---

The oracle haunts the 24-hour diner

In this vinyl temple, I am the living ox preserving
the heart of a butchered king. I wake sealed lip-to-lip
with my frail reflection on plate glass. Coffee, darker
than the server’s dyed hair, renounces
second-hand headlights off the highway.
I interpret my cream chipped beef, wanting for entrails.
In this heat, it won’t outlast the flies.
The server, batter-white as Bergman’s Death,
kills tea bags, kills crosswords, kills hours.
I utter as I eat, purloin each moment down
my throat like a poached egg. Before dawn,
I abjure home like I abjure the huddled ruins
of complimentary toast. I take one misguided bite, scatter
the remnants for sunrise: crumpled eidolons, stale visions.
Northbound, the 18-wheeler splits my reflection,
and day tumbles out like new-birthed snakes.





                               where    you      are,          I cannot    t e l l

---

---

Detroit, Michigan

SKATER HOUSES

---

Detroit  is  a   city  made  for  skaters.  It   is  the  home  of   the   RollerCade,
the   oldest  Black-owned   roller  rink  in  the  country,   which   has   been
operated by the same family since 1955. It’s also the home of Detroit-style
skating,   a   synchronized   couples  skate.  It’s  a  city  that  was  made  by   and   for
those who roll. And that’s without even mentioning cars.
    The   city’s     skate   scene   can   be    depicted,   too,     without    harping   on   its
infrastructure.   Much   has     been   written     about     the    Motor   City’s     empty
buildings,    with    laments   for   the   city    often   manifesting    as    poverty   porn
or   like   a   script   for   an   apocalyptic   movie.   Too   many   hipsters   have   gone
with camera   in   hand   in   search   of  beauty  in   the   destruction   in   the   name
of   creating    art   that    so    depersonalizes    the     destruction   from   the  people
whose  lives   are  most   affected   by   it.    But   there   is    much   more   to  Detroit
than    this.   In   terms    of   street   skating,   empty   buildings  and   unmonitored,
unguarded    private   property     are    the   stuff    of   dreams,   and   skaters   here,
like   skaters   anywhere,    make   use   of    what   they   have.  I   myself   was   born
in   a   city   of   broken   concrete,   jagged,   bent   handrails,   unmown   grass,  and
abandoned     factories   whose   tenants    had   moved   overseas,    leaving   behind
husks   of   buildings,   empty  and   wanting.   My   dad  worked  at  a  steel  mill for
thirty-two   years   until   the   day   its   doors   permanently   closed,   and  I  refuse

to  pretend  there’s  a  silver  lining   in   deindustrialization  and  the  poverty  that
comes with it.
    All this is to say, I went to Detroit in search of new stories.
    I    drove   miles   of   winding    roads   past   glittering  lakes   to  arrive   at   Dan
Mancina’s    house.   His   five-month-old    Newfoundland     puppy    greeted    me
with a howl and bounded to a hole he’d exuberantly been digging.
    “Not   much   of    a    seeing-eye dog,”   Dan    joked   as    he   pushed   dirt   back
into the hole and tamped it down.


                                                                 ***

    “I   didn’t   even   skate   at   that   point,”   he   said.  “I was   over  skateboarding.
I   was   over   the   whole  scene.  LA  was  way   different  than  the  Midwest skate
scene,   and  I   wasn’t   really  feeling  it.  It  was  just not what  I thought  it  would
be. It was super cliquey.”
    That,   combined    with   his   deteriorating    vision,   made  him  think  he   was
done   with    skateboarding   for   good.   There   was  a two-year  period where  he
had no drive to skate at all. It was a dark, depressing time.
    There’s    something   about     skating  that’s    almost   encoded   into     skaters’
DNA.  If   you  have  the   inclination   to   skate, you  won’t  be able to  stay   away
from  it.  There’s  an   instinctual  pull   that  won’t  let  you   avoid  the  adrenaline
rush of wheels under your feet for too long.
    “I’m  way   happier   and I’m   a better   person    when   I’m on   my  board,”   he
said.
    When  Dan   picked   up   a    skateboard   again,   he   was     more     determined
than ever. He   started   making   a  series   of   videos   to   challenge   the   public’s
assumptions     about   what   blind   people  are  capable of, and he started filming
himself skateboarding. The videos took off on Instagram.
    “It   was   weird    having   people   call   me   inspirational   at first.   It’s   still   a
little   weird,”   Dan said, chuckling. “I’m   just   a   skater. I don’t   see   myself   as



