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• 1 media/sandbackground.jpeg 2018-12-12T03:17:47-08:00 A Book in the Dust: An Ask the Dust Sequel by Dana Tsuri-Etzioni 30 plain 825811 2018-12-23T23:06:22-08:00

  I’m here with a specific purpose. To take in the beautiful desert sky, clear landscape, and Joshua trees. Capture it all for an audience to see. I started working for National Geographic a few years ago, and the work has taken me to some of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

  The Mojave isn’t really one of them. But it does have a rich history I’m interested in exploring.

  Who would have thought a girl that grew up in New Jersey in a small Italian family would end up working for National Geographic? A photographer, traveling the U.S., capturing its beauty.

  Some say the U.S. is not so beautiful after the Great Depression hit. The smiling faces of the 20’s are long gone, and the people have lost hope, even decades later. Growing up Italian-American, I learned early on losing hope isn’t an option. My parents traveled to this country so that my brother and I could lead the lives we want to. Live the American Dream, as my dad always told me.

  When I got hired as a photographer for National Geographic, my parents were so proud. They told me all of the struggles they encountered were worth it. They weren’t just “greasers” and “dagos.” Their daughter was now an American, working for a very American magazine.
  

  I don’t get to be home with them often and I know that hurts them. But, they know I’m just following the path they worked so hard for me to be able to follow.

  Now I’m in the Mojave, documenting the famous Joshua trees. I love being in nature. It helps me think.

  I read the Chemehuevi tribe once lived in the Mojave, before Europeans found it and conquered the land. They lived on prickly pear, mesquite, and roasted agave blooms and hunted deer and bighorn sheep. How interesting to think there was a time when people lived off the land, and built their own community in the desert.

  Community is important where I come from. I’m American, but I’m also Italian. Without the Italian community in New Jersey, my parents would be lost, and so would I.

  “It’s important to know where you come from, and to remember it forever,” my mom always told me when I was younger. But, I never understood that concept until I got older.

  I was observing the nature around me, looking for the perfect shot, when I realized a corner of something buried in the sand was poking out.

  I dug it out.

  A book. A very worn out book.

  “Ask the Dust.”
  

  ‘Interesting title,’ I thought, considering I was standing in the middle of the desert, covered in dust itself.

  I picked up the book, and kept walking, looking for a Joshua tree to capture with my Baldina 35 mm rangefinder camera, one of the best the 1950’s have to offer.

  The perk of working for a nationally-recognized magazine is that I get to use the equipment of one. Every photographer’s dream.

  I kept walking and found an interesting Joshua tree. It was asymmetrical and had a lot of flaws. But, it was beautiful. Its uniqueness captivated me. I took one photo after the next, finding different angles. And then I realized it was getting dark and I barely took any photos of the landscape.

  Good thing I have a few days in the area to work. I convinced my editor that it would be necessary with an area so rich in history like the Mojave. I didn’t need to just capture the land, but also the stories behind it.

  My hotel is in San Bernardino, so it’s not too far to travel back tomorrow. I was hoping I’d be done capturing a lot of the photos by today so that I can do more research about the land the rest of my time in the city, but it looks like that might not be the case.

  Time to make the journey to my hotel, before it gets too dark, I thought. I got in my 1951 Ford Country Squire and drove.

  I’ve gotten used to being on my own. This job gets lonely and it’s hard to sustain relationships when you’re traveling so much. But, I love my job and it’s rewarding in itself. Human connection is just difficult to make when every week starts in a new destination.

  I got to my hotel and realized I hadn’t given more than a glance at the novel I picked up in the desert earlier. Its name had been circling in my head the whole day, but I didn’t realize why.

  I pulled out the book from my backpack. “Ask the Dust,” by Arturo Bandini.

  A fellow Italian. I was intrigued.

  “To Camilla, with love, Arturo,” was written in the book. How sweet, yet shallow, I thought.

  And who is Camilla? The poor woman never got her book.

  Once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.

  I identified so much with the author, even though I didn’t want to admit it.

  I always knew a part of me was ashamed of being Italian, but I never said it out loud. I never wanted to admit that I wished I were white when I was growing up.

