He was a skater boy / She said, "see you later, boy" / He wasn't good enough for her / Now he's a super star / Slammin' on his guitar/ Does your pretty face see what he's worth?
~~~Avril Lavigne
On Saturday, I unpacked my mint green rollerblades (a Hot Girl Summer 2019 impulse purchase) and drove to Beach Drive, a scenic running and biking spot. The plan was to skate a mile or two with all the poise and canned joie de vivre of this TikTok influencer:
Here is what I actually looked like:
Actually, I looked worse because I filmed this terrible video on Sunday. On Saturday, I strapped on my skates and, feeling their heft and my suddenly nonexistent center of gravity, understood that I’d made a mistake. I wobbled on my sea legs, marveling at my hubris. Before even crossing the street to the entrance of Beach Drive, my left front wheel grazed a bump or maybe a speck of mica and I tumbled to the ground in front of 50 strangers, catching myself in a drunk-looking downward dog. The weather was hot but not as hot as my burning shame.
But I persevered. I would not let my Groovy Skater Diva Dreams die. (Nevertheless she persisted.) So on Sunday afternoon, I snapped shut the plastic buckles and braved the alley behind my boyfriend’s house. Up and down the corridor I rolled, gaining neither speed nor skill. I snapped the necks of countless twigs. I narrowly skirted dog poop not once but thrice. Empty trashcans became my airbags. After 15 minutes, my toes were numb and my ankles were purplish but I didn’t fall once. Progress? Progress.
***
In January, before the radio producers could have known how prescient the show would be, This American Life ran an episode about seeking delight during dark times. One of the journalists, Bim Adewunmi, has explained how delight is not the opposite of pain. They’re dual sides of the same coin. Joy is not naive. It’s not blind. It’s not make believe. It’s a muscle that must be flexed, in spite of it all.
On Saturday night, Eric and I walked down to the National Mall. Protestors marched from the White House to Georgetown and back again, their chants blending with the honking cars and revving motorcycles. A helicopter surveilled overhead, its floodlight scanning hundreds of shoulders and shoes and signs that read, Say His Name. A family seated in a black sedan rolled down their windows and clapped. In the backseat, a girl no older than five with braided hair poked her head out of her window and yelled, “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” I listened to her power, humbled.