inspirational,   but   it   feels   good  to   know people enjoy   watching my  skating.
And  the  bonus is  that  people   are   inspired  by  it,  especially   those   who   are
visually   impaired   or  just   found  out  they’re  going   blind.  It’s   cool   to   hear
from them.”
    Dan   is    still   primarily   a   street   skater    and    will   skate    any   accessible
place,  especially  if  there’s  a  good  ledge,  round bar, or   flat   rail.   He    enjoys
going   around   and   finding  new  spots,   though   he   doesn’t   often  find  them
at skate  parks because   accessibility  is  almost   always   left  out  of   the   design
process.
    When   Dan   goes to a skate   park,  he    has  a   process   of  walking  the   park
to   figure   out what   he can   skate.  More  often than not, the obstacles   are  too
small.   Because   Dan   skateboards   with   his white   cane, he has to  be  able  to
locate the obstacle   and get a  sense  of its   height   and   length   before   he   can
skate it.

---

---

Davenport, Iowa

SKATE CHURCH

---

When     you     walk   into      Skate    Church,  you’re   not   just    walking   into
Skate   Church.   Housed   in    the   same   building,   a     former     furniture
warehouse now called the Center, are a number of nonprofits. There’s Quad
City     Harm      Reduction,  which     helps    people   who   are   addicted   to   drugs   use
them    safely   by   giving   people   clean    needles   and    Narcan.   There’s   a  donation-
based coffee   shop   in   the   back.   There’s   a   food   pantry  and   thrift   store.  There’s
a   studio   where     they   screen   films     and   teach   hip-hop   classes.  The   sanctuary,
which   includes   a   low   stage    with   a   cross   on   top  surrounded  by folding  chairs,
is  in  the  middle  of  it  all.  And  in   the  very  back   is   an   indoor   skate   park,  which
sprawls    across   two    floors    through   a   maze    of   ramps   and    bowls.   It’s   much
larger than the pictures online would have you believe.
    Pennie    Kellenberger,    who    has    been    running    Skate    Church     for     twenty-
one    years,    knows    everyone   in    the    Center   by   name.   And    they   know    her;
she’s the   one   they   go   to   for  help.   It  had   been   raining   in   Davenport  the  past
few   days   before   I   visited,   and  one  houseless   man’s   quilt   had   gotten   wet.  He
wasn’t  sure  how  he’d   be   able  to   dry  it, since  this   was   no   job   for   a  household
dryer    and    it    would   likely   need   to    be    professionally    dry   cleaned,   so    they
brainstormed     solutions.   Would    the    church   dryer   be   able   to   dry  out   a  quilt
on     site    before    it   became    irreparably   mildewed?    Probably    not.  Could    they



