Happy Birthday Peter

I'm getting three days of vacation this summer, between a 5 credit calculus class and working almost full time. For the first day of my break, I decided to haul up to Rocklin where a friend from college lives. On Sunday night he took me around to the shred spots he knew of in the area (locals are aware that there are many.) One of these spots was a well-known hill where my friend's friend, Peter Ramirez, liked to bomb before he was killed on 20 October, 2008 while riding in Loomis. He's well-known in the longboarding community. Although I never met Peter, I felt obligated to write a little something for him, having successfully bombed one of his favorite runs for the first time. I felt badly for him, his close friends, and his family before when I first heard about the incident, but being there on that hill brought it a little closer to home. It was coincidental that I rode Backside the same weekend as what would have been Peter's eighteenth birthday, a day that should have been cheerful but I'm sure was instead depressing for a lot of people. More than 700 people are on his memorial Facebook page, and seeing how well-loved he was, I found myself pretty depressed after shredding his spot (following the initial stoke of course,) and I still am.

Although two years younger, he was at age 16 far better than I am now at 20. Peter wasn't just another skater. A long explanation: longboarding has been around for decades, with a number of shredders cast into legends, it has really only recently become wildly popular. With more awareness come improvements to the sport. Technology is influenced by a number of different factors, I can (as a racecar engineer, aerospace engineer, and history nerd) refer to two major catalysts for change in a number of different industries (longboarding included.) Those are: war and racing. War is clearly not an influence on longboard design. Racing, however, is. Slalom racing, DH racing, and I'm sure a few other racing genres have pushed the sport to what it is today. New ideas, competitive design, refinement in tech--all from racing. Peter was a racer, which is one of the reasons I respect him. These kids (and many of them are kids,) are evolving gravity sports. Look at what we had ten years ago in terms of deck materials and design, flex options, truck geometry, urethane development--compared to today. I guess it's like anything else; back in 2001 my iBook had a 9 gig hard drive in it. But in this sport, it's the racers like Peter who are responsible for the advancements in design. Peter wasn't a fucking dumbass skaterboy wannabe rebel who spray painted stop signs and tormented neighborhood cats. He contributed to the community and to interest in the sport. I know of at least several people who have started boarding specifically because he wanted to share his love of riding. He seemed to have a bright future in front of him as well.

Now, I will never fully commit to the belief that there is an afterlife. I sincerely hope there is though--if not for me, if not for folks who have lived long, fulfilled lives--for kids like Peter who are killed doing what makes them happy. I was walking around Squaw Valley today, I was reminded of a quote from C.R. Johnson, who was killed there last February when he fell onto some rocks while skiing. After recovering from a near-fatal brain injury the previous year that had him in a coma for days and required a lengthy recovery, he said "the joy I get from skiing--that's worth dying for." And some might call him crazy, but I fully agree. There's a lot of pain in this life, a lot of suffering, a lot of stress, a lot of negative vibes. Kids like Peter, like C.R., like myself, like you--we turn to extreme sports to escape that. The folks who say we're nuts, that it isn't worth the risk, that we're going to kill ourselves--they don't understand. Like a belief, like an emotion, like love--it's something we can't explain. It drives us. They all say "live life to the fullest," but those are words. We aren't fueled by words. We are fueled by true, unadulterated emotion, by speed, by hangtime, by wind in our faces and the world at our backs. Words spoken or written without feeling carry no weight. Hollow words. Even if a quote made you question your very existence, it would be an empty thought unless the writer first questioned theirs. But we don't have that problem because many of us live more in one still-frame than a lot of people do in a lifetime. They can question the danger we intentionally expose ourselves to, but we know what we're in for. We pass the red backcountry signs cheerfully reminding us "YOU CAN DIE." We know there may be cars down the road when we strap on our pads and bomb. That is the only baggage we carry with us when we shred. It's at the back of our minds, but when we're up there, we have to let it go.

