Sammy Davis Jr. Received Death Threats for Marrying a White Woman—What Dean Did Next Is LEGEND

Sammy Davis Jr. was terrified. Not nervous, not uneasy—terrified. It was November 1960. His wedding was two weeks away, and he had received 47 death threats.

Forty‑seven letters promising to kill him. Phone calls describing exactly how they’d do it. Photographs of his fiancée, May Britt, with crosshairs drawn over her face.

Neo‑Nazi groups had publicly vowed to stop this “abomination.” The Ku Klux Klan had sent formal warnings: cancel the wedding or face the consequences. Conservative groups called the marriage an insult to American values. Religious leaders condemned it as against God’s will. Politicians called it a disgrace.

Ordinary citizens—hundreds of them—wrote letters saying Sammy should be killed for daring to marry a white woman. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. Every car backfiring sounded like a gunshot. Every stranger on the street looked like a potential assassin.

His security team told him, “Mr. Davis, we can’t guarantee your safety. There are too many threats, too many angry people. We recommend postponing the wedding.”

May Britt, his fiancée, was getting threats too. Her career was already being destroyed. Studios cancelled her contracts. Directors dropped her from films. Her agent told her, “May, if you marry him, you’ll never work in Hollywood again.”

But May didn’t care. She loved Sammy. She wanted to marry him. Sammy loved her just as deeply, but he was terrified—terrified of getting her killed, of getting himself killed, of ruining her life.

Maybe, he thought, the world was right. Maybe this wedding was a mistake.

He picked up the phone to call May, ready to say they should postpone—maybe cancel altogether. Before he could dial, there was a knock at the door.

Sammy opened it. Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin were standing there. What they said next would give Sammy the courage to face an army.

—

To understand how much that moment mattered, you need to know three things: what America was like in 1960, who Sammy Davis Jr. was, and what he was risking by marrying May Britt.

In 1960, interracial marriage was illegal in 31 American states. Not frowned upon—illegal. If you were Black and married a white person in places like Virginia, Alabama, or Mississippi, you could be arrested, charged with a felony, and sent to prison.

California wasn’t one of those states. Interracial marriage had been legal there since 1948. But legal didn’t mean accepted. Legal certainly didn’t mean safe. California in 1960 was still deeply racist.

Restaurants refused to serve interracial couples. Hotels turned them away. And if you were a famous Black entertainer marrying a white actress, you painted a target on your back.

Sammy Davis Jr. was one of the biggest stars in America. Singer, dancer, actor, comedian, member of the Rat Pack with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop. He could sing like an angel, dance like nobody else, and make audiences laugh until they cried.

He’d been performing since he was three years old. By 1960, he was 35 and at the peak of his career.

But Sammy was also Black. And in 1960 America, that meant hard limits.

In Las Vegas, he could headline the hottest shows in the biggest hotels—but he couldn’t stay in those hotels. He had to sleep in the Black part of town. He could entertain white audiences but wasn’t allowed to sit with them in the same dining rooms.

He learned to navigate around racism, to survive it, to work despite it. But there was one thing he couldn’t sidestep: who he loved.

—

May Britt was a Swedish actress—blonde, beautiful, and talented. She’d moved to Hollywood in the 1950s and appeared in films like *The Hunters* with Robert Mitchum and *The Blue Angel* with Curd Jürgens. She wasn’t a major star yet, but she was working steadily and building a career.

Sammy and May met in 1959 at a Hollywood party. They talked, they clicked, they started dating quietly. Quietly—because they both knew an interracial relationship would cause trouble.

But they fell in love. Real love. The kind that won’t be ignored or indefinitely postponed. The kind that makes you think, *I want to spend my life with this person.*

In March 1960, Sammy proposed. May said yes. They planned a November wedding.

When the engagement became public, all hell broke loose.

The hate mail poured in immediately. Letters to Sammy used every racist slur imaginable. Letters to May branded her a traitor to her race. Some were “just” hateful. Others were explicit threats, describing in grotesque detail how they would kill Sammy or hurt May to stop the wedding.

The threatening phone calls began—at all hours of the night. Men’s voices, sometimes with Southern accents, sometimes not. Always the same ultimatum: cancel the wedding or die.

Conservative newspapers ran editorials condemning the marriage. Certain religious leaders preached against it from their pulpits. Politicians used it as a talking point.

The outrage was loud, coordinated, and relentless. Neo‑Nazi groups announced plans to protest the wedding. The American Nazi Party published Sammy’s home address and encouraged members to “take action.”

The Ku Klux Klan sent official warnings on their letterhead, promising to stop the wedding “by any means necessary.”

