St. Louis is a little rougher than previously imagined. People who don’t look alike don’t like each other here in gray St. Louis. The sky is about the only thing that isn’t black and white. Your neighbors can be Italian, Asian, Black, Jewish, Moslem, Hoosier (city Redneck), or Armenian, and you still wouldn’t like them any better. Instead of “hello,” people say, “What are you lookin’ at?”
On foot, people perceive you as a stranger invading their territory, even if they are just passing through also. I am also guilty of that line of thought. People here, many, many people here, are tough. No matter the ethnicity, they’re lookin’ for a fight. So you grow accustomed to being “on the lookout.” One is usually in a defensive posture here in St. Louis. Lots of gang activity in 1995, too.
A few Sundays into my new residence, I had the paper spread out over the futon and the little yellow Elvis TV is on, broadcasting the weekend news. There had been a gang killing in North St. Louis. The banger shot the guy on the porch of his own home, in full view of multiple witnesses. His gang name is “Homicide.”
And yet, his girlfriend declared his innocence. “His name might be ‘Homicide,’ but he ain’t no killah.”
She had no comment about the multiple witnesses’ corroborating descriptions of the murder.
Wow.. Huh.
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