Every so often one of us is killed not by what we run from, not some malevolent force, but by what we run to, by the thing that keeps us happy. We walk a fine line. We walk a tightrope. Sometimes it is a misstep, sometimes a lack of concentration, sometimes an external, uncontrollable gust of wind that knocks us off. Is it by design? I don't know. But all we can do is hang our heads and lay the flowers at the foot of another friend gone. Gone somewhere else, somewhere better, somewhere worse, some heaven or hell, some wishing well, somewhere the grass is green and the skies are a crisp, clear blue, where the powder is deep, the roads are freshly paved--somewhere we can shred, bomb, huck, and rip till the eternal snow melts, till the road gets torn to shit, till the system caves in, till the end of fucking time. We hope. But we don't know; they're gone.

I can't find solace in that "Peter died doing what he loved." What I can squeeze a little bit of comfort from, though, is the fact that he loved boarding like I love boarding, and the joy he got from it was powerful enough for everything to be alright when he was screaming down a hill somewhere. Even though I never met the kid, don't know his story, don't know much about his life--I still know how he would have answered one question: "Would you change anything if you could?" the same question C.R. Johnson was asked. I can smile because like the rest of us hotdogging, badass motherfuckers, he would say he'd do it all over again. You see, while a lot of stunts pulled by the likes of pro riders appear to be showy calls for attention, they generally aren't. Aside from the occasional asshat showboat, we do it for ourselves--everyone else can watch if they want. The ultra-high, ultra-fast, lightening storm of stoke emitted by shredding is what makes us feel alive. And "there is no point in living if you cannot feel alive."

I don't think I mentioned earlier that while I was standing at the top of Backside, with no one but my friend around and in a pervasive, dead silence, a large jackrabbit jumped out of the bushes into the street. It stopped for a minute and looked straight at me, and then turned around and went not left or right into the bushes to hide, but straight down backside in the middle of the street. All the way down. I don't know if that rabbit has any significance, but I'd like to think it does. I never knew you Peter, but I miss you buddy. Happy 18th Birthday.

Current Mood: Depressed

Listening To: "Miss You" by Blink 182

Twenty

Today is my twentieth birthday. This is the point when I begin to count my age in decades. Twenty is not old, but it is 22% of the way to 90, an average lifetime in my genealogy. Of course, a lot of people don't make it to twenty. I know of a few people who were not able to see their twentieth birthday. They were either taken from this world unnaturally early via disease or accident, or took themselves. I have lived longer than they were able to. Given my aggressively empirical philosophy of life, high-adrenaline, high-speed, and (calculatedly) higher-risk choice of sports and hobbies, I have to be thankful for the intact body and mind I still hold. I am certainly fortunate. Maybe it is luck that allows some of us to live and leaves others to die. Or maybe choice of actions and decisions. Or fate. Destiny. Who knows. All I know is that I am twenty years old, and through any combination of the above, I am very much still alive.

Yesterday (really just a few hours ago,) I attended the graduation ceremony for the class of 2010 at Amador. I know quite a few kids who are graduating, namely siblings of my friends, so it was nice to see them experience the grand closing of their high school years. But I set them aside for awhile as I sat there in the AVHS bleachers and watched graduation unfold, this time as a spectator instead of a participant. "It seems like it was just yesterday" is a phrase that is revoltingly cliché, but I still have to use it. It seems like it was just yesterday that I was sitting down there on that field. The tent was in the same place, the stage, the perfectly aligned white folding chairs. The sun went down at the same angle in the sky (although this time it wasn't reddened by giant clouds of ash.) The six hundred some-odd purple-cloaked figures entered the field in nearly the same formation, past the same black-robed teachers. It was like experiencing our graduation over again in third-person.

I wasn't really thinking about where these new graduates will go in life. After all, they will have plenty of time to think that through individually. I did congratulate them before and after the ceremony, and bid them good luck on the new stretch of open road before them. During the ceremony, though, I was lost in the moment all over again. Lost in the sea of purple. I remembered quite clearly where I sat on June 13th of 2008. I remembered what I saw, what I felt, and what I thought about my future. That was point A. I am now at point B. I was Link. I placed the Master Sword back in the stone. The two elapsed years of my college education were not relevant, not individual events anyway. They became a blur. It was only myself, and myself on graduation day, in row 5, seat six, at 19:48.