replace    the    quilt     with   other   blankets?   Pennie    would     check     her    supplies.
She   mentioned    she’d   just  given   away   her   last   sleeping   bag.   She   often   gives
supplies   away   the   same  day   she   gets   them.   Demand   is   high,   supply   is   low,
and the need is constant.
    “Are your shoes wet?” she asked the man. He nodded.
    “Take   them    off    and    dry   them    out,”    she   said.   The    man   looked   a   little
unsure,   as   though   he   shouldn’t   be  walking  around   barefoot   in   a   church,  but
Pennie    insisted    that   it   would   be   okay,   and   he   agreed.   After    all,    Christian
iconography   often   portrays   Jesus   barefoot.   It’d   be   a   hell   of a   thing   for   him
to judge.
    At   the   Center,   “come   as   you   are”   is   a  philosophy   that   weaves   throughout
the    organization.    It’s    the   same    philosophy    that    led   Pennie   to   start   Skate
Church over two decades ago.
    “We     kind     of    fell    into    it,”   she   said.    “We   started    doing   skate   ministry
because    I   was    working   at    the   church  across   the   street   and   I   realized  that
the    kids    I    was   drawn   to  didn’t   fit   the   kids  inside   the   church.   They  didn’t
feel     as    comfortable     being    inside    the    church,    so    we  started   doing  things
outside    in    the    parking    lot.    They’d     come    with     their    skateboards,   so   we
started building ramps.”


                                                                           ***

    “One    thing    skaters   have    in   common   is   you    can’t   stop   them.  Persistence
is a personality trait that threads through every skater,” Pennie said.
    Skaters      skate    in     defiance    of    the     police,      of      the      government,     and
of    private    property,  so    it    only   makes    sense    that    skaters   would    skate   in

defiance   of    the   church     too.   Institutions,   no   matter   how   much   power    they
believe   they    have,    cannot   stop   skating.   They   can   either  get   on   board   (pun
intended) with skaters or prepare for nonstop opposition.
    Skate   Church    is   a   testament  to  the   fact   that   if    you  listen    to   the   people
you want to serve, they’ll tell you what they need.
    “When     we     started,    there    wasn’t     a    skate   park    in     Davenport,”   Pennie
said,      although    one   was    built     about   ten    years   after   Skate     Church     was
established.  “But  my  goal  isn’t    to   build    skate    parks,   it’s   to   build   up  people
and   communities.  I   didn’t  set  out    to   build   a  really  cool  skate  park,  I   set  out
to build really cool people.”
    I   don’t   believe   in   much,     but   I     do    believe    in   skating.   I  believe    in  the
wind  on   my  face   when  I   go  down  a  ramp.  I   believe   in   sweat   dripping  down
the   small  of  my  back  and   pooling    under  my   breasts.   I   believe   in  knee  pads
and    helmets,    compression    socks    and   freshly   cleaned   bearings.  I   believe   in
doing   a   trick   you’ve  been  too   scared   to   try   for  months  and   feeling  powerful
when   you   realize   you   have  the   skills   and   just   needed  to   dispense   the   fear.
I    believe   in   falling   and  immediately   doing   the   trick    again   so    I   don’t  give
fear   time   to   settle   in   my  bones.  I    believe    there’s    something   about   skating
that  makes  it  feel  bigger  than  it   is,  like   it’s  a   reason  to  live   and   a   metaphor
for life, like it’s a calling beyond the mortal self.
    It’s enough to make me almost—almost—believe in God.

---

---

St. Louis, Missouri

SK8 LIBORIUS

---

I spotted the spire through a gap in the trees over a block  away and  got
chills. Sk8 Liborius, a  skate park in the former  St.  Liborius cathedral,
which was finished in 1889, cuts a sharp, Gothic image against the gray
sky, heavy with impending rain.
    Cathedrals  aren’t   tiny  structures,  but   Sk8  Liborius  looms  particularly
large. Across the  street, with  my  back up against  the  brick  of the  building
opposite,   I   still  couldn’t   fit  the  entire  facade  of the  church  in  a  single
camera  shot.  Try  as  I  might, the  pictures don’t  do it  justice anyway.  I’ve
seen plenty, however, because Sk8 Liborius  is a  bucket-list skate park.  And
ascending  the  stone  steps through  the tall  double doors,  you immediately
understand  why.  Stripped  of  its  pews,  the  floor  opens  to  an  expanse  of
ramps,  including  a   tall   vertical   ramp  made  possible  by  the  cathedral’s
height. The marble columns hold the buttressed ceiling.
    I  used   to  play   a   game  with  skaters  and   nonskaters  alike  where   I’d
show  them  a  picture  of  the  inside  of  Sk8  Liborius and  ask  them  where
they  thought  it  was. Out  of  the ones  who  didn’t  know  the  place already,
most   said  somewhere  in   Europe  and  some   said  New  York  City.  When
I  announced   it  was  in   St.  Louis, I  knew  their   jaws   would   drop.  They
always did.

