“I used to skateboard . . .”

I quit skateboarding. After 25 years of dedicating myself to a craft that rewards you with bruises, sprained ankles, and slams, I’ve decided to move on. There was no swan song to end on. No fireworks. Not even an ender. The only thing I feel is injured.

*

It was in 1999 when my brother and I entered the T&C Surf shop at the Pearl Ridge Mall. Being the little brother, I followed him with a great deal of attention. As he walked into the store, he had a swagger that reminded me of one of all of the rappers in those videos that my sister and he recorded. I watched those tapes with a religiosity of a monk, and even at 6 years old, I couldn’t mimic my brother’s style. He walked up to the glass display case where Shane, the blonde-headed skaterat (and worker) was posted up, like a gatekeeper of a world beyond. “What’s up, Shane!” my brother said. He slouched over the glass displays, where all the trucks and wheels and stickers lay dormant. Legend had it was Shane was sponsored. He was known around O’ahu for his style and power, and he was well connected. All that Shane could offer was a head nod. As they began talking, I looked up at the wall behind Shane’s blonde head. On the wall were skateboard decks that lined every inch up to the ceiling, each with a colorful palette of image and texture and shine.

The only board that my father could afford to buy him was a blank Powell Peralta board. Its slick vanilla shine indicated that there was no graphic to destroy. No amount of board slides would alter its already blank slate. It wouldn’t be until Christmas when my father delivered the goods. Underneath the Christmas tree, wrapped in red paper and images of Frasier Firs were a couple set of trucks (Destructo), Spitfire 53 mms, Bones REDS bearings, Black Magic Grip tip, and nuts and bolts. It was Midnight, Buena Noche, where my brother began putting together the skateboard to complete his vision. Once the morning sun hit, he would join his skater friends Russell and Kenneth from down the block. They would skate off to who-knows-where, far away from the confines of our little cul-de-sac in Aliamanu. I put down the boxing gloves I had gotten as a present, and I watched him piece together to skateboard.

I ended up inheriting his Nash skateboard. It was a hand-me-down from a neighborhood kid that sold it to my brother for $20 bucks. Back in those days, you could buy a lot with that. A bag of Hot Cheetos, a couple of bottles of Jones, and an ice cream from the illegal vendor from a house a couple of streets away. The graphic is scratched up in the middle, and all I could make out was the image of a woman with claws. After ditching my rollerblades, ones I had bought after becoming obsessed with the roller-blading scene in The Might Morphin Power Rangers movie, I placed my left foot on the front of the board. As I pushed with my right foot, the board creaked. It got only a few inches forward. I pushed harder and doubled my distance. The board was a dud.

The first trick I learned was to roll down a set of stairs. It was a 3-set that connected the sidewalk to the path that plateaued and led to the front door of the house on Acacia Street. Knowing how slow the board was, I took my running start from the door itself. I pushed 3 times and jumped off the board before committing to the edge of the top stair. I couldn’t see below, and it felt like I was dropping off a waterfall. Again, I started from the house door, pushed 3 times, and I jumped off. I was afraid, but I was determined to get to sidewalk. One last time, I thought. From the door, I felt the cracks of the walkway energize my pushing foot. Right before the top step, I stomped both of my feet on top of the ragged griptape, and then I rolled down the three stairs. As I landed on the sidewalk, I looked back at the door, and it felt like I was a lot farther from home.

*

As I exhaled, out came the deep feeling of shame – one that I knew would return the moment I set foot at the park.

At Astoria Park, there were kids that I had started skating with. I had gotten into the routing of showing up at a specific time, not because I wanted to, but because I had gotten familiar with the pattern in which certain people showed up. I was alone, pretending that it was better this way, but my face lit up anytime they came through.

But when the morning opened up, the sun began to beam down. I started to get a little too in my head. I was focused on another skater that I had said “What’s up?” to and their response was silence. I watched as he traversed the course, hitting each bank and corner with a sixth sense. He had style. He was smooth. He was the one I had to get on my good side. What better way to do this? Skate harder.

I snaked through the flow of the park, and I hit my usual routing. I rocked to fakie revert back to regular. Then I nollied. I went backside onto the slanted box and slashed my trucks on the sloped corner. Then I hippie jumped the flat bar. Beaming, I approached the manual pad and ollied up, balancing my two back wheels with the confidence of a loved and validated child. As I landed, I quickly coasted along the rest area. The skaters that sat on the ledges “Yew’ed,” and in my folly, I went back for more. I pushed three times toward the three-stair set then I felt my weight become off balance. As I rolled down the stairs, I fell backwards and onto my tailbone. Then I blacked out.

On my back, I looked at the RFK Bridge above. Once in the past, they had closed a specific part of the bridge for some unknown reason. I asked a city worker what had happened. “Nothing,” he said curtly. It turned out that pieces of the bridge were falling down. They were bold enough to do their job, punch in their numbers, and head home after a long day. But they’d give a shit about injured skaters.

Suddenly, I felt the sensation of shock. The jolt travelled deep from my numb toes along my slightly sore back and up to my brain. My tailbone began to pulse in waves of terror. I wanted to cry, but I was too embarrassed. What made it worse was that I looked up to the top. ofthe stairwell. The guy that I was trying to impress skated by and laughed. The jig was up. I was never good to begin with. In one afternoon, I had managed to do both my first and last trick.

After that, I quit skateboarding. I never had a great time. I was angry for a long time, and I used it as a means to expel my rage. It worked, and I believed that it helped me to learn a valuable lesson about resilience. But I also quit because I never found anyone I could enjoy skateboarding with. Once when I was a lost college kid doing a gap year while living in Korea, I joined a crew of skaters in Seoul. We travelled from Yongson to Ttukseum to Cult. It was the only time in my life I found community by doing it. It was a summer of discovery and adventure. A summer later when I returned, I ran into the same kids. “Hey, let’s skate soon.” “Yeah, sure,” they said. And so it goes. As I pushed around Seoul in my lonesome, I ached for when I had a community. It was no different in Astoria. No different in Honolulu.

The last time I pushed down the boulevard on my Baker board, I felt my bones began to shake. The pain remained, even after months of rest. The icebaths didn’t help. The meditation was all bullshit. Soon the pain dispersed from my tailbone to the rest of my body. I was scared to go back to the park. I was worried that I would injure myself even more. As the wheels crunched with the sharp gravel road, I shoved down my pride and turned around. It was over for me.

*

In the mirror I saw the reflection of a person wearing baggy jeans, logo t-shirt, and 5-panel hat. There was both past and present in the way that person looked. It was almost as if it is a kid that had always wanted to look a certain way had finally gotten enough money to dress themselves. Yet, even if I had always wanted to look this way, I still felt insecure enough to play the part. I walked into the world without this specific style. I followed everything and absorbed all the knowledge of how to look the part. And I did this all because I wanted to look cool. I took a deep breath, and I wondered if I still had it in me.