As always, things have not turned out quite as I expected. Some things are better than I had anticipated, some much worse, and some depressingly or in some cases thankfully unchanged. I wish I could talk to young Link. It would certainly be an interesting conversation. People sometimes ask the question "if you could go back in time and talk to one person, who would it be?" I often surprise them by answering "myself." I think the two of us would agree that where I am now is largely satisfactory.

And twenty is a good age. I don't really have anything life-threatening to worry about. Most people don't begin to show any serious concern for their age and rethinking their philosophy and goals until their forties and fifties. I think I'm an anomaly in the sense that I seem to be in a perpetual state of mid-life crisis: always questioning, pondering what I have done and should do next. It's not really a bad thing--I am not depressed nor do I regret any of my decisions or actions. I simply have an active mind. And with that inquisitiveness, I think I will hold fast to the goals I have previously set for myself--my plan seems to be working. At age twenty, I would like to continue to learn--learn on all fronts, academically, kinesthetically, logically, artistically--to apply myself in my work, and to have fun incessantly.

Here I am. 02:27 on my twentieth birthday, alone, drinking a Kiwi-Strawberry Hansen's soda and listening to Tom Petty. At first I thought I'd rather be doing something more interesting on this milestone. Maybe at a party with friends. Maybe doing something adrenaline-packed like I usually do. Maybe out under the stars. Maybe with a girlfriend. But after looking back on graduation, and the goals I set for myself then, this is just fine. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.

Happy Birthday, to me.

Current Mood: Satisfied

Listening To: "A Face In The Crown" by Tom Petty

African-American

I annoy a lot of people because I am often very frank about things that I don't like. I don't like a lot of things, many of them trivial to most people--maybe I am too picky or obsessive. But my dislikes are rational--I can prove their merit. I don't just dislike something for the sake of disliking it (except for subjective things like aversions to certain tastes--I hate spicy food--or artistic styles, which I try to clearly label as baseless personal preference.) An example:

I don't like the term "African-American." Much in the same way I don't like the term "Asian-American," or "European-American," and so on. These are terms that are generally regarded as "politically correct," which in itself is a principle that I think is downright ridiculous. I choose "African-American" specifically because it is a term that is used heavily in the United States, by politicians, teachers, students, and just about everyone--in fact, you can major in African-American Studies to get a Bachelor of the Arts. But I don't like the word one bit. Not because I don't like "African-Americans," but because when you really analyze the word (or phrase or whatever it is,) it doesn't make any sense. Firstly, the vast majority of "African-Americans" are not African. Sure, their ancestry may be African (or in many cases partially African or "mulatto" to use an archaic and unfriendly term,) but I have a heavy German ancestry and nobody calls me "German-American" or the more general "European-American." They assume that I have European ancestry, because I'm white. They see a man who is obviously of Asian descent, but do not need to call him "Asian-American" because it is stupidly blatant. Why is this obvious fact not assumed for black people--that they have some black African ancestry (which may not even be the majority of their phenotype?) "African-American" is unnecessarily and falsely used.

The second reason I take issue with "African-American" as it is used by society is that it is a label. Certainly in studying black history in America it would be necessary to consider aspects of developing black American culture to have African roots or nuances (even some modern cultural aspects have African influence.) But now, for those whose families have been in the United States for generations, sometimes for untraceable lengths of time--the label isn't really that correct. They are American. They are black, but completely American regardless. "American" itself denotes the presence of blended culture--there is no "original" American culture that blended with an "original" African culture to create a third, clearly defined culture. "American" is one term to define many cultures--like how "trees" is the umbrella term to a huge number of species and cross-breeds. Aside from those who have recently moved to the U.S. from Africa, (who would probably be called "African" rather than "African-American" anyway,) black people in this country are simply American.

One final reason I don't like "African-American" is that it is seven syllables long, and it takes longer to say than "black." For the record, I don't even like the use of the terms "white" and "black" because they categorize. From the age that I first discovered the term "black," I wondered why on Earth anyone would say that because "black" people aren't black, they're more brown; brown is also a softer word that doesn't sound as abrupt and oppressive. Also, where is the line between "black" and "white?" I say it's too much of a continuum for it to be fair to make it a solid categorization. No, I don't like labels at all, but for the sake of description we have to use them. In a true egalitarian society, which may be possible but will take centuries to achieve, the terms "black" and white" wouldn't need to be used much. People are people.

