antonio arnsdall Park was a perfect private place. It was an outdoor setting yet private in its expansiveness, with crannies of bushes and low walls and a sheer drop onto Hollywood Boulevard. It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to casually listen to my call. I sat on the ledge overlooking the city as the sunrise bled red over the hills. “Antonio,” said my father, “Come stai?” In the background was the sound of Neapolitan traffic. He must have been in the city. “Good, Pop. How are you?” I spoke in Italian, but my mind had always been elastic with language, and I knew I’d stumbled on my native tongue. “You have an American accent,” he said. To him, I sounded American. To Americans, I sounded pure dago. I was a citizen of that in-between place where no one would accept me as one of their own anymore. “It’s been a long time,” I said. “You sounded American in the first five minutes.”
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