I’m at the skate park trying to look inconspicuous with my neon tights, my bright red hair. I love the smack the wheels make when they impact with the smooth ground.
I want to get better at skateboarding. I want to learn a thing or two from observing the skaters. I’m not good but I’m persistent. I can almost ollie.
I want to belong in this synchronized chaos, the crashing cacophony, an orchestra of movement and sound. I love the way pain is not a deterrent. I want to be fearless. I want to make it look effortless like they do.
I am aware that my femininity sets me apart. I don’t want inclusion at the price of who I am. If I ever belong here, I want it to be because I’ve managed to get a trick or two down. I am not here to learn how to blend in.
I have a friend. We skate here sometimes. The two of us working on our skating in an ocean of masculinity are a massive subversion.
We queer the fuck out of this skate park.
She doesn’t live in the city, so often I come alone. I work on my ollie consistently and am most often greeted with a cold silence, the
occasional flirtatious remark that borders on sexual harassment and the even rarer useful piece of information: put your back foot on the lip, yeah there, that’s the sweet spot, it’ll work better if you’re in motion, bend those knees.
I love the moments when I am treated like just another skater trying to learn a trick. I love the recognition of the skill I have developed and my willingness to learn. I love the insider information, the
breakdown of movements.
There is one guy who has been welcoming. He always says hi when
I arrive at the park. He passes on useful information.
He and I are sitting on the ledge at the edge of the skate park,
sweating and drinking water after a solid session of working on tricks. To our right stretches a grassy park with benches and people doing their summertime things. There is a young woman who is walking through the park collecting garbage.
She bends to reach another piece of trash. My skater friend’s eyes watch her body. I say nothing.
He looks at me and says “What?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t say anything and the last thing I need is to
jeopardize this budding friendship with my feminist ways. But it’s
too late. It’s already happening.
He tells me she looks hot in those denim cut offs and that she
obviously knows guys are going to check out her ass; why else would she bend over. He tells me I couldn’t possibly understand because I don’t find women attractive.
I tell him I’m queer and I do find women attractive, but it’s a turn-off to feel my desire is an invasive one, that the person I’m attracted to is unaware of or non-consenting to my gaze.
I wish I wasn’t telling him these things. I wish we weren’t having this conversation and we were instead discussing the details of getting the ollie down.