                                                               ***

    Though  I  haven’t  been  to  mass  in  nearly  a   decade  and  only went  as
a   child  to  please  my  grandmother,  cathedrals  always  strike  awe  in  me.
The  tall  ceilings,  the  columns,  the  way  the sound  echoes on the tiles, the
baroque paintings of the Stations  of  the  Cross, and, of  course,  the stained-
glass  windows—all  of  it   makes  me  feel  small  and  makes  the world  feel
more expansive.
    That  is  to  say,  Sk8  Liborius   felt   holy  when  I  entered  it  for  the  first
time.  Not  in  a  specifically Catholic  or  even religious  sense  but in the way
that  skating  can  be a  kind of religion. I’ve heard skaters describe it as their
sanctuary  and  their refuge.  A cathedral  is  a monument  to  human artistry
and dedication. They’re not easy  to  build;  it  takes  a  lot  of  time,  years  on
end,  and  a   lot  of  resources  to   bring  a  one  to life, and  then  you have to
work  hard to maintain  it. Skating is  not  altogether  different.  It’s not  easy
to  do, it  takes  years  of  dedicated  practice  to get good at it, and it requires
an investment of time and resources. And  anyone  who’s  ever  built  a  ramp
and  maintained  it  for years  will tell  you  about  the  constant  struggle and
expense.
    Perhaps there’s someone who can  look  upon  Gothic  revival  architecture
and  feel blasé about it, but  that person  isn’t  me. When I walked inside Sk8
Liborius,  my  eyes  traveled  upward  through  the  vert  ramp  to  the  ribbed
vaulting  on the  ceiling,  the   Corinthian   columns,  the   clerestory  with  its
stained-glass  windows,   and  then  back  down   to  the  altar,  which  held  a
speaker  blasting rock music. Between  the  strumming  of an  electric guitar,
itself  another kind of shredding, birdsong   echoed  through   the   cavernous
room.  The cathedral’s  broken  windows invited  birds  in, and Sk8 Liborius,



like  an  airport or a  Walmart Supercenter, is also a large birdhouse. Though
their  nests,  situated past the dangling construction lights,  were too high  to
spot,  I  could guess where  their nests  were, based on  the  splatters of dried
bird poop on the ramps.
    The  poop  doesn’t   take  away   from  Sk8   Liborius’s   beauty,  though—it
only  adds  to  it. Skaters have   always   had  a  gritty,   DIY  ethos. As  a  rule,
skate  parks  are  expensive  to   build  and  maintain,  and   that’s   especially
true  for   one  that’s housed  in   a  building  that’s  over a century old and on
the  National  Register of  Historic  Places. When  St.  Liborius   was  built  in
the   late  nineteenth  century,  the Dakotas,  Montana,   Washington,  Idaho,
Wyoming,   Utah, Oklahoma,   New   Mexico,  Arizona,  Alaska,  and   Hawaii
weren’t states yet.
    Slappy   Sinclair,   a  skateboarder who’s  been  shredding  the  streets  and
ramps  of   St.  Louis   fo r thirty  years,  put  it   another  way:  “They   started
building   the   church  before Abraham  Lincoln was  born  and didn’t  finish
until after he was assassinated.”
    Sk8  Liborius   looks  like  it’s  still   under    renovation   because   it  is.  To
maintain  a   skate   park  that’s   not  made  of concrete   is to   constantly   be
renovating,  fixing, patching. Tools lay off   to the  side,  and  wooden  boards
and  bricks  wait  in the  wings. More than anything,  Sk8 Liborius is  a  labor
of love. The near  homonyms of  “Liborius”  and  “laborious”  did  not  fail  to
reach my ears.
    This    labor  of  love  continues under    the   twenty-five-thousand-square-
foot  skate  park. In  the basement is   the  Liborius   Urban   Arts   Studios,  a
makerspace and community arts center. It’s through  this nonprofit arm that
Sk8   Liborius gives  back  to the  community.  As  the   organizers   observed,
“Skating   is  an activity that speaks across social, racial, and economic  lines.
You  might  come from a  broken home, be poor  and  only   own  one pair  of
shoes,  but  you can be the  coolest  kid  in the  skate  park because you put in
the hard work and practice.”  

