The Journal

Issue date: 10/4/07 Section: Opinion/Editorial

Dear St. Louis,

It's been three years, and you still definitely suck.

Actually, let me rephrase that. The city and surrounding areas itself are pretty neat, with their rambling and historic brick homes and frontier feel. After three years of thinking, I've finally figured it out. St. Louis doesn't suck.

Its inhabitants sure do, though.

Last time I wrote you a letter in February 2006, I ranted and raged about the small things - about not being able to conveniently fly from California to here, your incredibly poor driving skills, etc. I left the major issue of racism until the end of the article.

But this time, let's start with it.

As a refresher, in my last letter, I recounted the story of how I was called a "Chinaman" during my freshman year by some obese and ignorant individual. It was truly the first time that I - a pleasant mix of Filipino, Chinese and European stock - ever encountered racism against myself. It was, to the say least, quite shocking.

A few weeks ago, I was at a MetroLink station on assignment for my photography internship at a newspaper. I had all the appropriate permissions to be there (for those who don't know, MetroLink is very protective of its stations). I was to meet the people I was photographing. Having arrived a little early, I was essentially loitering - albeit with an expensive camera around my neck - as I missed train after train, waiting for about an hour for my quarry.

Enter, then, a blond, rather fat middle-aged white woman with what were presumably her daughter and her very young granddaughter. I watched them as they ran first from one side of the platform to the other, looking a little confused.

After noticing me standing there, the woman approached me and struck up a conversation.

"It's our first time on the MetroLink," she disdainfully confided, explaining that she didn't know which train to take. Never mind that we were at the last stop, so she could really only go one way.

As such, I gave her a quizzical look, not saying anything to avoid rudely interrupting her. Perhaps it was this look that prompted what came next. Perhaps it was my loitering ways. But most likely, it was the color of my skin.

"Wait, you do speak English, don't you?" the woman asked, halting in mid-sentence to ensure that I indeed was capable of communicating with her in her own language.

So amazingly shocked was I that to be asked such a question - I, a United States citizen who earned it the hard way through naturalization, who grew up in the mountains and deserts and beaches of Southern California - that all I could mumble was a surprised "yes," followed by a brief explanation that she could take any train.

But what I really meant to say was "Yes, hag, I can speak English."

Seriously. I've spoken English for a good 16 years, perhaps a little quicker than most as a leftover from my Tagalog accent, but English nonetheless. What type of person would have the arrogance to randomly racially profile someone waiting for the MetroLink as someone incapable of speaking English?

A St. Louisan, I suppose.

Oh, St. Louis. I know I said last time that I don't regret coming here. I still don't. But I sure can't wait to get the hell out of Dodge and go home.

You guys suck.

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