Dean Martin Refused to Shake JFK’s Hand — The Real Reason Will Change How You See Him

The photograph was on every front page in America by the next morning.  Dean Martin standing in the White House, his hands firmly at his sides,  while President John F. Kennedy extended his hand toward him with that famous smile.  The camera caught the exact moment when the most powerful man in the world  was left hanging by a singer from Ohio.

 The headline in the Los Angeles Times read,  Martin Snubs President at White House Gala.  The New York Post was less kind. Rat pack traitor? Dean Martin refuses to shake Kennedy’s hand.  But nobody knew the real reason. Nobody knew what Dean Martin was really doing in that moment.  And it would take 30 years for the truth to finally come out.

 It was February 1961,  for the truth to finally come out. It was February 1961, one month after John F. Kennedy had been sworn in as the 35th President of the United States. The inauguration had been  a triumph, a passing of the torch to a new generation, young and vibrant and full of  promise. Frank Sinatra had organized the inaugural gala, the biggest night in entertainment history.

 Every star in Hollywood  had been there. Every star except one. Sammy Davis Jr. had been disinvited, removed from  the program, erased from the celebration he had worked so hard to make happen. The reason  was simple and ugly. Sammy Davis Jr. was a black man married to a white woman. Mae Britt, a Swedish actress, had become Sammy’s wife just two months before the inauguration.

 In 1961 America, interracial marriage was still illegal in many states.  It was scandalous, controversial, the kind of thing that made politicians nervous.  And the Kennedy campaign, still fragile from a razor-thin election victory, decided  that having Sammy Davis Jr. on stage with the new president was too risky.

 It would  alienate Southern voters. It would give ammunition to Kennedy’s enemies. It would be a distraction  from the message of unity and hope. So they made a phone call. Not to Sammy directly,  of course. These things were never done directly.  They called Frank Sinatra, who had organized the entire gala,  who had called in every favor he had to make it the biggest night in entertainment history.

 They told Frank that Sammy couldn’t perform.  They told him it was for the good of the country.  They told him to handle it.  Frank was furious.  He argued. He threatened. He begged. But in the end, he made the call to Sammy because that’s what  the Kennedys wanted.

 And Frank Sinatra wanted the Kennedys more than he wanted anything  else. He wanted to be close to power. He wanted to be part of the new Camelot. So he sacrificed  his friend. Sammy took the news in silence. He didn’t argue.  He didn’t cry. He just said, I understand, Frank. Do what you have to do. And then he hung up the  phone and sat alone in his hotel room, staring at the suit he had bought specially for the occasion,  the suit he would never wear.

 Dean Martin found out about it the night before the  inauguration. He had been rehearsing his number when Frank pulled him aside and told him what  had happened. Dean listened without interrupting. His face didn’t change. He just nodded slowly and  said, I see. It’s politics, Dean, Frank said, almost pleading. You know how these things work.  Thanks Dean, Frank said, almost pleading. You know how these things work.

 The Kennedys can’t afford the controversy right now.  Once they’re settled in, once things calm down, Sammy will be back in.  It’s temporary.  Temporary, Dean repeated.  The word hung in the air between them.  Don’t look at me like that.  I didn’t have a choice.  We always have a choice, Frank. Dean performed at the inauguration.

 He smiled. He sang. He shook hands with the new president and posed for photographs.  But something had shifted inside him. Something that wouldn’t shift back.  One month later, the White House held another event, a smaller gathering, more intimate,  celebrating the arts and entertainment.

 The President wanted to personally thank the performers  who had made his inauguration such a success. Dean Martin was invited. Frank Sinatra was  invited. Peter Lawford, the President’s brother-in-law, was there. But once again, Sammy Davis Jr. was not on the guest list. Dean almost  didn’t go. He told his wife Jean that he was feeling sick, that maybe he should stay home.

 But Jean, who didn’t know the real reason for his reluctance, encouraged him to attend.  It was the White House. It was the President. You didn’t say no to something like that.  So Dean put on his tuxedo and flew to Washington. He walked through the gates of the White House  and into the East Room, where crystal chandeliers sparkled and champagne flowed and everyone was  laughing and beautiful and completely unaware that Dean Martin was about to commit career suicide.

 The receiving line was long. Senators, congressmen, ambassadors, movie stars,  all waiting for their moment with the young president. Dean stood in line, moving forwardstep by step, his face calm, his heart pounding. He could see Kennedy at the front of the line,  shaking hands, flashing that smile, charming everyone who came within his orbit.

 Frank was somewhere behind him.  Peter Lawford was already inside, playing the gracious host.  The room was full of people who had chosen power over principle, comfort over courage.  And Dean Martin was about to become the exception.  When he reached the front of the line, Kennedy extended his hand with that famous grin.