---

---

West Lafayette, Indiana

SCHMIDTY’S RAMP & CAMP

---

Schmidty’s  is  the  kind  of  place  I felt like I  should  whisper about.  The
address isn’t posted  online anywhere,  and if you  search for Schmidty’s
on Google Maps, you’ll end up at a gas station in rural Ohio, in the exact
opposite   direction   of  where  you  need  to  be.  Not  that  Google  Maps would
help   you.  You’d   be   better  off  getting the  exact  coordinates  from  a  skater
in the know.
    It  was  my  first  time    going  to the  rollerblade    haven  that  is  Schmidty’s,
and    after  winding    around    the   looping    roads    outside  of    the    Purdue
University   campus,  I  saw a  sign spray-painted  with   “R&C”   and   an arrow.
Turning  onto the  dirt  driveway, I  saw a  wide grassy  field  ahead  packed  full
of cars, tents, and firepits.
    Ramp &  Camp is exactly what   it sounds  like:  a   place   where   one   comes
to    skate  ramps  and  camp  on  the  property.  Both    ramp  and    camp  areas
border    a    tranquil  lake,  over  which    geese    and  herons  fly—even  a    bald
eagle   every  now and then.  The  shimmering   lake is   in   view   from   the  top
of   every   part  of  the  ramp.  It’s   not uncommon  for   the  especially  talented
rollerbladers to get  so  much  air   that  it  looks  as  though they  might fly  over
the rails and plop right into the water.


                                                              ***

   I  became  acquainted   with  the  ramps  and  my  campsite  before  I  met  the
eponymous  Schmidty.  When  I  asked   around  for  Tim  Schmidt,  I  was  told,
unhelpfully, “You’ll know him when you see him.”
    But   it   didn’t  take  long  to  spot  the  tall,   lanky   Tim.   Two  braids   hung
from  either  side of  his  helmet down to his  waist,  and  he  has so  many laugh
lines   that   he  appeared to  be  smiling  even when he wasn’t. Yet from  what  I
could  see  that  weekend,   he  was  always  smiling.  When   I  spotted   Tim,  he
had  a   leaf  blower  backpack and  was making sure the ramps were free of tree
debris.  Depending  on   the  size of  your wheels,  the   steepness  of  the   ramp,
and  your  speed and  experience, even a leaf has the ability  to  take  you  down.
    Each  skate  park  has  its  nuances,  its   tricky  spots,  its  weird   little  quirks
that  take  a  while  to  master  and   only   a  moment  to  wipe  you   out.  I  eyed
the  spine  between   the  two half-pipes, which  is unusual  in  that  it’s  one  big
hunk    of  pipe   instead  of two   smaller  bars  of  coping back-to-back,  when  I
spied my friend Siobhan, a rollerblader from Columbus.
    “Watch  out   for  that   spine,”   she   said,   lifting   her helmet  to reveal a red
gash  across  her  forehead. “It’s  slicker  than  you  think.”  I  noticed  the bruise
on her eyelid, the bright purple of a grape juice stain.