Current Mood: N/A

Listening To: N/A

No Change

I was walking across the street to get to Diridon Station in downtown San Jose. A black guy approached me when I got to the corner and said something that I couldn't quite make out. Now, on the way to the station I had already been approached by three homeless men (two of whom were black and yes, this is relevant) who had asked if I had any spare change on me. I didn't, nor did I have any cash. Continuing--I assumed that this fourth guy was also requesting change, given that we were in a somewhat seedy area and he appeared to be waiting on the corner for an opportunity to ask someone. I said, "Sorry man but I don't have any change on me--I'd give you some if I..." and then he cut me off. "No no no!" he quickly said, "I'm not asking for change dude, I come in peace. I thought you were my friend Scott, you look just like him." I found this hard to believe at first because I was wearing bright red pants and a neon T-shirt, not your average combination. It occurred to me at that moment though that he was wearing a nice polo shirt, more expensive than the one I had on, and the hobo-looking backpack he had slung over his shoulder was a "distressed" pattern with the Oakley logo on it. I apologized profusely for assuming he wanted change and talked to him for a few minutes before bidding him good day and finishing my walk to the train station.

I realized as soon as I walked away that I had probably assumed he wanted change because he looked similar to others who have approached me for the same reason--specifically because he was black. I did not consciously think "this guy is black, he must want money," because that would be what society refers to as "racist." Bur unconscious racism is not better--that is something that social evolution has produced. This is what society has done. Exclusivity is the enemy--BET, the not-so-suble white, blonde-haired blue-eyed Fox news crew--exclusivity on either side is anti-progressive. It establishes clear separations, unconsciously as well as overtly. It is disgusting.

In death there is no race. There is no separation of ethnicity, nor sexuality, nor religious ideas, nor even separation of genus and species. Why do we force such constraints and separations upon ourselves in life?



Current Mood: Embarrassed
Listening To: N/A

Processed Nature

Nature is all around us. We can immerse ourselves in nature in city parks as well as national parks. The difference is that the nature in cities is processed. It is a pet nature, a wolf of the wild tamed to the equivalent of the tamed dogs we take for walks in this domesticated nature. It is still real, and beautiful, as nature is, but it is at least partially processed. It is set up, designed for our desires to experience nature while retaining our industrialized ways. Much in the manner that canned cheese spray is cheese, but isn't really cheese. The manufactured feel is perceivable. Perhaps it is something to lament, the detachment from a true, wild nature. But perhaps our desire to hold on to nature in the form of parks and twiggy trees stuck in parking lots offers at least a little hope that we aren't completely disillusioned.

Current Mood: Inquizzitive

Listening To: "Kathy's Song" by Eva Cassidy

So Little Time

We may diversify our life experience portfolios but really we only follow one path. Some change careers, but only once or twice. We only have so much time. They say you can do anything, but you cannot do everything. That is the disclaimer to the encouragement. I want to win the Superbowl as a quarterback. I want to drive through the finish as a winner at Le Mans. I want to be a rock and roll star. So many things I can never be, so many things I can never do. These things take a lifetime of effort and focus, entities that are as finite as our time in this world. There are so many parts of history that I wish I could have been a part of. Things that have happened that I would want to have witnessed. You are in one place at one time. No more.

Current Mood: Calm

Listening To: "Off I Go" by Greg Laswell

Stitches

Engineering weaves ideas and technologies into the fabric of society, first intriguing the world with the sharp needle of novelty and ingenuity, and then slowly altering the very stitches of history in a continually evolving process. Encounters with such technologies that were at a time "once in a lifetime" occurrences become mingled with common practice and daily life. A ride in an automobile, once an exhilarating experience, becomes as desensitized and simple as walking down the block. Picking up a device loaded with an entire music library eclipses the drop of a needle to the vinyl. A trip to the moon, perhaps, like a run to the grocery store for some bread and milk. The small individual stitches of engineering flow into the ever growing seam of life.

Current Mood: Tired

Listening To: "A Man Needs a Maid/Heart of Gold Suite" by Neil Young