 Dean, so glad you could make it.  That performance at the inauguration was tremendous, truly tremendous.  Dean looked at the extended hand.  He looked at the President’s face, and he kept his own hands at his sides.  Thank you for the invitation, Mr. President, but I’m afraid I can’t shake your hand. The smile on Kennedy’s face flickered, not quite gone but uncertain now.

 I’m sorry?  I said I can’t shake your hand, sir.  The people around them were starting to notice.  Conversations were trailing off.  A photographer, sensing something unusual, raised his camera.  Kennedy’s smile hardened slightly.  He was still holding his hand out, but his eyes had changed.  Is there a problem, Dean?  Yes, sir.

 There is.  A friend of mine wasn’t welcome at your inauguration.  A man who worked harder than anyone to make that night happen.  He was told to stay home because the color of his skin and the color of his wife’s skin didn’t match. I don’t shake hands with people who treat my friends that way.  The flash of the camera captured the moment. Kennedy’s hand still extended.

 Dean’s hand still  at his sides. And between them, a silence that seemed to stretch forever. Kennedy lowered his  hand slowly. His face was unreadable, but those who  knew him could see the cold anger behind his eyes. I think you’re making a mistake, Mr. Martin.  Maybe so, Mr. President. But at least I’ll be able to look my friend in the eye tomorrow.

 Dean turned and walked away. He walked past the stunned guests, past the Secret Service agents,  past the gilded walls and crystal chandeliers. He walked out of the White guests, past the Secret Service agents, past the gilded walls  and crystal chandeliers.

 He walked out of the White House and into the cold February night,  and he didn’t look back. The fallout was immediate and brutal.  By morning, Dean Martin was the most hated man in America. The newspapers called him ungrateful,  unpatriotic, un-American. Radio hosts demanded that his records be banned.  Television executives quietly shelved projects that had his name attached.

 Frank Sinatra called him screaming, saying he had embarrassed them all,  that he had destroyed everything they had built with the Kennedys.  Do you understand what you’ve done?  Frank shouted through the phone.  The president of the unit states, Dean. You humiliated the president of the unit states.  No, Frank. The president humiliated Sammy. I just refused to pretend it didn’t happen.

 This isn’t about Sammy. This is about all of us. Our careers, our futures, everything we’ve worked  for. If our futures depend on abandoning our friends,  then maybe our futures aren’t worth having. Frank hung up on him. They didn’t speak for  three months. But the person Dean was most worried about wasn’t Frank. It was Sammy.

 Because Dean hadn’t told Sammy what he was going to do. He hadn’t asked permission.  He had just acted. And now Sammy would have to deal with the consequences too.  Dean called Sammy the morning after the photograph appeared in the papers.  Sammy answered on the first ring, like he had been waiting.  I saw the picture, Sammy said.

 His voice was quiet, strange.  I should have told you beforehand.  I’m sorry I didn’t. There was a long silence on  the line. Dean, why did you do it? Because you’re my friend. Because what they did to you was wrong.  Because someone had to say something, and nobody else was going to. But your career,  they’re destroying you out there. The papers, the radio, everyone.

 They’re calling you a traitor.  Let them call me whatever they want.  I’ve been called worse by better people.  Another silence.  And then Dean heard something he had never heard before.  Sammy Davis Jr. was crying.  Not soft, dignified tears, but the deep, heaving sobs of a man who had been holding something  inside for too long.

 Do you know what it felt like, Sammy finally managed, when Frank called  me and told me I couldn’t come? After everything I did for that campaign? After every show,  every speech, every handshake? I gave them everything, Dean. Everything. And they threw me away like I was  nothing. Like I was garbage. I know, eh? And the worst part wasn’t the rejection.  The worst part was that nobody said anything.

 Frank called to deliver the message,  but he didn’t fight for me. Peter said it was politics. Everyone just accepted it.  Peter said it was politics.  Everyone just accepted it.  Everyone just moved on.  Like it was normal.Like I should just be grateful for whatever scraps they decided to give me.  That’s why I did what I did, Sammy.  Because it’s not normal.

 It should never be normal.  And I needed the whole world to see that at least one person thought it was wrong.  Sammy was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. You know what you did, Dean? You made me feel like a human being.  For the first time since that phone call from Frank, I felt like I actually mattered.

 Not Sammy Davis Jr., the entertainer. Not Sammy Davis Jr., the token Negro, just Sammy, a man with friends who would stand up for him.  You’ve always mattered, Sam. Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.  I won’t forget this, Dean, not ever. Until the day I die, I will not forget what you did for me.

