It’s sort of a contradiction in terms: skateboards and moms. The two do not go together.  By and large skateboarding is a world of boys, certain kinds of boys, superbly athletic in a lean, scruffy way: neither brawny nor large-framed, unlikely to be found wearing football uniforms.  My twelve-year-old son dabbles in this culture, and I have watched from the periphery, mainly when he was younger, in the time before cell phones.  No question, I can appreciate the excitement and action at the skatepark: boards, rollerblades and trick bikes in motion, sometimes criss-crossing in dizzying orbits. I’ve seen blood, when someone “bailed” or wiped out, but thankfully, never had to call 911.  There are extremes of emotion: bullying and humiliation, sometimes, but also camaraderie and joy, lessons and encouragement, all without coaches. The relentless repetition of learning a new skate trick is boring beyond belief to an observer, but there are also moments of beauty in watching kids skim over hard, unforgiving surfaces to fly with arms outstretched and land like large, awkward birds, full of surprising grace.

 
In our town, as in many, the skatepark is a hard, fast, place made of concrete and chainlink fence, featuring blocky, curved structures such as the half-pipe and the fun box.  Often the place is littered with plastic bottles and broken equipment, commonly covered with rude graffiti. Rules may be posted, ‘helmets required” “no bikes”, but largely ignored.  Skateboarding is a demanding culture encompassing equipment, clothing and hair styles, and knowledge of its own superstars and their tricks. The park has its own vernacular: “ollies” “360’s”, etc., and when the kids talk to each other, the language is god-awful, not at all what they would say in front of their parents or teachers. But that’s the point. In skateboarding, kids rule, by age and by accomplishment. Parents in general, and mothers in particular, do not belong. When my boys were younger and I had to drive them, I would often stay and watch, not willing to go far in case of injury.  It wasn’t easy. My stomach lurched to see some daredevil hit the ground, lie prone for a minute, and then get up cursing and limp away. Other times, the swearing and name calling was so terrible, I’d have to go sit in the car or walk around the parking lot.  My boys did not appreciate it when I once called out in a sweet, motherly voice, “Boy’s, let’s be careful out there.”  As soon as they were old enough, I started dropping them off with water and cell phones.

 
With all its negatives, I recognize that the skatepark is a place for kids to test themselves, compete, compare and push against limits, in a way that’s not offered other places.  They need a place to themselves, free of adults, and with a real chance of danger or injury. I see this now. The young men, especially, have no vision quest, or walkabout, or any other rites of passage than possibly to drink, drive and have sex.  I might wish there was a more productive way to channel this youthful drive and energy, but I don’t see it, unless we send them out to hunt or back to the farm. Organized sports don’t cut it completely, in my book – too manipulated by the adults for their own ends, where the kids are sometimes commodities rather than decision makers.  Yes, there are moments that the skatepark resembles nothing more than “Lord of the Flies”, but that’s not the whole story.  It’s kids trying to carve a little freedom for themselves:  to find what they need outside the protective bubble of concerned parents, or, some kind of significance in the chaotic world of clueless adults.  More power to them. 

 
BTW, in our town, the skatepark is located in the center of town, right next to the Council on Aging – brilliant, really.