How I Got to Be Whoever It Is I Am Read online

  When I was a kid we had radio and movies. Movies were like a magic world, but radio was right there in our house, a member of the family. I think that’s why being on the radio these past several years has meant more to me than being in the movies or on television.

  I remember a big red portable radio I often used to take to bed and put under the covers. Since my brother was six years older and usually went to bed later, I could listen to it until he came to bed and said nicely, “Could you turn your radio off?”

  Looking back, I think I formed a lot of my values from the radio. I found a lot of heroes there—Superman, Batman, but mostly the Lone Ranger. There was something about the way he would ride off before anyone had a chance to thank him, and there’d always be one person who’d say, “Who was that masked man?” I got a particular thrill when the answer would come, “Why, that was the Lone Ranger!”

  Several years ago there was quite a to-do in the news about the Lone Ranger. Some Hollywood producers were planning a new movie about him and were searching for someone to play him. During my childhood, the Lone Ranger was played by Brace Beemer on the radio. When the Lone Ranger moved to television, I was among the legions of fans who continued to follow him.

  For us, there was only one Lone Ranger on television, and his name was Clayton Moore. Even as we grew older, he was still there. But now Hollywood wanted to make a big movie of the Lone Ranger, and Clayton Moore was seventy. Oh, he was still around. In fact, he was still around as the Lone Ranger. Nobody had seen him leap up on many horses lately, but he was still showing up at parades and rodeos, and getting plenty of cheers and applause, too.

  But Hollywood was making a big new Lone Ranger movie, and the search was on for the new, young Lone Ranger. The producers of the movie felt it would not be in their interest to have two Lone Rangers around, so they went to court to get a ruling to force Clayton Moore to take off his mask and stop appearing as the Lone Ranger, and they won. Our Lone Ranger was ordered to take off his mask.

  Clayton Moore had worn his mask his whole life. Without it, well, he just wasn’t the Lone Ranger. If you’ve been the Lone Ranger your whole life, it’s kind of tough, at seventy, to take off your mask and stop being him. So Clayton Moore went to court and protested the ruling, but he lost. Our Lone Ranger had to take off his mask.

  Years earlier there was a headline in a New York newspaper. It read: SUPERMAN COMMITS SUICIDE. George Reeves, who had been Superman about as long as Clayton Moore had been the Lone Ranger, had committed suicide, having become despondent over being unable to find work as an actor after the Superman television series was canceled. Whenever he would try to get a part in something, they would say, “We can’t use you in that part. People will say, ‘That’s Superman!’” And so he couldn’t get a job, got very depressed, and ended his life.

  Our Lone Ranger, Clayton Moore, fought back. When the court ordered him to take off his mask, he appealed the decision to a higher court. The next time anyone saw him in public, he had taken off the mask pending appeal, but in its place was a very large pair of dark sunglasses, not a bad mask in its own right. He showed up with those big dark sunglasses that covered just as much of his face as the mask had, and the applause and cheers were louder than ever. The public was on his side.

  Meanwhile, the Hollywood producers found a young man named Klinton Spilsbury to be the new Lone Ranger. The movie was made. It came out, and nobody went to see it. There were at least a couple of reasons for this. It hadn’t gotten good reviews, and also, by the time it came out, there was quite a lot of public resentment over taking the mask off our Lone Ranger.

  Eventually, a higher court ruled that Clayton Moore could wear the mask, after all. The glasses came off, the mask went back on, and Clayton Moore was getting bigger cheers than ever before!

  Shortly after this I was at a party and got into a conversation with a young actor who turned out to be Klinton Spilsbury, the new movie’s Lone Ranger. He told me that he was a serious actor from New York, had studied a lot, and was really doing very well moving up the ladder when this Lone Ranger opportunity came along. He said the movie was a mess. There were several scripts, and no one could agree on whether they were supposed to be funny or serious. He was having difficulty finding work because of his association with the movie and had moved back to New York to try to pick up the pieces of his career, which basically had ended. The movie had a devastating effect on everyone except Clayton Moore, who was more popular than ever.

  When I was a kid, we had a saying, “Don’t mess with the Lone Ranger.”

  As the story went, when a troop of rangers were killed by the Indians, only one ranger survived, and he was nursed back to health by an Indian, Tonto. When the ranger first regained consciousness he asked the Indian, “What happened?” Tonto said, “All rangers killed. You Lone Ranger.” I got goose bumps.

  Who among us has not sometimes felt like the lone ranger? Not the Lone Ranger, but the lone ranger?

  High School

  I entered Peabody High School in 1949. Eighth-grade graduates from various grammar schools came to Peabody, where the kids were then put in 9B, then 9A, 10B, 10A, 11B, 11A, 12B, 12A. We were divided into three different homerooms starting in 9B, so we were meeting a lot of new kids for the first time.

  A few weeks into 9B, I was home in bed, sick with a cold. When my mother came into the bedroom I shared with my brother to tell me a classmate had called, I couldn’t have known that something important had just happened. She told me that I’d been elected president of my freshman homeroom class, and I hadn’t even been there. This was the beginning of a series of events that was to have a powerful effect on me for the rest of my life.

  I went on to be elected president of my homeroom in 9A, then of 10B and 10A as a sophomore, of 11B and 11A as a junior, and of 12B as a senior. Next, all three 12A homerooms made me president. The margins grew wider at each election. All this happened to a boy who had been impeached as president in the fifth grade.

  I couldn’t have realized it at the time, but this gave me an unusually high level of confidence that has never wavered. Granted, I only aspire to what I believe I can achieve. I guarantee you I’ll never be chosen scientist of the year.

  When I was in my teens, my brother suggested that we form a law firm together. He was in law school and I was in high school, but something about me provoked my brother to say that. Not only did he want to partner with me, he wanted to be the research guy, and I would be the courtroom guy.

  When my son, Nick, was graduated from middle school at thirteen, my wife and I listened as the principal said something about each kid as they crossed the stage to receive their certificate. “She really can spell,” for example, or “He won the two-mile race.” As Nick went up I leaned forward to hear what was going to be said, and I’ll never forget the principal’s words: “He really knows how to marshal an argument.” If my brother had known Nick at the time Jack was in law school, he would have asked him to be the courtroom guy and the head of the firm.

  Recently, I came across the yearbook of my graduating class. It listed the best and the most, in about twenty categories—most likely to succeed, funniest, smartest, etc. There was the best and the second best in all categories, with separate listings for boys and girls. My name didn’t appear once. It took me back to a conversation I had with the only African American girl in my class, Joanne Snyder. I asked her why I kept getting elected. She said, “You care about people.” It’s interesting to me that there wasn’t a caring category in “the best, the most” in high school then. I hope there is today, but I’m doubtful. I had no idea that was unique, and still find it hard to grasp. Today it resonates, because every time I agree to host a charity event, the organizers seem shocked to learn I won’t take a fee. I’m shocked that that’s unusual.

  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.

  Girls

  My 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 complet
ely 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.

  Dad

  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.