From the Streets to My Skate Park in Venezuela
Back in San Diego the sky always looked too wide for the smallness of my teenage world. The wind came down from the hills and tangled with music that no one planned but everyone shared. I was a girl learning who she was through noise and bruises, through the scrape of wheels and laughter that dared authority. Those afternoons were the shape of my freedom. We weren’t chasing fame, we were building language without words. The park was our proof that rebellion could be gentle when it was honest. It was never about being loud, it was about finding a space where silence had rhythm, where movement replaced explanations and friendship grew out of speed.
Crossing the same ground years later, I still hear the echo of those afternoons. The concrete holds its memories like a stubborn friend. Each mark, each stain, carries a story of someone who tried, fell, and stood again. I see the handrails still polished with candle wax and the same dusty corners where we argued about bands that changed our worlds. Nothing in that park is perfect, but everything has meaning. I think of the afternoons when the sun fell hard on our faces and we kept skating until the wind felt cold. We were too young to know we were living something unrepeatable. That imperfection made it real. It never needed to impress anyone, only to exist for those who understood its pulse, those who found beauty in chipped paint and cracked concrete because it mirrored us.
