Mar 17, 2022 Lexi Herosian
“I just need to send this last email,” I murmured to myself as I glanced at the sky, turning from peach to purple, and at the light flickering in my cousin’s next-door window.
I looked at my beat-up Converse sneakers resting up against my skateboard by the bedroom door. Snapping myself out of it, I brought my attention back to my email and typed, “Let us know if you have any questions! Thank you, Lexi.”
I slammed my laptop shut, grabbed my sneakers and board, and sprinted down the stairs.
My sister was searching for her fishing rod for an evening cast down the street.
“You going out?” she said.
“Yeah, just catching the last thirty minutes of light,” I muttered as I slipped through the screen door.
Finally. Done for the day.
I walked across the lawn, dropped my board on the pavement, and pushed off. It felt good to inhale the salty breeze as it blew back my curls and swept away the stress that had been piling up inside my brain all day.
Gliding past the neighbors’ twinkling lights, I melted into the movement as I carved.
Bend. Push. Foot back. Cruise. Bend. Push. Foot back. Cruise.
This was the formula I recited to myself each time I got on the board. I had heard this same sequence echoing in my head for months, until it had become my mantra.
I was barefoot when I first learned how to skate, in August 2019. Spotting a Carver surf-skateboard peeking out the back of my sister’s boyfriend’s truck, I was intrigued by its uniquely rounded shape and fluorescent blue wheels. I had just returned from Hawaii in June and was still high from the feeling of catching my first wave on a surfboard, which had the same curved shape as this skateboard. I picked it up and placed it on the ground in front of me. Anxiously setting my foot on the platform, I bent my knees and pushed off, and the ride began.
I blended into the wind as I shifted weight from one leg to the other to move left and right, gently pushing off the board’s vibrations below. Enchanted by the wave-riding nostalgia it brought me, I felt like a fish being lured deeper into the ocean of a world both unknown and familiar to me at the same time.
After moving back home with my family after college graduation a few months earlier, in May 2019, I had chosen to spend less time in the house and more time at my grandmother’s apartment. My grandmother was the strongest and most courageous woman I ever met. Born and raised in Cambridge, she was the only daughter in a family of three brothers. Navigating life in the 1940s and ’50s as an Armenian woman consisted of cooking traditional dishes, finding a “nice Armenian boy” to marry, and starting a family. This wasn’t in the cards for my grandmother. Her name was Siranoosh, but everyone called her Sally. In English, siranoosh translates to “sweet love.” But my grandmother was far from sweet—she was a firecracker.
Finding herself a divorced, single mother only a few years after meeting my grandfather, Sally realized early on that life was short and she wasn’t content to spend it at home. Inspired by the world of business and real estate in her twenties and thirties, Sally began working at startup companies in the Boston area. Soon after, she hired a Harvard graduate team to assist her in building her own apartment rental business serving the Harvard Square community. Alongside her venture, she taught Armenian and became a lead Sunday-school teacher at Holy Trinity Church down the street.
Later embarking on personal expeditions to countries like Africa, China, and the United Kingdom, Sally exposed herself to a world that many women of her time were intimidated by. Determined to live a fulfilling life by taking the path less traveled, Sally found her freedom despite society’s barriers. She rose above her family’s expectations and built strength by breaking away from a persona she knew wasn’t her destiny—and she encouraged my sisters and me to do the same. Project after project, year after year, she searched for new experiences to uplift her spirit, even at age ninety-five. She had lived independently most of her life and found freedom through her solitude. A year later, I embarked on my own solo mission.
In summer 2020, I packed my bags and started living with my older sister in our house on Martha’s Vineyard. In the heat of the pandemic, I faced new expenses, limited socialization, and a heightened sense of caution. Picking up my dad from the ferry every other weekend, I was constantly reminded of the risk of contracting COVID-19 and was searching for ways to stay busy in isolation. My dad was considered high-risk at sixty-nine years old, so I chose to lie low by focusing entirely on work.
Under the stress of a heavy workload, taking calls with less-than-satisfactory Wi-Fi, and nearing the date of my performance review, I was struggling to find enjoyment. Before the pandemic, I was ritualistically attending hot-yoga classes and even signed up for a teacher-training program. Since everything was canceled, I lost the only activity that strengthened my body and spirit’s synergy. As the summer went on, I began feeling burnt out from channeling all my time and energy into work. Luckily, I had purchased my very own skateboard the summer prior, and this was the perfect opportunity to break it in. Living in close proximity to the shore took my mind back to the blissful state of surfing—and I hoped skateboarding would be the next-best thing.