May’s career collapsed almost overnight. Studios suddenly lost interest. Directors backed out. Her agent told her he couldn’t represent someone “throwing her career away.”

May cared. She understood what she was losing. But she loved Sammy more. “I don’t need Hollywood,” she told him. “I need you.”

Sammy cared deeply, because he knew exactly what she was sacrificing. If she married him, she might lose everything—her career, her safety, possibly her life. And he would be the reason.

By late October 1960, two weeks before the wedding, Sammy was unraveling. The threats were constant. His security team said they couldn’t guarantee protection. The police promised a presence at the ceremony, but admitted they might not be able to control a determined mob.

Even some of Sammy’s friends urged him to postpone. “Just wait,” they said. “Let things calm down.”

But nothing was going to “calm down.” America wasn’t going to suddenly embrace interracial marriage in two weeks. The bigots weren’t going to wake up and change their minds. If Sammy postponed, he was likely postponing forever—and he knew it.

One night, sitting alone with another death threat in his hands, he thought, *Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should cancel. Maybe loving May isn’t worth dying for. Isn’t worth getting her killed.*

He picked up the phone and called Frank Sinatra. Not to ask permission. Just because he needed to say out loud, “I don’t think I can do this.”

Frank answered immediately. “Sammy, what’s wrong?”

“Frank, I…” Sammy’s voice broke. “I got another one. They’re saying they’ll bomb the church. Kill everyone inside.”

Silence. Then Frank’s voice, low and controlled. “How many threats in total?”

“I don’t know. Fifty, sixty. I stopped counting.”

“And you’re thinking about cancelling,” Frank said. It wasn’t a question.

Sammy started to cry. “Frank, I can’t put May through this. What if they’re serious? What if somebody actually does it?”

“Where are you?” Frank asked.

“At home. Why?”

“Stay there. Dean and I are coming over.”

“Frank, you don’t have to—”

“We’re coming over now.”

Frank hung up.

Sammy sat there, staring at the phone, wondering what they could possibly do. Thirty minutes later, there was a knock at his door.

He opened it. Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin stood on his doorstep. Frank looked furious. Dean looked calm—but there was something cold in his eyes.

—

They walked in. Frank sat across from Sammy. Dean remained standing, scanning the room like he was checking exits, measuring danger.

“Tell me about the threats,” Frank said.

Sammy brought out a box filled with letters, clippings, photos. Frank read through them, his jaw tightening letter by letter. Dean picked up one and read it aloud:

“We know where you live. We know where she lives. Cancel the wedding or we’ll burn down the church with both of you inside.”

Dean’s voice was flat, emotionless. His hands were not. They trembled—not with fear, but with rage.

Frank looked at Sammy. “You’re not cancelling the wedding.”

“Frank, I have to,” Sammy said. “It’s not safe. May could get hurt. I could get killed. I can’t…”

“You’re not cancelling,” Frank repeated, his voice like steel. “You know what happens if you cancel? You let them win. You let racists run your life. You let them decide who you’re allowed to love. Is that what you want?”

Sammy shook his head. “No, but I don’t want May to die.”

“She won’t,” Dean said quietly.

Sammy turned to him. “How do you know?”

Dean smiled—not his usual lazy grin, but something sharper. “Because we’ll be there. And nobody’s going to try anything.”

“Dean, these people are serious,” Sammy insisted. “They’re not just talking.”

“I don’t care,” Dean replied, calm and absolute. “They can talk. They can write letters. They can make calls. But the moment they try something, they deal with us. And they won’t get through us.”

Frank nodded. “Dean’s right. The wedding is happening November 13th, like you planned. We’re going to make sure nothing happens.”

“How can you guarantee that?” Sammy asked.

Frank and Dean exchanged a look. Something passed between them without words.

“Sammy,” Frank said, “you know we have friends. In various places. Friends who are very good at making sure people behave.”

Sammy understood. He knew exactly what kind of “friends” Frank had in Las Vegas, Chicago, and New York. People whose names did not appear in the credits, but who made things happen.

“Frank, I can’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking,” Frank cut in. “We’re offering. You’re family. You’re our brother. And family protects family.”

Dean sat down next to Sammy, put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen,” he said. “Of course you’re scared. Anyone would be. But you don’t let fear make this decision. You love May. She loves you. You want to marry her. So, you marry her. Frank and I will be right there. And if anyone tries anything, they go through us first.”

Sammy’s eyes filled with tears. “Why are you doing this? Why risk yourselves for me?”

