Congratulations, you’ve reached the palm trees without being hit by a skater. Please, take a seat or lie down.
This courtyard is an intersection. Birdsong intersects with the reflective thoughts, small talk, and silence that take place underneath the palm trees rustled by the wind. Students, faculty, staff, visitors, and administrators all commute through the space and congregate for events held here. In this social atmosphere, the sound of a skater crashes through, echoing off the buildings and overwhelming the sounds of society. Ironically, the person who experiences this the most is the skater, as the board and the patterns of this environment reverberate up through their body and out around them, enveloping them in sound.
Many hear these as sounds as noise, dismissing it or becoming aggravated by it, and skaters know this. As mentioned before, we do try to find the smoothest line. This line not only is more comfortable for us, but does not overwhelm the soundscape so much.
Nevertheless, skaters disrupt this environment, and they should. While skate parks do exists, and more and more are adding spaces for longboarders, the nature of skating has always been to push the boundaries of the possible, to do what we are not supposed to because that is where people might listen. We might listen to how these campus paths work best for able-bodied persons wearing traditionally comfortable shoes and walking only a short distance. We might listen to how easy it is to disrupt this social space under the palm trees, a reflection of the tenuousness of this social sphere. We might even listen to the style of the skater, emerging from the interaction of the body of the skater, the board, and the ground, and carrying all of the traumas and the joys each experience. If nothing else, we are forced to hear these things, and, as a result, must acknowledge that we participate in them. With this in mind, listen to the noise one more time.
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