I started signing off from work right on time to practice for a few hours every day down the street. I remember feeling my leg muscles grow sore and my calluses brush against the rough terrain as I hopped on and off the board. Blissfully unaware of the repercussions of practicing without sneakers, I felt invincible.
I moved as one force with the board and felt a soothing sense of self-awareness and a heightened level of consciousness that I had never experienced before. Skateboarding is an independent and minimalistic activity in itself, consisting only of plywood and four wheels. Learning how to skateboard requires focus and attention—both internally and externally—in order to find your flow. For me, the simple act of riding was how I found personal harmony.
Looking around as I sped up and down the street, I noticed the confused looks from other skateboarders as their eyes immediately went to my bare toes hanging off the edge of the board, but I didn’t care. I was absorbed by the sense of freedom and liberation I felt—despite the restrictive time we were all living in. Something was exhilarating about cruising by male skaters in their backward caps, giving me perplexed gazes as I rode solo, my lavender shorts flowing in the wind.
I started skating around at night, illuminating my path with a mini-flashlight attached to my keychain. My rides most often included grabbing a late-night apple fritter at the donut shop downtown. Other times, I would catch an adrenaline rush from accelerating down a quiet street in complete darkness—and in skateboarding, adrenaline can be what drives you to reach one of your first stepping-stones.
Cruising across the sandy cement near the beach, I wiped the sweat from my upper brow as I pushed off. By that point, I had succumbed to wearing a pair of old leather Converse as I ventured in search of a new spot. Drifting past the chocolate shop on my right, I spotted a whirly downward path tucked away from the main road. Veering in its direction, I started to accelerate.
Gaining heavy momentum in a matter of seconds, I bent my knees and crouched down in an attempt to ride with the wind. The board began to vibrate aggressively and felt as if it were detaching from its wheels midaction. Terrified of crushing my skull in a rough tumble, I quickly ditched the board by jumping off, but I lost my balance during liftoff and ended up falling flat on the cement. Raising my head to spot my board caught underneath a parked car, I peeled myself off the pavement to see blood scrapes across my hands, hips, and legs. I looked down at my hands in shock and peered into the dust pebbles sprinkled throughout the blood gushing from my open wounds.
After an evening of hydrogen peroxide, bloody gauze, and a lot of medical tape, I collapsed onto my bed, wrapped in bandages. Turning to Google, I began investigating the unfamiliar movement of the board during my fall. I discovered that what I had experienced was a common case of beginner’s speed wobbles, caused by weight imbalance and carving direction. I rested my head back, smiled at the ceiling, and thought, Wow. My first fall.
As the leaves changed color and summer came to an end, I continued practicing near home on Cambridge’s Memorial Drive during weekend road closures. Most times, I would accompany my grandmother Sally for her sunset stroll by the Charles River.
“Where’d you learn to do that? No helmet?” she’d ask.
Responding with only a smile, I’d glide along the road in unison with her as she shuffled along the pedestrian path in her leopard-print beret and matching gloves. Captivated yet exhausted by speed, she would stop at a bench and stare as Charles River rowers drifted along the glistening water.
“I need a scotch,” she’d say.
She died a few months later.
As I helped clean out her apartment, I discovered photo albums tucked away in a hidden shelf underneath her coffee table. Flipping through them, I came across her African safari photos and Newport Beach days. One photo in particular stood out. On the back, it said, “Newport—Me, 40 yrs old.” She was sprawled out in a bathing suit, nose crinkled at the camera, straps resting below her shoulders, legs bent just enough to show her muscle definition. I was mesmerized by the image, recognizing her dark curls peeking out from underneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. I cracked a smile as I thought about her longtime love for the ocean and reminisced about our last beach trip to Newport together, a few years back.
I remembered her that day, dressed in her go-to zebra-print swimsuit and clutching my arm for support as she inched toward the shore. She let go once she was deep enough that the water reached right above her knees and stabilized her to stand on her own. I envisioned her white, wispy hair fluttering in the wind as she stood still and sturdy against the rippling waves that brushed against her delicate skin.
Suddenly, my mind was switched back to reality by the sound of truck horns blaring from the outside street and car doors slamming in the driveway. I tucked the photo in my back pocket, grabbed my skateboard resting against my grandma’s old desk, and headed toward the front door.
This essay appears in our book, Aren’t We Lucky? Stories of Resilience from the Inkhouse Community. Download your copy here.