 The professional consequences of Dean’s action were severe, but not fatal.  He lost some work.  He lost some friends.  He was blacklisted from certain events and venues that wanted to stay in the Kennedys’  good graces.  But Dean Martin was too big to destroy completely.  His talent was too undeniable.  His audience was too loyal.

 And in the end, the public’s memory was short. Within a year,  the controversy had faded. Within two years, Dean was back on top. But something had changed in  Hollywood. Dean’s act of defiance had planted a seed. Other performers started to push back  against the industry’s racist practices.

 The conversation about equality and entertainment,  which had been whispered in private,  started to be spoken aloud. And Sammy Davis Jr., emboldened by his friend’s support,  became more outspoken about civil rights than ever before. In 1963, Sammy marched with Martin  Luther King Jr. in Washington. In 1964, he performed at civil rights rallies across the South.

 In 1964, he performed at civil rights rallies across the South. He used his platform to speak out against injustice, knowing that he had at least one  friend who would never abandon him.  The relationship between Dean Martin and the Kennedys never recovered.  Dean was never invited back to the White House while JFK was alive.

 And when Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963, Dean’s reaction was complex.  He mourned the loss of a young president.  He grieved for the country.  But he never regretted what he had done in that receiving line.  Years later, in a rare interview about the incident,  Dean was asked if he would do it differently if he could go back.

 Not a single thing, Dean said.  Look, Kennedy was a great president in many ways.  He did a lot of good for this country. But that doesn’t mean he was perfect. And what they did  to Sammy was wrong. It was cowardly. They sacrificed a good man’s dignity for political convenience.  And I wasn’t going to shake hands and smile and pretend it was okay.

 But didn’t you worry about the consequences?  Of course I worried. I’m not stupid. I knew there would be a price to pay.  But some things are more important than your career. Some things are more important than  being popular. Loyalty is one of those things.

 If you can’t stand up for your friends when it  costs you something, then you’re not really their friend at all.  Sammy Davis Jr. died on May 16, 1990.  Dean Martin was one of the pallbearers at his funeral.  After the service, Dean stood alone at the grave for a long time, looking down at the freshly turned earth.  A reporter who had been watching from a distance approached him carefully.

 Mr. Martin? I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could say a few words about  your friendship with Sammy. Dean didn’t look up. He just kept staring at the grave.  Sammy was the most talented person I ever knew. He could sing, he could dance, he could act,  he could do everything. But that’s not what I’ll remember about him.

 What I’ll remember is his heart, his kindness,  his ability to love people even when they didn’t love him back.  Dean paused, his voice catching slightly.  This country didn’t always treat Sammy right.  Hollywood didn’t always treat him right.  Even his friends didn’t always treat him right.  But he never got bitter. He never gave up. He just kept performing, kept giving, kept loving.

 That takes a kind of courage that most people don’t understand.  Is it true that you refused to shake President Kennedy’s hand because of how Sammy was treated?  Dean finally looked at the reporter. His eyes were red but his voice was steady.  I refused to shake hands with a man who had hurt my friend. I would do it again.

 I would  do it a thousand times. Because that’s what friendship means. It means showing up when  it costs you something. It means standing up when everyone else is sitting down. It  means saying no when everyone else is saying yes. He looked back at the grave.  Sammy knew I loved him.  He knew I had his back.  And in the end, that’s all that matters.

 Not the headlines.  Not the photographs.  Not what the politicians think or what the papers write.Just whether the people you love know that you love them.  Whether they know you’ll be there when it counts.  Dean turned and walked away, leaving the reporter alone at the graveside.  Five years later, on Christmas Day 1995, Dean Martin died in his sleep.

 Among his personal effects was a framed photograph that had sat on his bedside table for decades.  It wasn’t a picture of his movie premieres or his gold records or his  television show. It was a photograph of two men standing backstage at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas,  arms around each other, laughing at some joke that the camera couldn’t capture.

 Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. Two friends who had each other’s backs when it counted.  On the back of the photograph in Dean’s handwriting were three words, worth every consequence.  That’s the Dean Martin story that matters, not the songs, not the movies, not the effortless  cool.  But the man who stood in the White House looked the President of the United States in the  eye and refused to shake his hand because his friend had been wronged. That’s courage. That’s loyalty.

 That’s what it means  to be a true friend. And that’s why when people ask what made Dean Martin special,  the answer isn’t his voice or his charm or his timing. The answer is that when everyone else  chose power, Dean Martin chose principle. When everyone else looked away, Dean Martin stood up.  He stood up for Sammy Davis Jr. in the White House in 1961, and he never sat back down.