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Sunday, Jul 12, 2009
On the board, I could be the kind of girl I wanted to be -- fearless, gnarly and completely myself.
Jun 24, 2003 | Dream: I am skating on a disco board, flexi metal and light pink with the grip tape going down the center. Sailing down a hill that never ends but curves around islands of tree-filled parks, my hair billows behind me and brushes past my face as I swerve around each curve. My friends and family watch and cheer. There is no rush and every movement seems to be caught in a single flow. It's just me, my board and my loved ones there to witness my dance through the streets. "Trusty" (the name I gave my skateboard) moves with the slightest turn of my hips. At the end of the hill, there is a 10-foot vertical ramp that I drop into, leaning my body forward, knees loose and slightly bent. Riding the board from side to side, I feel as if I am being gently pulled from both ends by an invisible rope. Hips and knees guiding the board upward and downward, my hands are up in the air with the breeze slipping through my fingers.
When I was an 18-year-old freshman at Boston University, one of my best friends at the time, Coop, gave me his Lance Mountain skateboard. It was a gift that embodied his youth. I know that he sweat and toiled on that board all throughout high school. He learned some of his first tricks and got beaten up for being a skate punk while carrying it around. Every time I stood on the worn and chipped plywood, the spirit of his rebel years traveled through my red Converse high-tops to my knees and up through my whole body.
Once I started skating, I couldn't stop. I was struggling and tumbling off that board in between classes, at night after dinner, after parties, even Sunday mornings when everyone else was still hung over. I swear you need balls to have natural balance on a skateboard. My breasts, slim hips and girly shape were fighting to stay on the damn thing. But I achieved a decent sense of balance after many road rashes, scabs and swearing until my tongue felt numb.
Skating to class was a thrill because I did not have to rush. I could move at my own pace and enjoy the ride. Sometimes on rainy or snowy days, I would ride the shuttle to campus and then enter one of the long buildings. I would set my board down on the smooth marble floor and glide from one end of the hallway to the other. "One, two, three, one more time," I would whisper to myself, while trying to squeeze in one more ride across the floor before class. The sound of the hard rubber wheels on marble settles inside you; that whirr lets you know that everything is flowing, moving as it should be.
It took a few months to get good enough to skate to class and around Boston. The Esplanade, a very long stretch of smooth concrete running along the Charles River, was the best place to skate. On weekends it was too crowded with dog walkers, runners, rollerbladers, walkers and lazy lovers, so my friend Tita and I decided we would skate there at night. The shadowy corners and isolated paths were perfect for muggers. I could hear the voice of the campus security guard saying, "The Esplanade is not for after hours," each time I let my board down to echo across the hard concrete laid out before us. To battle the dangers of the night, we would get all thugged out like we were an Asian gang. After layering our clothes to bulk up, we would put on big flannel shirts borrowed from guy friends and tie bandannas in gangster style across our foreheads. Then we would head out to the Esplanade and have the whole flat path to ourselves. We screamed and laughed when we flew off the board because an acorn or stick blocked our path. There was no one there to watch us except for a few sleepy homeless people. Even now, I can return to that rush of adrenaline I felt while riding down the spiraling paths, taking sharp turns and making it to the bottom in one piece. The night was glorious, and the wind off the Charles River only seemed to aid our efforts.
The night adventures did not stop there; suddenly, the whole city felt like it was ours to skate on. We would take our boards out to Copley Square in the middle of the night. There is a beautiful fountain and marble walkway in front of the Boston Public Library. Our skate goddess was there; she was dressed in robes of green and gray and rested her stately arms between the entrance to the library. When we stood below this statue, we would blow her a kiss and raise our boards in her honor. She protected us from harm and blocked all fears from our mind. As long as we were skating, she promised to ease pain, relieve sadness and guarantee laughter.
These nightly trips gave us the perfect study break. After a while, we dropped our protective masculine costumes and started wearing our own outfits on wheels. Red and bleached blond hair were tangled by the wind while legs covered in layers of ripped-up tights rippled with muscles. The extra clothes felt like some sort of protection we no longer needed. We were stripping away something, the nagging voices that told us to behave like young ladies. It's most fun to skate with a skirt and tights; the wind blows across your thighs, the air travels up your skirt and between your legs.
