What It’s Like to Feel ‘Restricted’
It’s Christmas in Beverly Hills. There are a few homes decorated with Merry Lights, but not many. It’s very different from Christmas in the 1950s in Silver Spring, Maryland, when oh, so many homes were gaily decorated with lights. But those were different days indeed.
And I can tell you this. I am extremely grateful to live and breathe in America. I was when I was young and I still am.
My father was a well-known economist. He had served in the U.S. Navy in World War II. His father had served in the U.S. Army in the Philippines against the Aguinaldo Insurrection. My Grandpa Dave had the extraordinary talent of an ability to ride on a horse or a donkey and fire a Springfield rifle with accuracy at the same time.
My parents and I had a Marksman medal he had earned on the mantel piece of our perfect “Fifties Modern” home on Harvey Road, designed by a famous architect of those days. I think his last name was “Palms” or something like that. I don’t remember exactly.
I do remember that we lived on Harvey Road in Silver Spring because other neighborhoods that were far more prestigious in Washington, D.C. and its suburbs were “restricted” against Jews — i.e., it was forbidden to sell real estate in those neighborhoods to “Hebrews,” “Negroes,” “Orientals” and probably Hispanics but that ethnicity in that day was microscopically available, if at all.
To the east of Harvey Road was “Woodside Park,” which was mostly, if not all, restricted. It plays a huge role in my childhood, as you will see.
Far to the east and north of us were large prestige neighborhoods called Spring Valley, Wesley Heights, Sumner, and large tracts of Chevy Chase where Jews could not own property. That restriction was on the deeds of all of the homes in the area.
On many occasions, my parents drove my sister Rachel, one of the world’s finest beings, and me down to events at the National Theater, where pre-Broadway plays appeared before they opened on Broadway. On our way back to Silver Spring, we passed by leafy neighborhoods with lovely homes.
My mother, always interested in real estate, would comment on what great places these homes along Wisconsin and Connecticut and Massachusetts Avenue were. I frequently asked her why we did not buy a house in those neighborhoods, since I knew she was always interested in moving,
“Benjy,” she would say with sorrow, “Spring Valley — or Wesley Heights or wherever it was — is ‘restricted.’” That meant it did not allow Jews. That word, “restricted,” has carried an evil meaning for me ever since.
And it was far from the only sphere in which it carried such dead weight. On our jaunts around D.C. and the suburbs, we passed by high prestige country clubs such as “The Chevy Chase Club” and “Congressional Country Club.” We Steins had been members of a perfectly good “Jewish” club called “Indian Spring” in Silver Spring. But the club had moved out far to the sticks and my parents did not care to drive out there for a very occasional round of golf.
So, I suggested that we join the Chevy Chase Club instead, or maybe Congressional. My parents actually laughed at that idea.
“Benjy,” said Mom again, “those clubs are restricted.”
(This came back to bite me hard here in Southern California. We live near the Los Angeles Country Club. I inquired about joining. Not only was it “restricted.” But worse came down the pike. We have a home in Rancho Mirage, near Palm Springs. A woman who had grown up in Oklahoma near my wife’s family had a home there at “El Dorado Country Club.” She invited us to dinner at El Dorado many times and then wanted us to join it. I told her it would not admit Jews as members on a bet. She said she would get any number of members to second her application for us. The manager came up to me at dinner when my wife’s family friend was entertaining us. He said he was looking forward to our being members. I said I was sure it would never happen. He said, “No. That’s not the way it is here anymore.”
(But a few short days later, a friend at El Dorado called me and said I had been “blackballed” by several members who were also members of LACC and would never allow a Jew to be a member. This was some years ago and maybe things have changed. Haha.)
Then there was Rehoboth Beach, a lovely beach community in Delaware, home state of Joe Biden. For decades, the beach was segregated against blacks. There were five sections — or so — for whites. Then there was one section of the beach for blacks. It was where the town sewer emptied out onto the sand. Delaware was where I first encountered signs on and in restaurants that read, “White Trade Only.” As a dopey kid, I did not know what that meant. I soon learned.
My very closest friend, a brilliant, loveable friend who lived just a short walk from our home, a descendant of an ultra–high end family of both northern and southern super-prestige heritage, had been my best friend since second grade. He and I were basically inseparable.
But after sixth grade at glorious Parkside Elementary School, his parents — truly saintly people — took him out of the public-school system of Montgomery County and enrolled him at St. Alban’s. That was and is an Episcopalian school attached to the National Cathedral in Northwest Washington, D.C.
The friend was one year ahead of me. We often talked about what he was learning at St. Alban’s. I was wildly impressed at what he was doing in Latin and in U.S. History. Plus, I missed him. My parents tried to get me into St. Alban’s. I took the admission test.
The teacher who gave me the test told me I had gotten the highest score of any applicant. But, he said, their policy was to take only “one Jew per class” and they already had their Jew, the son of a family that owned a men’s wear store and had been in D.C. since the Civil War.
The boy who went to St. Alban’s is still an EXTREMELY dear friend and has done incredibly helpful things for me. He is a saint. His wife is a saint. He came to our son’s funeral, the only fellow from our old neighborhood who did come. He has done magnificent service for Montgomery County over the decades. But that business about St. Alban’s still rankles.
I could go on forever. There was a little gang of boys at my hellish Junior High, Montgomery Hills. The leader of that gang was a fellow named Garry Rourke. He tormented me until a Jewish friend named Nolan Rappaport started me on weight lifting and very basic “martial arts.” At that point Garry Rourke stopped torturing me. We became friends at Montgomery Blair class of 1962 reunions. He passed away several years ago.
Then there was the incident of the Senior Prom at Blair. A sweet, beautiful girl and I had been dating casually. I invited her to the Prom. She cheerfully accepted. A few days later, she flagged me down in the hall at Blair. She told me she could not go to the Prom with me because her father did not want her going to the Prom with a Jew.
That night I drove to her home in Woodside Park. I knew she was at Majorette Practice. I rang the bell and met her father. I told him what his daughter had told me. “I don’t get it, sir,” I said. “I’m as American as you or your daughter. My father served in the War just as you did. I won’t act disrespectfully to your daughter in any way.”
That was how innocent I was.
The man said his daughter had misunderstood. He would be happy to have me take his daughter to the Prom. But the next day, his daughter flagged me down in the hall again and said he was so angry at her that now he barred her from seeing me in any way.
I was deeply offended and still am. Later I figured out that maybe her “ex-boyfriend” had cooked it all up so he could get back with her again. He was a cagey fellow. But it’s all long ago and far away. The young woman and her “ex” are friends of mine. They have been married forever. They both have distinguished careers.
And now it’s rare. The first house I ever bought, in 1974, in Wesley Heights, had a clause in the title forbidding its transfer to “Hebrews.” The brokers, W.C. and A.N. Miller, for decades the bastion of “restrictions,” sold it to me and simply ignored “restrictions.” Still, as far as I know, there are still clubs all over Southern California that are “restricted.” The broker from there who sold it to me was Jewish.
And I can tell you this. I am extremely grateful to live and breathe in America. I was when I was young and I still am. Restrictions are bad. Concentration camps are incomparably worse.
I’ll tell you more about this subject soon.
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