We all wanted to be professional skateboarders; it was something we would constantly talk about. How one day we would get on flow for a big team, eventually be considered amateur, and some day–hopefully not too far in the distance–we would get a sick design with our name on it, printed on a 31-by-8-inch piece of compressed maple.
That dream is what kept us pushing, at least in those early days when our bodies teemed with the energy of our growing souls and minds; anything and everything was possible. I ached to go pro so much it was all I would think of while sitting in my earth science class, sophomore year of high school. I would constantly play with the school-issued ID card by making it my personal mini skateboard; I mimicked the tricks, flips and stances I could do with my actual skateboard through precision tossing of my well-placed fingertips. I wonder how many of my classmates hated my habitual oddity.
Sometimes, I think that I may have latched on to the skateboarding community a little too intensely, when I look back at the countless hours I would spend skateboarding an empty parking lot by myself, when none of my new friends wanted to go skating with me, especially on those brisk winter days when every failed trick came with the pain of semi-frozen cement, stiff joints, and the all-too-familiar feeling of lonesome detachment. I was after all, the new kid. I wanted to be part of something bigger than me for once, and at the first invitation, an obsession was born.
The highlight of the week came every Thursday night. Skate Church was run by Jayson and Kaillian, two musicians turned holy who had a passion for interacting with youth and spreading “the word.” They definitely had an in with our crowd since they were retiring skateboarders, something they wouldn’t admit but we could see in the exertion they required to do things that came easily for us with each passing day, and in the more time they would spend practicing their instruments between our skate sessions.
From 5 to 9 p.m., we were allowed to skate in the cement indoor basketball court of a local church, with a time slot between 7 and 8 for Bible study interspersed with theme-appropriate songs. The church agreed with the intentions of Jayson and Kaillian, so long as we respected the property and did not leave too much of a mess in our wake. Maybe the church was having a hard time reaching out to the youth, the aged organization needing a “hip” wedge to spread its message.
Out of the group of 40 regulars that would make it to Skurch every week, only a few were religious in any significant way. I was never one for organized religion, yet I would sit in silent respect as Jayson would tell us another story from his past; his life of drugs, partying and boundary-pushing that he eventually sought to end. Each of his stories would be relatable to us in some sense since he was never afraid to be true with us. We were never lumped into the category of naïve teenagers. He knew the things we could be into: drugs, alcohol and non-acceptance of ideas bigger than ourselves.
However, while my love for skateboarding and its accompanying community grew, so did my responsibilities at home. My growing familial clan had moved to Pennsylvania only two years past, and with four sprouting little brothers, a constantly working mother, and a stressed care-taking grandma, I was needed at home more than ever.
My daydreams of skating, and learning of tricks, were cut short whenever I was needed at home to help out with giving my twin brothers a bath or helping put them to bed. For some reason, they would always give my grandma a hard time come bedtime, yet, when I was there, it was smooth sailing into dreamland, something that still shows whenever I can make it home. They flock to either side of me on the couch to lean on me, souls relaxed by my presence, the activation of big brother bonds they were in tune with before they could speak.
With so many new variables in my life, I remember the anger as I strived to learn new tricks, try different grinds and jump down, or over, various objects. Each Skurch session, I would push the limits of my cardio system, drench T-shirts in sweat, and push through the pain of growing ankle injuries; letting my situational misunderstandings shine through the flick of my foot, the quick snap of my board, the limitless possibilities of bodily expressions.
The skate back home was always the hardest part of my Thursdays, going home to deal with battles of a different nature; the three-pronged war between teenage angst, my growing addiction to skateboarding, and the big brotherly obligations I was reluctant to accept. My lungs burned from the form of my expression, but my heart ultimately belonged to the growing members of my family; the four little human beings who loved me with no discretion, who vied for my attention, who looked up to me with increasing urgency as their world perceptions expanded. They needed me, and I grew to need them and their unrelenting, sometimes annoying, love.
Kelvin Reyes is a 22-year-old Interdisciplinary Humanities Major at Penn State Harrisburg. He was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. He enjoys photography and is known to be an avid enthusiast of Volkswagens.
