On the board, I could be the kind of girl I wanted to be
Soo Lee Young on how learning to skateboard transformed her life

Thursday June 26, 2003
The Guardian

Dream: I am skating on a disco board, flexi-metal and light pink with the grip tape going down the centre. Sailing down a hill that never ends but curves around islands of tree-filled parks, my hair billows behind me and brushes past my face as I swerve around each curve. My friends and family watch and cheer. There is no rush, and every movement seems to be caught in a single flow. My skateboard moves with the slightest turn of my hips. At the end of the hill, there is a 10-foot vertical ramp that I drop into, leaning forward, knees loose and slightly bent. Hips and knees guiding the board upward and downward, my hands are up in the air with the breeze slipping through my fingers.

When I was 18, one of my best friends gave me his Lance Mountain skateboard. It was a gift that embodied his youth. I know that he sweated and toiled on that board throughout school. He learned some of his first tricks and got beaten up for being a skate punk while carrying it around. Every time I stood on the worn and chipped plywood, the spirit of his rebel years travelled through my red Converse high-tops and up through my whole body.

Once I started skating, I couldn't stop. I was struggling and tumbling off that board in between classes, at night after dinner, after parties, even Sunday mornings when everyone else was still hung over. I swear you need balls to have natural balance on a skateboard. My breasts, hips and girly shape were fighting to stay on the damn thing. But I achieved a decent sense of balance after many road grazes, scabs and swearing until my tongue felt numb.

It took a few months to get good enough to skate to class and around Boston where I lived. The Esplanade, a long stretch of smooth concrete running along the Charles river, was the best place to skate. On weekends it was too crowded with dog-walkers, joggers, walkers and lazy lovers, so my friend Tita and I decided we would skate there at night.

The shadowy corners and isolated paths were perfect for muggers. I could hear the voice of the campus security guard saying, "The Esplanade is not for after hours," each time I let my board down to echo across the hard concrete.

To protect ourselves we would get all thugged out as if we were an Asian gang. After layering our clothes to bulk up, we would put on big flannel shirts borrowed from friends and tie bandannas across our foreheads. Then we would head out to the Esplanade and have the whole flat path to ourselves. We screamed and laughed when we flew off the board because an acorn or stick blocked our path. There was no one there to watch us except for a few sleepy, homeless people. Even now, I can return to that rush of adrenaline I felt while riding down the spiralling paths, taking sharp turns and making it to the bottom in one piece.

These nightly trips gave us the perfect study break. After a while, we dropped our protective masculine costumes and started wearing our own outfits on wheels. We were stripping away something - the nagging voices that told us to behave like young ladies. It is most fun to skate with a skirt and tights; the wind blows across your thighs, the air travels up your skirt. As we let go of our inhibitions, the fierceness of our skating increased. We glided later and later into the night and into all the dark corners of the city. Our boards were our protection. We knew that with one swing we could do some serious damage to skin and bones.

It was really easy to spot us: I had short blue hair and often wore striped tights with hot pants. Tita, who was Filipino, had blond hair and wore kilts and skirts made out of ties. Every time someone looked at me with disdain on their face, I remembered being a child and how I was yelled at for not being ladylike, for laughing heartily with my mouth open.

I had never wanted to be a cheerleader, and I refused to be a "Betty" - those girls who hang out with skater guys and hold their boards and drinks while they work up a sweat. These "Bettys" watch with earnest interest while the boys go tirelessly round and round the park. They look at me with suspicion - why is she here? Is she here to steal our men or impress them? No, I was there to skate, to fall, to cuss and to learn something new or at least find a new place for a scab.

A board is about rebellion, not just against conventional stereotypes, but against anything that does not fit your way of life. It lets you find your own style. And explore your body. As you start skating, you have to learn from scratch what feels right for you. Whether you want to push off with your left or right foot, how much you have to lean your weight to create a turn, what bumps to ride over and which to avoid. Skating teaches you movement, balance and pain. I realised that as I was pushing off with my left foot, trying to gain speed, anger often welled up inside me. My jaw would tighten and tension would rise in my throat. Once I gained speed, I felt fine. Maybe this is how it is for everyone.

To forget the cramps I would feel in the corners and joints in my body I recalled the freedoms that were taken away from me when I got my period. I was 10 years old when I hit puberty. Before then, I was allowed to roam free in my neighbourhood until dark. My childhood friend, Andy, and I would climb the highest tree on the block and watch the sun go down, firing up the sky. But after I was "stained" as a woman, I was not allowed to sleep over at anyone's house or stay out late or do many of the things I had enjoyed. The message that was given to me said: You are now a lady and therefore weak and vulnerable to dangers of the world. Stay indoors, stay demure, accept your fate.

On the board I could be as girly as I wanted and as wild as I wanted. Being on a board, making the sweet sound of wheels on concrete, with all eyes on me, gave me a vehicle, a jump-start to this expression. My mother often called me wahlguh duk, which means wild, unruly thing in Korean. Even then I took pride in being this wild girl, the black sheep in the family, but there was a split in how I presented myself to the world. In front of family and company, I played the good little Korean girl waiting to be spoken to, laughing quietly. Then by taking a change of clothes and a bag full of makeup to school, I was free to be me.

The skateboard let me be both, to take back what was mine: the girl dying to take woodwork class; the girl who was proud to beat up the neighbourhood boys who called her "chink" even though she got spanked for it afterwards; the girl who had enough rage to rip up a phone book in her room when faced with a no that was so easily given as a yes to her brother; the girl who loved playing with her china set as well as climbing trees.

I skated to get that girl back.

Now, at 32, I am teaching my seven-year-old son how to skate. Start him early before he knows fear, before he has to second-guess what people might think about what he chooses to do. He struggles with balance too, with his bottom sticking out and hands waving in the air, but I see his face when he glides down the newly paved road down the street. I know he feels what I feel on my board - ecstasy.

There will come a time when my son will reject the things I have taught him, a time when he might toss the skateboard aside just to annoy me. I will do my best to not take this personally. But sometimes I have nightmares that he will want to go to prep school or carry a Louis Vuitton briefcase or take up golf.

Everyone chooses his or her own instrument for rebellion. I don't know what my son's will be, but my only hope for him is this: that by sharing my passions with him, I have planted the seeds of defiance that will someday be turned against me.

This article was first published at www.salon.com. Reprinted with permission.