  But, I know better than that now. I know who I am and where I come from. My mother’s words encouraging me to remember where I came from and never forget it, still ring loudly in my ears. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was what I needed to hear. What Bandini obviously needed to hear.

  Then, I got to the introduction of Camilla’s character.I admire her so much. She’s strong and dignified. Then to the introduction of Vera. Such a beautiful character, with such a tragic ending.

  About an hour and a half later, I finished the novel. It all made sense now. The inscription for Camilla, why the book was never found. Bandini was a self-destructive coward, if everything in this novel is true; and Camilla was the woman that deserved more than she got.

  I decided I had to go to Bunker Hill the next morning, and see for myself where this story unfolded. The Mojave could wait.
  

  I woke up at 5 a.m. after tossing all night. The stories and characters from the novel were like a ringing I couldn’t get out of my head. Something I couldn’t ignore.

  Half an hour later, I was in my car, making the hour drive to Bunker Hill. I knew this would set me a day back on my work, but I didn’t care. If I didn’t go now, I would regret it forever. I needed to see this city, I needed to know what Bandini saw when he wrote this, what he felt when he was sitting in his room at the Alta Loma Hotel.

  I’m usually not a spontaneous person. I would normally never let something so trivial as a novel take me away from my work. But, something about this novel was different. I saw myself in every one of the characters; I knew their pain, twistedness, and grief. They were drawing me to this city.

  I got to Bunker Hill and stopped in front of the Alta Loma Hotel. I felt foolish immediately. What exactly did I think I would do as soon as I got here? Go in and ask the woman at the front desk if Arturo Bandini lived here a decade ago? If a woman named Vera Rivken ever came in here looking for him? And if I did that, and the answers were yes, what would I do with that information then? Bandini is probably long gone and I know Vera’s fate was already sealed, if she’s even real.
  

  I started doubting myself and all my reasoning. A small calling had brought me here and now I feel as though I’ve hit a concrete wall. I’m not sure what I’m doing here at all anymore.

  I decided to go to the cafe down the street and think. I felt I was making impulsive decisions and I needed a cup of coffee to calm myself down and think logically for a second.

  The cafe was small and not crowded at all. I found a small table by the window, and ordered a cup of coffee from the waitress.

  “Do you need anything else?” The waitress asked me. But, I hadn’t heard her. I was so lost in my own head. I couldn’t believe I was willing to waste a whole day’s work on this silly novel. One I had found randomly in the desert, no less. One even Camilla, the star of the novel, didn’t want to read.

  “Miss, do you need anything else?” She repeated. The waitress had a slight hispanic accent, but was wearing clothes that made her look as if she had been living in America her whole life. A long light-pink skirt, off-white sweater, and stockings- it’s as if she just walked out of a Macy’s catalogue. But, even though her dress matched the American lifestyle, her long, black curly hair and olive skin tone didn’t.
  

  “No, sorry.” I said, “It’s been a long day.”

  “Long day? It’s only 9 a.m.,” she answered.

  “You’re right, it’s still early, I can make the drive back to the Mojave and work the rest of the day.”

  “Mojave? What kind of work do you have in the Mojave?” She asked.

  “I work for National Geographic, I’m a photographer, and I came down to Southern California to photograph the Mojave, or the Joshua trees, more specifically.”

  “Ah yes, the Mojave and the Joshua trees. What a fascinating job. And the Mojave is such a beautiful place. I feel at peace in the desert,” the waitress said.

  “Have you lived in Bunker Hill a long time?” I asked.

  “Yes, too long. I moved away from here a few years ago, looking for a different life, but I never found it. So, I came back. I came back to my old job and my old neighborhood in my old car.”

  “That’s why I moved as far away from New Jersey as I could. I couldn’t deal with mediocrity the rest of my life. I left and I never looked back,” I said.

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  “I’m Anna, by the way,” I replied.

  “Kate,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you Kate, but I better head back to the Mojave, maybe I can make up for the few hours I wasted chasing after something that wasn’t there.”

  “What were you chasing? And in Bunker Hill of all places?”
  I pulled out the novel from my backpack. “I know it’s stupid, but I read this novel and I felt myself being driven to come here.”

