-grade kids (not me) with a paddle for talking. I’d seen enough by high school, so when Mr. Myers,
the gym teacher and basketball coach, grabbed me by the arm, I tore it away from him and gave him a look I’m sure surprised
him. Early on it was clear to me that while I somehow managed to get along unusually well with others, I had a very strong
reaction to anything I viewed as inappropriate.
Decades later, the producer Ray Stark was giving my girlfriend, who was directing a movie for him, a very hard time. I had
more than one conversation with myself to stop myself from physically going after him. I succeeded—barely. Later, I attacked
him in print. He, of course, retaliated in print, not using his name but through a columnist he had in his pocket. He got
the columnist to take a cheap shot at me. What else is new?
Frankly, I don’t think I’ve yet fully recovered from “single file, no talking” in grammar school. I mean, what was
that
all about?! As I remember, everyone changed classes at the same time, so we wouldn’t be disturbing kids in class. I mean,
this was Pittsburgh, in America—not a fascist country.
I was rushed by fraternities at the University of Pittsburgh. My only memory of that is sitting in a fraternity house with
a group of guys watching porno movies. I was astonished and still am at the idea. As a kid, I remember driving around the
park with buddies talking about “getting a feel” of this or that girl, meaning getting to touch a breast, never a bare one.
When they finished talking of their exploits they looked at me to offer something, but I never did. This annoyed them. They
said, “You’re listening to us!” I told them I wasn’t going to tell them what they should talk about, but I wasn’t going to
join in. Also, it’s not as though I had anything to offer.
Later, I became a vocal critic of Howard Stern and Don Imus and always questioned what was permitted to be aired. I once asked
Walter Cronkite, who said, “Community standards define that.” I so admire Mr. Cronkite, but I’m still not sure what community
he was referring to.
Howard Stern once said my son would probably grow up to be a fan of his. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Howard Stern thought
it was amusing on television to hold up some bones of a young woman who had been cremated and make jokes about them.
Standards
? What does it say about us that someone like that could have so many fans? To me, it says a significant percentage of us
need to grow up! At least
seek
some maturity. More recently, the third most popular radio host in America, Michael Savage, attacked kids with autism by
saying, “In ninety-nine percent of the cases, it’s a brat who hasn’t been told to cut the act out. That’s what autism is.”
I’m a mentor to a teenager with a form of autism. I promise you, Michael Savage doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s
the one who should cut the act out. Sadly, hate sells.
M
y situation with girls in the 1940s and the early ’50s wasn’t good—to put it mildly. It started in eighth grade with a mad
crush on Cookie Riedbord, but Cookie wouldn’t go out with me because I was too short—at least four inches shorter than Cookie,
who had a mad crush on the high school quarterback, Pete Neft. I was about five one then. Now I’m six feet, but this is now,
and that was then. I moved on in high school to an even madder crush on Judy Gotterer. She was the star of the class play,
a cheerleader, and the editor of the school paper, along with being gorgeous. Judy wouldn’t go out with me because I was too
young—six months younger than she was.
Recently, my daughter, who is a stand-up comedian, was appearing in Pittsburgh. Some of my friends from the Pittsburgh Playhouse
showed up and told her that all the girls had a crush on me when I was there. I knew about one girl, but I had no idea about
anyone else. Then I came across a high school graduation picture of a girl I’d known since kindergarten. On the back of her
picture she wrote, “All the girls had a crush on you.” I was oblivious to that as well. I’ve never assumed that if a girl
or woman smiles and is friendly to me it means anything other than she’s friendly to me. Oh, well…
One of my attitudes about sex and romance that caused me a lot of problems first occurred in high school. A beautiful girl
transferred to our school from Tennessee; I asked her to the prom, and she accepted. She wasn’t older or taller than I was.
We began to date. I don’t even remember kissing her.
One evening she felt she should tell me she had been married. She was only seventeen when I knew her. I took her to the prom,
but in my Jewish-raised orthodox mind, all bets for anything serious like marriage were off.
The attitude of no sex before marriage, for girls anyway, was the dominant moral code of the fifties. This changed completely
in the sixties. My big problem was that I couldn’t make the change. I couldn’t imagine marrying anyone who wasn’t a virgin.
As years went by, close to twenty-five years, anyway, this became a serious problem, because there didn’t seem to be any virgins.
Sometime in the sixties when I was still in the throes of this “you have to be a virgin before marriage” issue, my girlfriend
said to me, “Aren’t you happy for me that I’ve had a lot of wonderful sexual experiences?” It was a rare instance when I was
rendered speechless.