                                                              ***


During    the        competition    portion    of      the   weekend     at     Schmidty’s,
one    competitor,  Eddie  Chun,   fell   and   popped  his  shoulder out of socket.
It   appeared   to   all who  witnessed  it—an  audible  ooooof  rose  up  from  the
audience   when   it   happened—that he  would  be out  of  commission.   But   a
few minutes later, he   popped his  shoulder  back  into  place  and was   able   to
get in a few more runs before his heat was over.
    It’s      that       kind     of   singular     focus,    eye-on-the-prize,    do-it-anyway
attitude   that   made  Ramp   & Camp   possible.   Tim   grew up on the property
that houses the   skate   park,  which   spans   several   acres   and   includes   the
mobile  home  park  his  parents own,  where   he works. He   has lived there his
whole  life.  Long before he built  the  skate  ramps, he  was  just  a  kid  running
around the field, flipping his motorcycle off a hill.



                                                              ***


    One     of  the  best   aggressive    quad    skaters  in    the    game  right      now,
Bambi     Bloodlust,   was  there,   and   although    we   all  knew she would  win,
the   rest   of     us  didn’t  back    down   from    the   challenge.  And    there  was
money    on  the  line.  A    guy   hollered that  he   would   give   fifty    dollars  to
whoever    jumped   from   the  handrail  around  the  top   of   the   ramp   down
to   the  incline,  a  space  about   three   feet  high  and  three  feet   out.  Beyond
that   gap,   the ramp itself is  roughly  five   feet   tall,  so   it  would   have   been
a   three-foot free-fall  onto   a    five-foot  slide,   totaling   an   eight-foot    drop.
Eight  feet  may  not  sound like  a  big  deal,  but   only   a  cocky  nonskater,  an
extremely  skilled  skater,  or   a  completely  reckless  skater  would tell  you it’s
an easy trick.
    Because   Bambi  was   the   most   skilled  among  us,   we all   looked   to her,
trying   not   to pressure   her  but   desperately   wanting to see   her do   it.  Not
only   to  nail  the   trick,   but   to  stick   it   to   this   guy  who   offered  the  fifty
dollars,  probably thinking   none   of  us   could actually  do it. I  wanted  Bambi
to prove him wrong. We all did.
    The   competition   continued  on   with   quad   skaters  doing  jumps,   spins,
handstands,   and  cartwheels  on   the    transition—gymnastic  moves  that  the
best   rollerbladers incorporate   into   their  own   runs   and, by  extension,  are
forced   to   respect.  As  the  minutes  passed,   the  guy  who   had   offered  fifty
dollars got impatient.
    “I’ll   give  one  hundred  dollars   to   whoever   jumps   off  the   handrail!” he
yelled.
    More  time  passed, and  just when  the  crowd   thought   no one  would  take
the    triple-dog-darer’s    challenge,   Bambi    climbed   the    wooden   handrail.
She’s an  impossibly  small  woman  with  a  mane   of   dark   brown  hair  down
to   her   waist   like   a   pony.   She   balanced  the handrail   between  the   front
and  back wheels  on  each  of  her  skates,  raised  herself  to  a  tentative  stand,
balanced  for  a  split  second, and  jumped. I let  out  an  involuntary  gasp. Her
wheels  hit  the  incline and when  I  blinked,  she was  back   up  the  other  side
of   the   ramp,   propelled   by  the  speed from  the   jump.  The  crowd  erupted
into screaming cheers.

                                                              ***


    Because      male       rollerbladers   outnumber       female       and     nonbinary
rollerbladers,   events   tend   to   have   a   cultivated   machismo. Rollerbladers,
especially   when   there’s   a   competition,   will   egg    each    other   on  to  “get
upside   down!”  and   “the   crowd’s   getting  bored,  so   if   you’ve  been  saving
your   big   tricks   now’s   the  time!”  and  “do   a   backflip!” But  I  learned that
those   challenges    are   less   about   goading    each   other   and    more   about
issuing   a   friendly  challenge. Whether   or not   the  blader  actually heeds the
command doesn’t matter. If   they  don’t,  cool. No  one  boos. No  one  is  really
disappointed.   But   if   they   do   get   upside   down  and   do   a backflip, that’s
when the performances get really fun.