  I handed her Bandini’s work, and she looked at the cover for a while. I saw a wave of recognition pass her face.

  “Have you read it?” I asked.

  “No, I haven’t heard of it even, but I knew the author,” Kate said.

  “Oh really? Did he come to the cafe a lot?”

  “Something like that,” she replied.

  “Well, what was he like?” I could hear myself sounding a bit too eager.

  “A man with no integrity, that damn Italian didn’t know his own identity,” Kate said quietly, to herself.

  “Yeah, I sensed that from reading this. I was actually really intrigued by Camilla. He inscribed the first page to her,” I motioned for her to open the novel.

  A mix of anger and sadness flooded her face. I wasn’t sure what evoked such a strong reaction from her.

  She handed the book back to me.

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything here that you’re looking for. Bandini is long gone and whatever else is in this novel is probably a lie anyways,” she said.

  So I thanked her and left the cafe, still a bit confused. I wasn’t sure why she had gotten so upset by seeing Arturo Bandini’s name on the cover, and the inscription to Camilla. Maybe he came to the cafe often, and they developed some sort of relationship. I guessed I would never truly know why.

  I got back to the Mojave in the afternoon, with just enough sunlight left to capture some more of the desert. And at night, I made the drive again to my hotel in San Bernardino.

  Lying back on the hotel bed, I stared at the novel. I wasn’t sure why I was still so captivated by it. I visited the city, the hotel, the cafe, and nothing about it seemed significant enough to want to go back. About a decade had passed anyways, what made me think anything written about in this book would be the same? But, there was a part of me that felt I needed to figure out more. Maybe I couldn’t talk to Bandini himself, but being in that town could tell me all that I need to know. He was a misguided, Italian man that didn’t know how to identify himself - even Kate said it- and I feel the same sometimes about my own culture and self. I dozed off thinking, with the book still in my hands.

  I woke up the next day with an urge to go back to Bunker Hill. I didn’t know what I would try to find there the second day, but I knew it was worth trying. I had already captured enough photos to satisfy my editor, and I could do some reading in the library when I get back to D.C. to find some information on the Chemehuevi tribe. So now, I had two days to figure out what that je ne sais quoi was about Bunker Hill. I checked out of my hotel in San Bernardino and started driving.

  I got to Bunker Hill and checked in to the Alta Loma. The woman at the front desk asked me if I were hispanic or Jewish, and I said neither. The conversation felt oddly familiar. When I got to my room later, I opened the novel and realized it was exactly the conversation she had with Bandini when he checked in. So, some of what’s written in here is true, at least I know that now.

  I went back to the cafe, hoping that Kate was working.

  “Anna, you’re back,” she said when I walked in.

  “Yes, I’m back. Can’t get enough of this city apparently.”

  “I wish I felt the same,” Kate replied.

  “Maybe you could tell me more about Arturo Bandini, what he was like, how he dealt with being Italian in a country that hasn’t fully accepted Italians as equals. Sorry if that’s too much, I’ve just always felt like a part of me doesn’t belong here, like I’ll never be looked at as equal with a name like Anna Ricci. It seems like Arturo had the same feelings.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Arturo,” she said.

  “Well, why? Not to be too forward, but you seem to harbor some anger towards him, and I’m just wondering what happened between you two.”

  “Nothing happened, we went our separate ways long ago and that’s all. I just don’t like to live in the past.”

  “And I completely respect that, Kate, but I need to know that what I’m doing here isn’t crazy,” I said. “I need to know there’s really a reason I’ve impulsively come to this city, for the second time now.”

  “I can’t tell you why you did what you did, and neither can any information you gain about Arturo, Anna,” Kate said.

  “Okay, so how about you? Tell me about yourself, Kate. Did you grow up here? Did you move? Why are you in Bunker Hill?”

  “No, I’m working, and like I told you, I don’t like to live in the past.”

  I sensed there was more to the story than what she was telling me. She seemed too invested in Bandini to have just been acquaintances with him. I decided not to push her, fearing she wouldn't want to speak to me at all. So, I said goodbye and went back to the hotel room.
  
