A diverse culture happens when too many people are in one small place at the same time. Living in the Bay Area, these people make connections that become spiderwebs that criss-cross through the streets of Oakland to the local favorite burrito spot. It has a scent, a feeling and a sound. It is the smell of warm tortillas after a long summer day and the loud undecipherable punk rock spilling out onto the sidewalk.
My culture is dodging cars with the elegant pressure of my left big toe against maple plys. The feeling of speeding through cracks in the pavement, popping up for the big cracks and getting low for the tight corners. Laughing to myself after falling off the road with no injuries. These movements transcend motion as the local taco truck open at 2:30 am transcends food.
This is our culture written in urethane, using roads as our parchment. These roads hold novels in its nooks and crannies. I don’t see the Berkeley hills as just terribly paved roads leading to multi million dollar homes, they are classic hitch runs retaining stories of the past skaters. Their lives and experiences written on the same pavement that we skate today. Cliff Coleman’s reflective yellow safety jacket and his classic style with both knees tucked to the left as he leans into his slide. Byron’s effortless flow of stand-up slides with his bright red sandpaper from the hardware store stuck to his board with contact cement.
Now, how will my friends and I add to our culture? What have we made here?
We are making it up as we go along, running off of youth and Yerba Maté.
Good luck out there,