---

---

Author’s Note

---

In conducting interviews for this book, I sought to cast  a wide net. The
skaters  in t hese pages  are Black, white, Hispanic, Latinx,  and Asian.
They’re  many letters in the  LGBTQ+ acronym.They are hes and shes,
theydies and  gentlethems.  They’re  abled  and  disabled.  They’re  plus-size
and   straight-size.  They’re  amateur  and   pro.  They’re   in  big   cities  and
small  towns. They’re  skaters, skate makers, skate  shop  owners,  and skate
product creators. They skate private skate parks, city skate parks, and  their
own secret DIY spots. They  ride  skateboards,  roller  skates,  roller  blades,
unicycles,  and wheelchairs.  Some of  them  have  been  skating for decades
and others for  only a  year  or  two.  Some  skate  competitively,  others  are
enthusiastic   hobbyists.  They   are,  like  the  Midwest  itself,  more  diverse
than they get credit for.

                                                      ***

    Midwest  Shreds is a look at skating in a  particular  time and a particular
place. New skaters are born and  made every day, and new parks  are  being
built   every  year.  Likewise,   every  day,  someone  gives   up  skating,   and
beloved skate  spots  are  demolished  or  fall  into  disrepair.  But  overall,  I
believe  the sport and its culture are evolving in a way that can permanently
sustain its life.  Skating  isn’t going anywhere in the  Midwest,  or  anywhere
else for that matter.



                                                   *******

Columbus, Ohio

SKATE NAKED

---

                                                        ***

    Jeff   Trasin  and  Jon  Hammond,  the  owners  of  Skate Naked, had   the
vision  to  see  what the old  warehouse  could  be, an indoor  skate park  the
city  so  desperately  needed.  What was first the Buckeye Potato Chip  plant
in  the  1950s,  then   later a golf  cart  showroom  and  then  a  window   and
siding shop, was transformed by their hands.
    “When  we  first  saw  it,  it   was   empty.  Nobody   else   would’ve  looked
at this place and  thought  it  was  awesome,”  Jon  said, speaking of  his  gut
feeling that this was where they should be.
    “I  was   like,   we   can   do  this,  we  just  need   to paint   it,”  Jeff  added,
laughing, knowing there was so  much more work ahead of them than  that.
    On     the   whole,    midwesterners    are   practical   people,   dedicated  to
function   and    resourcefulness.  Aesthetics   are   secondary,  and  in  Skate
Naked’s case, they’re hardly   considered  at   all.  With  the  exception  of   a
spray-painted  mural   above  the  big  bowl,  the   park  is  gritty, both in the
literal and figurative sense. The walls are painted black, and in some places,
they’re  built  from black painted plywood.  On one particular roll-in, you’re
liable  to  get  a  splinter  if you fall. The  roof  above  both bowls  leaks,  and
you  have  to  carve  fast on your feet to avoid wiping out on a rainy day. The



sheets of  coating over the wood ramps are  often flaking, and  woe  be  unto
you if you’re  the  unlucky soul whose wheels   add  just   the   right   amount
of pressure to break through  to  the   other  side.  I’m   always  surprised  by
the creative places patrons find to make  DIY  trash   cans—behind  a  ramp,
inside a wall where a piece of plywood has come loose,  or just  the  edges of
any old  platform—and I never leave without a  deep coating of black  grime
under my fingernails.
    And I love it. There’s no place I’d rather be.

