The once available, now unnecessary, post office curbs were a sick place to skate. The yellow parking curbs of curving rectangular prismaticness and tapered ending allowed for a smooth transition from the rail slide. Falls were consequential. Unforgiving pavement and concrete side walk, always gravity pulling, offered a needed respite from the rat race of which we were only beginning to be subjected. It was probably weekends when the mail was closed. Riding bikes and carrying skateboards or skating all the way there made little difference. Time was plentiful, too plentiful. The freedom itself was o’er taxing in comparison to the hormonal, socio-emotional, and cultural challenges. Not to mentioned the academic ones.
But I was long gone from those times when I was made persona non grata (though probably not so formally but as a ‘security risk’). I was not living in the same city and I no longer frequented those fateful curbs that we had been advised against visiting because back then skateboarding was a crime to some. My youngest brother, however, was still quite fond of them and doing SO much better. Sticking his landings, kick flips, and newer tricks. For me, life revolved around surfing more than anything. I hadn’t realized that it could be a job. It was always more of a religious experience of being out in nature, the break or spot being a kind of holy site where one could still observe glimpses of a world bigger and more unknown than our own.
He had been caught by the campus security and when they tried to identify him, he gave them my name and banned him (me). I found the whole thing amusing and awesome and cared not a lick. Nonetheless, I can certainly understand how a person could see that as some sort of betrayal when in reality it is a joke. It never affected me in anyway I ever directly noticed and I’ve been on the campus since for lectures/talks without incident.