Black Kids and Skating by Nia Smith (@__smithsonia__)

Nia Smith (@__smithsonia__), currently based in Nashville, Tennessee pens a heartfelt, vivid essay about Blackness, family, and skating as she revisits her childhood memories with her parents and brother. Nia is an Architecture major at Howard University, a renowned HBCU--Historically Black College and Universities--in Washington D.C.

As a kid that moved a lot, I needed a few constants. At every new house: I had my parents, my brother, and a library nearby. These things made new locations feel like home faster. 

One of the many places I called home was in New Jersey. Once we got there, we didn’t change houses often, but my brother and I changed schools every two years. We needed something to keep us tethered to the friends we’d meet, especially when we suddenly stopped seeing them. 

Enter the Holiday Skating and Fun Center: a few miles outside of town, relatively cheap, a classic skate rink with family appeal. Everyone went there. 

I should probably mention that the town I grew up in New Jersey was predominantly Black. I didn’t truly notice my race for a few years until we moved to Ohio. But in New Jersey, it seemed at least to me, everyone was Black. So seeing a room full of Black kids--spinning around the rink, playing tag, teasing one another--wasn’t “Black Boy Joy” or “Black Girl Magic.” 

It was just kids being kids together.

My dad taught me how to skate there. He wore quads and taught me on rollerblades. “Put one foot in front of the other,” he’d say, as I clung to him and the wall. “Come on, step away from the wall, and just march. Lift your knees.” He’d put himself in between me and the wall now, so I could only count on him. “Don’t think about falling; if you think about falling, you will.” He was right, of course. And that’s actually a moral I keep to this day. “Ok, now smooth out your march.” Like, cursive, I thought. I’m walking in cursive. I learned how to skate that day, and for Christmas my brother and I were gifted the sickest rollerblades I had ever seen. 

My brother and I skated a lot. We were each other’s constants, and it wasn’t easy to invite kids over. Not because we lived far or were embarrassed by our home, but because we moved so frequently, we didn’t count on other kids. Our mother would send us outside to play and we’d take our toys out, toss on our skates, and make-up games that inevitably ended with us wrestling in skates, trying not to fall. 

Sometimes, my mom would let me skate when we walked to the pizza shop. She’d have to carry me and the pizzas back home, more often than not. My mom didn’t skate, but she’d take us to the rink for special occasions, other kid’s birthdays, or to just get us out of the house. Every time we went, I’d beg her to skate with me, promising I’d teach her just like my dad taught me and not let her fall. She was always content to watch and let us go play.

Eventually, we left New Jersey and our rollerblades stopped fitting. Life happened so I didn’t even notice skates drift out mine. I’m sure I asked for a new pair, but I had a scooter I rarely used and would hole up in my room, so I doubt I needed them. There was a hiatus on skating in Ohio. I think we went ice skating once. One of those pop-up skate rinks. The other skaters didn’t look like me, but I didn’t care. I loved to skate. I could only go in a straight line and curve if I had to, but that was more than enough for me. I wouldn’t know about skate tricks for many, many years. 

My dad also got me into hockey, even before I ever put on a pair of wheels. I used to have no clue what was happening on the ice but loved to watch the fights and the goals, feel the coldness of the room, and dream about driving a Zamboni. If I couldn’t skate, watching hockey would suffice.

In California, I thought about skating often. There was an ice rink not far from my house, but all of the roller rinks were in the city. I met someone who would talk about how she loved being a performative ice skater and I’d work ice shows all across SoCal wanting to be out there with them, forgetting apparently, that my only skating skills included, going forward, staying balanced, and bubbles. But I would ice skate whenever I could, using my rudimentary bag of tricks to stay in love with skating; trying to convince myself to save up and buy a pair to call my own.

Then I found a pair of black Chicago quad skates in my size, in the back of my father’s closet. They were old and he never used them, so he let me play around with them. The ball bearings were dirty, the screws too tight, and the toe stops would leave a distinctive blue trail whenever I used them (I used them a lot), but they were my skates and I loved them. My whole neighborhood was hills, and I’d had some bad experiences with wheels and hills, but I was determined to master skating on my old black boots and my little neighborhood. 

We moved again so hills were no longer a problem. And I did some research to salvage the vintage boots. Skate Tik Tok began to blow up and I saw all sorts of cool tricks you could do, with enough patience and practice. When quarantine began, I had nothing else to do but go into our backyard and try new things. Watching skaters like Sade, and Toni, and Jourdan, and Jasmine, and Oumi felt natural. I only watched Black skaters, because that’s who I grew up with. And these skaters were girls my age, they represented me and I wanted to be friends with them, as good as them. I wanted to jam skate and do cool dances, too.

My brother became a skateboarder, and while I could never board as well as he could, the same energy remained. We’d talk technique and the best parks and compare skills and movements with one another. To me, skating was inherently Black.

Before I left California, I did go skating with a group of girls my age. I was the only Black girl and not entirely a part of their friend group, so I felt a bit like an outsider. This skate didn’t feel like every other time. It didn’t feel free. Not because these girls were mean or anything, they were actually very friendly and encouraging. But it wasn’t how I knew skating. 

Skating was done with your closest friends as you convinced them you wouldn’t let them fall. It was done while very early 2000’s music blasted in your ear, and neon lights spraying around the room. It was done while the cute boy at one of the random schools in your district offered you sour spray and you thought you were in love. Skating is deeply personal and meditative. It was dancing. And to me...it was Black.

Thank you so much to Nia for this empowering and heartfelt essay about Blackness family and skating. For more of Nia, please check out her Instagram @__smithsonia__.