                                                      ***

    Skating  is  inherently  rebellious.  It’s  against  authority  because we  say
fuck  private property  and  skate  there  anyway.  It’s against  infrastructure
because if  you don’t build us a skate park, we’ll make our own and terrorize
the  sidewalks  in the meantime. It’s against corporate  sensibilities because
indie  brands—whether  it’s  clothing,   shoes,  or   the  wheels  themselves—
rule  the  scene. It’s against  convention and sometimes even against society
at large because even though skating has its  communities,  it is notably not
a team sport.  Skating is  my  way of rebelling  against  diet  culture,  against
#thinspiration, and  against whatever  the  latest  shame-based  weight-loss
cult  du  jour  says. It’s  the only  way I’ve found  to move  my body in  a way
that doesn’t push me somewhere I don’t need to go.
    I  don’t  know  that  I  would  have  discovered my love of  skate parks  if  I
lived anywhere outside the Midwest, and  Columbus  in  particular. You can
be  a  beginner here. Columbus is constantly reinventing itself, and over the
last few decades, it has gone from  farm town  to corporate  business  haven
to  one  of  the fastest  growing  cities  in the  country.  It’s a city  beloved  by
people  as  disparate  as Arnold Schwarzenegger, Saeed  Jones, and  the late
Aaron  Carter—none  of  whom  are  from  here  originally but  who  all have
made the city a second home.

---

---

The New Life

Because there is nothing
more beautiful than my son running
shirtless in the yard, pink chalk
streaking his chest,
wildflowers squeezed
in his sweaty palms—

And because he’s impatient for more
cherry blossoms
to rain down on his head,
he walks over to the tree,
flings his arms around it,
and shakes—

And because that doesn’t work,
he waves me over and says,
Make it rain—

And because, I explain to him,
the blossoms will only fall
when they’re ready,
a wind catches, as if it knew—

And because it’s now drizzling
ripe cherry blossoms
sideways, across my son’s face,
his father comes out the side door—

And because his father
makes me feel blossomed
and possible, I believe for a moment



this is the new life
and I can trust it not to hurt me.

---

---

Aftern Newtown

Think of the baby
C-curved
around your body

in the dark
bedroom.

His breath.
His hair.
Don’t think

of the other rooms—
clementines

rotting on the sill,
the slowly dying
marigolds.

Don’t think
of the boy,

once a baby,
walking into a room
full of children.

See only this:
the baby’s hands

crisscrossed
in front of his eyes,
bones hollow



as a bird’s,
little fists jerking

on instinct.
Love him.
It’s dangerous

to be a baby, a child
in this world.

Glory
to the goddamn
peach fuzz on his head.

---

---

Shedding

Today I stood under the kitchen
archway and stepped into
my new body. Pasta was on the stove,
a cold Tupperware of string beans
on the counter. But I knew.
I knew I would never be the same—
the way I’m certain the magnolia
down the block has lost
all its petals. I haven’t checked
in days, but I’m convinced
tomorrow when I take my son
to the bus stop, I’ll see them
splashed on the sidewalk.
What I’m trying to say is
sometimes your old skin
falls breathlessly off your body
in late April, as you slice
a cucumber into half moons
for your child,
and you just stand there
and let it.

---

---

Content Warning: infant death

Milk

We sit on the bed.
She lifts her shirt,
skin ashen and damp,
stomach concave.
She hasn’t eaten in days.
But there’s milk.
She squeezes it out
like I showed her
when her daughter was alive.
Fat, glistening drops.
Am I doing it right? she asks.
If milk is coming out,
you’re doing it right.
It’s what I said
when her daughter was here,
her warm, sleepy cheek
against her mother’s breasts
while we hand-
expressed
milk
into her tiny mouth.
As I’m leaving,
she fingers the red threads
of an Elmo doll
lying on the coffee table
among baby pictures
and glasses of water.
I tell her I remember
that her daughter loved Elmo.
She asks if I would like a sandwich.
She says, We have so much food.

---