  I reread some of my favorite chapters in the novel, the same line playing over and over in my head, 
  "But I am poor, and my name ends with a soft vowel, and they hate me and my father, and my father’s father, and they would have my blood and put me down, but they are old now, dying in the sun and in the hot dust of the road, and I am young and full of hope and love for my country and my times, and when I say Greaser to you it is not my heart that speaks, but the quivering of an old wound, and I am ashamed of the terrible thing I have done."
  
  
  It's my favorite line from the book. I could feel Bandini's pain, I could feel Camilla's even more. 
  
  I kept reading, and then it dawned on me. How could I be so stupid? How could I have missed all of the signs? She works in the same restaurant for Christ's sake. 
  
  It must have been a few hours since I was at the restaurant, and I went back.
  I'd stopped keeping track of time anymore. This book was consuming me and I couldn't stop it from doing so.
  
  I'd never felt a sense of true belonging, or that anyone understood me until I found this book. It gave me some clarity. It made me feel less lonely.
  
  Kate didn't look too happy to see me. 
  
  "Back so soon? If you're here to talk about Arturo, I don't want to hear it," she said, with a hint of her Hispanic accent coming out as she said Arturo. 
  
  "Why did you come back to Bunker Hill? What made you leave in the first place?" I asked. 
  
  "I told you I don't..."
  
  "Camilla, I know it's you," I said.
  
  Her face became pale.
  
  "No one's called me that in years, to hear you say it is strange. How did you know?" 
  
  "Tell me what happened, please, I've let this story take over my life and now I'm here in front of one of the people who could help me understand why that might be," I said.
  
  "Okay, I'll tell you, but only because I don't want you to keep nagging me about this." 
  
  We sat down at a table and talked for hours. She told me how she left Sammy's house in the middle of the desert and never looked back. How she went to Texas for a few years because she needed to escape her life. While she was there, she changed her name to Kate Lombard. After a while, she realized she missed Arturo, and came back to Bunker Hill looking for him, only to be told by people at Alta Loma that his book was a success and he left to live in New York City. She decided to stay in Bunker Hill, hoping that one day he would return, but he hasn't. 
  
  After talking for a while, it became clear to me that we needed each other, Camilla and I. She needed someone to be her friend just as much as I needed a person to confide in, someone to talk to about everything I've grappled with. Someone who understands that struggle as well. 
  
  I came to Bunker Hill hoping to find something, anything that would help me fill the void I felt in my identity. 
  I ended up finding that it wasn't my struggle with my identity, but my solitude for so many years that made me feel misguided. 
  And I have Arturo Bandini to thank for helping me realize that. 
  
  
  
  Reflection: 

  I decided to write a sequel to “Ask the Dust” because that was my favorite reading we had this semester. I find Arturo Bandini’s character interesting in the way he deals with his own insecurities and grapples with his identity. I initially wanted to continue the story from the perspective of Camilla after she left Sammy’s house in the desert, but then I thought about including a character that wasn’t in the original story, that could be dealing with the similar identity struggles Bandini faced, and handle those struggles in a healthier way. Therefore, I created Anna Ricci, a second generation Italian-American from New Jersey, working for National Geographic and traveling the U.S. and the world. I wanted to have her find the book, and feel such a deep connection with its words that she feels the drive to visit Bunker Hill for herself. Although Anna grapples with her identity as an Italian-American, I wanted to also make it clear through her characterization that she struggles with the loneliness that comes from her job, and so I made sure the ending had her understanding not only more about her identity, but also, understanding her need to have a friend and someone to lean on, that she could help as well. I didn’t have a set guideline of where the story would go, I just put myself in Anna’s shoes and took what I learned from reading “Ask the Dust” and learned throughout the semester to write her story. The research process for the story incorporated learning about the culture of the 1950’s, a bit of the history of the Mojave, Italian-American communities in the East Coast, distances between all of the locations mentioned, some more about Bunker Hill, and rereading parts of “Ask the Dust.” I enjoyed writing this story and hope you enjoy reading it!

  
  
  
  
  
  
  Work Cited:

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      www.thepeoplehistory.com/50sclothes.html.

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