I wasn’t expecting my thumbs to hurt. Not because I fall on them, which I do, but because all the skin gets worn off from carrying a sandpaper-covered deck. This was one of many revelations I’ve had this summer while learning to skate at age twenty-three.
Entering The Belly of the Beast (aka the local $5, family-friendly skatepark)
A black wire fence surrounds a small campus of smooth concrete pools, dips, and ramps. Wheels of all kinds buzz atop the thick curved surfaces and there’s an energy in all the scraping, grinding, and swishing sounds. Above two faded vending machines, there’s a speaker which, starting at 6 pm, plays jazz, rock, or rap--depending on the teenager controlling it.
Nearly every kind of boy whips past you: gapped tooth elementary schoolers helmeted and wrapped in clunky pads, middle school boys who are excited to use new curse words (and bummed when their moms pick them up), young men with clean haircuts who just came from their summer landscaping job, grown men, and a high population of edgy teenage boys with black fingernail polish, inky tattoos, and fried hair.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but I’m immediately aware of my femininity. As a girl at the skatepark, I’m never looked down upon and am rarely hit on (I’m married!), but I’m always outnumbered. At first, the gender imbalance was hugely intimidating: the guys seemed to weave chaotically around each other, dodging and cutting one another off, and I wondered how anyone knew whose ‘turn’ it was.
I brought my board on my first three visits, but wouldn’t step foot on it until the fourth. I sat with crossed arms by the mini ramp wanting to observe the unspoken rules, understand the etiquette. And, for some reason, I was particularly scared of taking up space.
Those Who are not Boys
Are also known as girls. And the more frequently I skate, the more of them I see and meet. My first day of skating (fourth day of visiting, mind you) I met a dark-haired Ukrainian who wore thick knee pads and large, gold hoop earrings. As I approached the back corner of the skatepark (the designated beginner zone) and looked into the empty concrete pool, I saw her slowly and carefully rolling back and forth, about six inches up the seven-foot-high walls.
I held my board and ran-jumped to join her at the bottom where it was shaded and gray. She paused skating and with kind eyes and a semi-concerned laugh asked, “Are you good?” referring to my skating skill level. She seemed relieved to hear (and see) I was a beginner like her. In no time at all, there were two girls awkwardly yet happily rolling along the slabby walls that surrounded us. It was a slower day at the skatepark, so we took up the whole pool--even though we technically only went one-fourteenth of the way up the walls.
Dropping In
Is a skating term for balancing on one’s board at the top of a ramp or pool and rapidly stomping down the front half, creating a momentary free fall before the front wheels make contact with the vertical wall. And yes, it’s even scarier to do than to read about! However, learning this maneuver is sort of the threshold to everything else in vert skating.
Unfortunately, the best place to learn is on the mini ramp, and as previously mentioned, the mini ramp is teeming with life. To add to the intimidation, dropping in is something you learn to do wrong several times before you learn to do it right. Boys of all ages on BMX bikes, scooters, skateboards, and even rollerblades zip back and forth in a continuous stream. Even at unpopular times in the evening, boys line both sides of the ramp, watching.
One night as I approached the skatepark, my stomach hurt--I had told myself I’d either drop in or quit skating. Yet, inserting myself in the line up, shoving the board downward, and leaning into the concrete free fall (all in front of a live audience) didn’t seem like a winning combination to me.
The New Girl Wore Lavender Pants
And casually approached the mini ramp, set her board along the top, bent her knees slightly, securely placed her foot on the front half, shifted her weight, and dropped in perfectly. I was shocked by the ease; she was the first girl I’d seen drop in here. Several guys criss-crossed, 50-50ed, and rocked to fakie after her. Then, she nonchalantly took another turn.
I’d consider myself a practical person, and admittedly sometimes even roll my eyes at the idea of ‘being inspired.’ But later that night, following a lanky brunette guy, I lined up on the rim of the mini ramp and imitated the exact form of the girl in the lavender pants. I summoned courage and went for it. Ouch. Others lining the mini ramp winced empathetically; I collected myself and went for it a second time. Ouch again. ‘Third time’s the charm’ I reckoned, and it was. I’ve been dropping in ever since.
The Moral of the Story is
That our skatepark has its own cadence. There’s an ebb and flow of when each person goes and it has nothing to do with who the person is; it’s about falling into the collective rhythm of scrapes, grinds, and swishes.
I no longer feel like I need a girl with hooped earrings or lavender pants to blaze a trail for me. I try new things at my own pace. Yet, whenever I see a not-boy hesitantly observing from a bench, I make sure to smile, so she knows she has a place here...and she can take up space here.
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