Frank’s expression softened. “Because you’re worth it,” he said simply. “You’re talented. You’re kind. You’re one of the best men I know. You deserve to marry the woman you love without a bunch of racist cowards stopping you. So that’s what’s going to happen.”

“And besides,” Dean added, “I’m your best man. Can’t be your best man if there’s no wedding. I already rented the tux.”

Sammy laughed through his tears—the first real laugh he’d managed in weeks.

Frank stood. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re marrying May on November 13th. Dean and I will be there. We’re bringing security—real security. People who know how to handle trouble. The wedding will happen. You and May will be safe. Then you’ll go on your honeymoon and get on with your lives. Understood?”

Sammy nodded. “Understood.”

“Good. Now, get some sleep. You’ve got a wedding to plan.”

After they left, Sammy stared at the box of threats. For the first time, the fear shifted. It didn’t disappear, but it was no longer everything. For the first time, he felt something else: protection.

—

The next morning, Frank started making phone calls. To Las Vegas. To Chicago. To New York.

“Sammy’s getting married,” he told them. “There are threats. We need to make sure nothing happens.”

The response was immediate. “Sammy’s one of ours. Nobody touches him. We’ll handle it.”

Dean made calls, too. To musicians. To comedians. To friends who owed him favors. “I need you in L.A. on November 13th,” he told them. “I need you at a wedding. I want you seen. I want people to know he’s not alone.”

Nobody said no to Dean Martin.

The wedding was scheduled for 9:00 a.m. on Sunday, November 13th, 1960, at the Temple Israel of Hollywood (often referred to at the time as Marvin Davis’s temple in social circles). Sammy and May had kept the location secret as long as possible, but word leaked out.

By November 12th, everyone knew.

The American Nazi Party announced plans to protest. They published the temple’s address and encouraged members to “make their voices heard.” The wording was technically legal, but the intent was crystal clear.

Local police were informed. They promised to send officers, but reminded Sammy, “If a large crowd shows up, things could get out of hand.”

The night before his wedding, Sammy lay awake staring at the ceiling. He thought about May. About the threats. About whether the next day would be the happiest or the last of his life.

At 7:00 a.m., the phone rang. Frank’s voice: “You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Sammy answered.

“Dean and I are picking you up at eight,” Frank said.

“Frank, you don’t have to—”

“We’re not asking,” Frank replied. “Be ready.”

At exactly 8:00 a.m., a black Cadillac pulled up in front of Sammy’s house. Frank was behind the wheel. Dean rode shotgun. In the back seat sat a large man in a dark suit, someone Sammy recognized from Las Vegas—a man whose job was never officially listed, but whose presence always meant you were safe.

Sammy climbed in. Frank looked at him in the rearview mirror. “How you feeling?”

“Terrified,” Sammy said.

“Good,” Frank replied. “Means you understand the situation. But don’t worry. Today’s going to be fine.”

They drove to the temple. When they arrived, Sammy saw something that stole his breath.

The street was lined with cars—expensive cars. Next to those cars stood men. At least 30 of them. All wearing dark suits. All alert.

Sammy recognized some: musicians from Rat Pack shows, comics from the circuit, friends from Vegas. Others he didn’t recognize—but he recognized the *type*. These were not wedding ushers.

Frank had brought an army.

Dean stepped out first, nodding to several of the men. They nodded back. Then he opened Sammy’s door.

“Come on,” Dean said. “Let’s get you married.”

As Sammy walked toward the entrance, the men formed a loose perimeter around him. They didn’t look overtly aggressive. They didn’t wave weapons. They didn’t need to. Their presence alone sent a message: Sammy Davis Jr. is not alone.

Across the street, about 20 protesters held signs. “Race Mixing Is a Sin.” “Keep America Pure.” “Sammy Davis: Race Traitor.”

They shouted. They chanted. But they stayed where they were—on the other side of the street. Between them and the temple stood a line of men in dark suits who looked more than capable of handling trouble.

Frank walked on Sammy’s left. Dean on his right. Like guards. Like brothers.

At the temple door, Frank stopped and turned to Sammy. “You okay?”

Sammy nodded, too choked up to speak.

“Good,” Frank said. “Because you’re about to marry the woman you love. That’s what matters. Not them.” He jerked his head toward the protesters. “Not the letters. Not the threats. Just you and May.”

They went inside.

—

The sanctuary was small and intimate—maybe 50 people. Friends, family, fellow performers. People who loved Sammy and May, and didn’t care what color they were.

May was already there, in a simple white dress. She looked radiant and terrified. When she saw Sammy, she began to cry—relief, joy, fear, all at once.

