Trapped in History: The Strange Case of Levi Dust

“People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” — James Baldwin

One day back in the mid-1980s, I was walking through the Missouri Historical Society’s History Museum in St. Louis’ Forest Park. On display was an exhibit of paintings by 19^th-century St. Louis artists. They were very nice, I guess. But one painting reached out and grabbed me by the lapels, shook me violently and said, “Pay attention here!” The person portrayed in the painting, Levi Dust, has been with me ever since and has played a key role in several creative endeavors.

The painting, by artist Matthew (Mat) Hastings, showed an older African-American man in the middle of a dirt street, children running around him and tugging at his clothes. In his upraised hand he held a handbell. I was intrigued. What was going on in this picture? I leaned in. How could I not?

Beside the picture a small plaque read:

Levi Dust, City Bellman. “Old Levi Dust” was licensed and appointed by the mayor of St. Louis to ring his bell to alert citizens to lost children during the early 1850s.

Tell me how I could not continue to be intrigued? Even the name was poetic—this ragged, bearded, Old Testament-looking man walking the dusty St. Louis streets calling lost souls. O come on, man!

The painting first became a song (co-written by Barry LaFond and performed and recorded by our trio, Spare Parts) and later a children’s book (now out of print but I have some copies!) published by New Canaan Publishing.  I’ve visited the archives of the Missouri Historical Society on numerous occasions, digging into the slim history of this 19^th-century African-American, finding what I could about his life and work. Not surprisingly, there’s not much there other than city directory information about where he lived and what he did for a living. In the 1861 edition I read:

Levi Dust, a free black man, 180 North 8^th Street. Whitewasher.

A whitewasher is: “one that whitewashes…one who puts on whitewash.” The noun definition of “whitewash” is, “a liquid composition that imparts a white coating to a surface.” The verb is, “to wash, treat or cover with white liquid composition.” Think Tom Sawyer. Cheap paint.

The 1860 St. Louis Census lists Levi Dust in St. Louis, living on 8th Street. He is listed as 48 years old, so Levi was born around 1812. Interestingly, I found that Dust lived just a few blocks from Dred Scott, who “lived along the alley between Tenth and Eleventh streets.” It’s interesting to think that they might have known each other.

Dust shows up in the most of the city directories for another 15 years or so, when he suddenly disappears. In 1876 there is a listing for Susan, the widow of Levi, at 113 N. 8^th.  It made me a little sad when I found out, which makes no sense. Of course he died. He had to die sometime. Why did I care?

Because I am trapped in history and it in me?

I once wrote a letter to a genealogist who had written a cleverly titled booked called, “As the Dusts Settle (The Dust Family History).” I wrote her explaining my strange interest in Levi Dust (and telling her about the odd pull he had on me) and asking if she was somehow related. Later that evening I received this response:

Hello Steve,

Oh how I wish mine were related to Levi!   I’m afraid my Dusts came from Hanover, Germany…and probably through St. Louis, but perhaps not….It sounds as if the Old Soul has called you from the grave to tell his story. Why some of us are chosen to do so, I don’t know, but I am so glad there are people like you.

I believe in such things, in such connections and in such callings from the grave. I don’t necessarily believe in ghosts and, as far as I know, there is no specter of Levi Dust urging me on. But there’s something akin to a spirit that keeps propelling this story into my life like a small rock thrown by a friend at midnight against my bedroom window. “Wake up,” it quietly says. “There’s something here.”

So I guess I will continue to get dressed and go down and follow my Huck into the night. As a writer, I am reminded of something I once heard the late Frank McCourt say at a lecture about writing “Angela’s Ashes”: “Nothing is significant until you make it significant.”