Rolling Freedom

As the sun leaked streaks of light into the sky, I peered into an arena of the strangest sort: a district combining abrupt lines and fluid curves, a sanctuary featuring rolling hills and deep bowls, a reservation allowing soft silence and violent outcry, a venue proclaiming pain and victory. It was, and is, and is not, and wasn’t everything to some and nothing to others. How I saw it and how I didn’t made no difference to the wheels turning and the gears creaking; for to the skaters of this particular skate park, I was an astonished audience of thousands, the cement was a multi-million dollar complex of poly-carbonate equipment, and the slowly rising globe of burning mass we refer to as “the sun”, was a testament to tears: this was the place of hidden dreams and dark devices that repulses the rest of our sanitized, sterilized, straight-laced society.

Movement, fear, pride- the magicians concocting this potion of athletic and powerful potency acted as masters of their craft in the dull mist that filled in the empty space they left behind in their wake as they snaked their way through the maze of cement and steel. The steady in-and-out of breath, of carbon dioxide poisoned with Marlboro, Jack Daniels, Marijuana, and Cocaine, combined with the persistent lurch of blood pumping in the riders’ veins, all sang with the beating of a warriors heart. The repetitive slap of rubber tires on flat, austere pavement and the screech of brakes seemed to vocalize the notion that this was the sound of a silent and persistent rebellion. Yet through the distant chaos of the passing cars, this song of life resounded in a way that was louder to my soul than the growling of the beginning day was to my ears. These were the sounds of human beings, the sounds of men and boys fighting for perfection on their tricks and fighting for stability in their lives.

Those who participated in this silent rebellion were anything but speechless: graffiti artists’ proclaimed what they felt needed to be said. The “art”-a brilliant collision of color and font, violence and peace, pictures and words- could be seen splashed onto every hill, every valley, every step, pipe, and ledge. Graffiti, notorious for portraying blatant expletives and indecipherable gang symbols, is the voice of the underside of Petaluma, the young “hoodlums” who are better kept off the streets. Their purple, neon blue, hot pink, and blood red messages scream “All family, no friends,” and “Icon 4 Hire,” and more than once, “Loser”. Though most messages seem to be layers of ugly, unseemly blobs of feisty teenage angst mottled by scratches from bike frames and skateboard axles, a passerby, though there is unlikely to be any, should see that these words are the words of the forgotten youth of America. There could be numerous culprits responsible for speaking through their art yet they will always remain unidentified. They speak to the homeless who don’t care, to airport transportation employees who don’t care, and attendees of various community events at the fairgrounds who don’t care, for these are the only ones who will ever pass by and have the opportunity not to care. The skaters didn’t seem to care either as the wind their way around and over and under the obstacles. The skaters rule the park with their impressive feats of gravity and motion, the artists dominate the pavement with their messages.

Noticing the primarily gray sky, and the gray cement, and the gray streets, and the steel of the pipes, it can’t be helped to also notice the gray chain-link fence caging the premises. The fence surrounding the park seems pointless to those who do not skate or those who see the park as a dirty, ugly eyesore infested with hoodlums, vagabonds, and ramp rats. The fence, if its purpose was to keep people, or animals, or anything that may have a reason to wander inside its parameter, out, it would be pointless and costly. The park itself was not meant to be something to be protected, for the city hall only spent 47 dollars for its renovation in the last 11 years, so a fence protecting cement and a thrashed trash can seems like a rebel without a cause. No matter its purpose, this rickety, noisy-when-bumped fence is, what you may call, a wall to the outside world. It stands ready to keep the problems at bay that bite and snap at the heels of the skater. Overhearing “I f******* hate college”, escape the mouth of man entering the park, this conclusion wasn’t hard to see. The skater steps in, takes a deep breath, and then rides away his binding frustrations, anxieties, and shame. It often begins slowly, as they shake off their stress, one, two, five slow, comprehensive laps around the course; they step back, watch a fellow rider complete a routine or two, lets the space clear, and moves in for a kill. The world beyond the diamond links in the fence is left behind. Curving left and right and under and over and around and airborne and poised on the front tire and now the back tire. Jolting to a split second hover as the rider’s tire makes impact with the side of cement mound; yet he flows effortlessly down the bowl and repeats the jolt with the momentum he’s just gained. The rider swoops down once more, turns his bike in mid-air, and swerves to a stop after touching back down again like he was weightless; simply weightless. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he leans his back against the fence and the complications of his life, his home, his family, his friends. He was a full glass, a fierce leopard, a bold image, a sight to behold.

This subculture, this class of the American teenager has left its mark on every city, every town, every country around the world, yet their passion, their proclamations of adolescent indignation and silent, solemn worlds go unnoticed. As I walked away from the riders’ unspoken testimonies, I felt myself fade back into society, and the world of the skater evaporate into the mist.

~Becca E.