He took her hands. “You sure about this?” he whispered.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said.

The ceremony began. The rabbi spoke about love, about courage, about choosing each other in a world that said they shouldn’t. It was personal and powerful.

Frank stood at Sammy’s side as best man. Dean sat in the front pew, watching the room like security and friend rolled into one.

Outside, the protesters kept chanting. Their voices seeped faintly through the walls—a low, ugly drone. Inside, there was only love and stubborn joy.

When the rabbi finally said, “You may kiss the bride,” Sammy kissed May. The room exploded in applause. Not polite applause, but triumphant applause.

This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a declaration: *You don’t get to decide who we are allowed to love.*

After the ceremony, they had to walk back out past the protesters. No one knew what would happen.

Sammy was nervous. May squeezed his hand tightly.

“Walk out there like you own the world,” Frank told him. “Because today, you do.”

The doors opened. Sammy and May stepped out. Immediately, the men in dark suits shifted, forming a corridor from the door to the car. Frank and Dean flanked the couple.

The protesters shouted, waved their signs—but they didn’t cross the street. They didn’t get close.

The silent message was clear: to reach Sammy and May, you’d have to go through Frank, Dean, and 30 men who looked very ready to make that a bad idea.

Sammy and May got into their car. The men stayed in position until it pulled away. Only then did they drift off in small groups, their job done.

—

Years later, in a 1989 interview, Sammy talked about that day.

“I was terrified,” he said. “Absolutely terrified. I thought somebody was going to kill us. Kill May. Kill me. But Frank and Dean wouldn’t let me cancel. They showed up. They brought people. They stood next to me. And they made it clear: you hurt Sammy, you hurt us. And nobody wanted to mess with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Those guys saved my wedding, saved my marriage, maybe saved my life.”

The interviewer asked, “Were you surprised they did that? That they risked themselves for you?”

Sammy smiled. “No,” he said. “Because that’s what family does. And Frank and Dean were my family. My brothers. Brothers protect each other, no matter what.”

May Britt, in her own interview years later, said, “I’ll never forget walking out of that temple and seeing all those men standing there, knowing Frank and Dean had arranged it. Knowing they had put themselves in danger to protect us. That’s love. Not romantic love—brotherhood. The kind of love that says, ‘I will stand with you when the world is against you.’ I’ll be grateful for that until the day I die.”

Sammy and May’s marriage lasted until 1968. They divorced not because of hate or harassment, but because they grew apart, as people sometimes do.

But for eight years, they had a life together. They had a home. They had a family. They had two daughters, Tracey and Jeff. None of that would have happened without November 13th, 1960—without Frank and Dean saying, “We’ve got you.”

In a rare serious interview in the 1970s, Dean Martin was asked about Sammy’s wedding.

“Sammy’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever known,” Dean said. “And he’s my friend. When your friend is in trouble, you help. You don’t check your calendar. You don’t calculate the risk. You just show up. That’s what Frank and I did. We showed up and we made sure he could marry the woman he loved. That’s it. Nothing heroic. Just friendship.”

But it *was* heroic.

In 1960 America, publicly supporting an interracial marriage was dangerous. It could damage your career. It could put a target on your back.

Frank and Dean didn’t have to do it. They chose to. Because Sammy mattered more to them than their comfort, their image, or their safety.

The lesson of Sammy’s wedding isn’t just about romance. It’s about loyalty. It’s about standing by people when they are vulnerable. It’s about using your privilege and power to shield those who have less.

Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin were two of the biggest stars in the world. They could have stayed home. They could have sent expensive gifts and heartfelt messages of support. No one would have blamed them.

Instead, they showed up. They brought backup. They stood guard. They put their status and connections on the line to make sure their friend could have his wedding day.

That’s not just friendship. That’s brotherhood.

It’s the kind of loyalty that says, “Your fight is my fight. Your danger is my danger. Your joy is my joy. And nobody gets to you without going through me.”

On November 13th, 1960, Sammy Davis Jr. faced an army of hate. But he didn’t stand there alone. He had Frank. He had Dean. He had 30 men in dark suits silently declaring, “We’re here. We’re not leaving.”

The racists shouted from across the street. They waved their signs. But they didn’t move. Because they understood the unspoken rule:

Touch Sammy Davis Jr., and you don’t just face one man. You face an army. An army you won’t beat.

That’s the power of brotherhood. That’s what happens when people link arms and refuse to step aside. And that’s what Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin did for Sammy Davis Jr.—not just on his wedding day, but for the rest of his life.

They stood with him. They defended him. They made sure the world knew: “Sammy is one of us. And we protect our own.”