Later in the sixties, I went out with a girl who said she was a virgin, and I believed her. I actually considered marrying
her, but I realized that although the woman I was going to marry should be a virgin, maybe a marriage should have more going
for it than a woman’s virginity. Quite hypocritically, I didn’t apply that rule to myself. I believe I saw the light when
someone asked me if I wanted my daughter to be a virgin prior to marriage. Immediately, I said she should do whatever makes
her happy that doesn’t land her in jail. I couldn’t have a double standard when it came to my own kid, so that affected my
attitude quite a bit. I believe it’s a good idea to try to personalize everyone’s situation. It can’t help but raise your
empathy level.
My attitude toward virginity really went away when I got in touch with my mortality. It terms of being bothered by something,
mortality easily trumped lack of virginity.
I
’m named after my father’s father, so according to Jewish tradition he would have to have been deceased when I was born. I
don’t remember ever meeting my father’s mother. Sometime in the nineteenth century a relative whose identity neither my brother
nor I knows changed the name Grodinski to Grodin.
My father had a store where he sold supplies for cleaners, tailors, and dressmakers: materials for suits, linings, zippers,
buttons, and hangers, for example. My interest in our nation’s justice system began when I was fourteen. Now I’m preoccupied
with it on a daily basis. A Negro boy, as African Americans were then called, who worked for my dad was arrested for something.
He was out on bail, but my father kept him on. When I said, “But he’s been arrested,” my father replied, “He hasn’t been convicted.”
Dad taught me the principle of innocent until proven guilty at an early age. I believe that my sense of fairness and the feeling
that it was not right for me to be kicked out of things somehow joined forces at that time.
Since I had started kindergarten at four and Hebrew school at seven, by the time I got to high school at fourteen I wanted
to be free after school to be involved with sports.
My dad felt I was lazy because I couldn’t bring myself to work in his store as much as my brother dutifully had. When I did
show up, I remember sitting on a counter counting up grosses of buttons, among other mundane tasks, and wishing I could be
somewhere else playing sports of
any
kind. While my confidence was growing with every passing election, unbeknownst to me something else was happening that was
to have an equally powerful effect.
The tug-of-war between my dad and me over how much time I should spend in the store ended in a standoff. I was there, but
not enough as far as Dad was concerned.
My father had been in and out of hospitals his whole life, but when he suddenly died at 4:55 p.m. on June 26, 1953, at the
age of fifty-two, I was in complete shock. I was eighteen, and I know I haven’t really recovered. Our relationship had so
deteriorated, from his point of view, that he asked me to put all requests for anything in writing, even though we lived in
a small six-room house. “Anything,” in my case, meant getting to use the car, which Dad used to make deliveries.
It couldn’t have helped my cause that when Dad let me have the car to take my driver’s test, which I passed on the third try,
I drove up to my dad’s store, saw him standing in front, and shouted out the window, “Dad, I passed, I passed,” and crashed
into the car parked in front of me! However, he later said, “You’re probably a better driver than I am, but I’m too nervous.”
More than one person has suggested that my penchant for being involved in so many charities has to do with my guilt over my
relationship with my dad. If I know them well enough I point out what Joanne Snyder said before my dad’s passing about my
caring for others. Nevertheless, I obviously didn’t have the insight to know I wasn’t caring enough about my dad.
I still consider the way I dealt with my father my biggest mistake in life. It’s the one I chose to write about for the book
If I Only Knew Then… Learning from Our Mistakes
. My lesson was that if you love someone, even if you think you’re right, don’t try to prevail if you will cause your loved
one stress. I know that now. Regretfully I didn’t know it as a teenager.
Dad did live to see me give the valedictorian address at my high school commencement. In my school, the valedictorian wasn’t
the person with the highest grades but the class president. There were probably some 4.0s among us. I was about a 3.7.
In any case, I know my dad was proud and, I’m sure, astonished to see me up there.
J
ust before I was going to graduate from high school and go to the University of Pittsburgh, I saw a movie,
A Place in the Sun
. I fell in love with Elizabeth Taylor, and as I watched Montgomery Clift I marveled at how easy acting seemed. On the spot,
again thinking I could do anything I aspired to, I decided to be an actor instead of a journalist. Of course, I had no idea
what I was getting into. My mother said, “Nobody makes a living in that field.” I didn’t realize how close to the truth that
was. I simply said, “I’ll outwork everyone.” I don’t remember my dad hearing me say that. If Mother ever told him, I can only
imagine the look of disbelief on his face.