Jamaica: The Epicenter of Lynbrook, USA Skateboarding

We just called it "Jamaica." Or, that's what they called it, so I copied them. By the time I was skating there, Jamaica Savings Bank hadn't been at the location for a little while, as I recall. But the name stuck anyways. Maybe because it sounded kinda cool, and maybe due to the local population's resistance to changes in place-names, even when they stem from brands, as opposed to events. Which is not to say events didn't happen there, though they might've been closer to happenings or an occupation. Regardless, Jamaica was the epicenter of the skateboarding scene in Lynbrook. 

That was around Y2K, which was the first time I noticed people were scared into panic-buying bottled water and toilet paper. Now, unlike what the current advertising industry wants everyone to believe, I don't have nostalgia for the early 2000s. Not in and of itself, to be clear. I was at the start of my teens just after 911 happened. Very few of the friends I had, if any, even took that shit seriously, because it was too awful really to accept. And if your parent or a parent you knew didn't directly die in the Towers, the 20-some miles of distance was enough for us to ignore the reality. The tragedy existed in the news, on Never Forget shirts and bumper stickers, and within the Loose Change documentary, which we all enjoyed and somewhat agreed with. 

In terms of memory and reflection, I consider that time period attractive exclusively for reasons related to skateboarding. Perhaps contrary to the ethos now associated with the late 90s/early millennium, I knew the atmosphere to be hostile, aggravated, and overall rough. What do I mean by that? Consider every imaginable slur for all races you encountered or heard about - that sort of language flowed quite freely then. And if you didn't hurl it, too, or otherwise knuckle up, you got eaten alive socially or were pretty much treated like an invisible nerd. The notion of the athletic jock and his sexual prowess, and the same for big-tit-blond-cheerleaders, prevailed. These were real pieces of shit, born to gnarlier pieces of shit. They all sat at the fucking jock table in high school. And, what I see now is what I saw then - these people were foolish and overflowing with a strain of hubris very particular to the South Shore of Long Island in Nassau County. These kids were the last honest representation of the Dream, even though the rampant lies of the parents created them and their wealth. If not actual wealth, the appearance of it. 

And skateboarding then was a legitimate protest against and in response to the way of life the jocks represented. The way of life that seemingly sought to snuff out the flame of anyone who had one burning bright inside them. Like me. To be truly unique or different or alternative didn't mean buying a Good Charlotte or Jimmy Eat World CD and some Hot Topic gear and styling your hair with a dramatic, pouty swoop over the eye. The Scene kids were fucking poseurs. You can't be something, especially an antisocial something, by making a purchase - a purchase you were directed to make. If the identity is defined by a consumer habit, it can only be conformity. I don't even believe that shit is debatable. If you were a Scene kid who was sensitive in your 2000s bubble, then my teen-self would say eat shit and then go do something, anything meaningful aside from dramatically emoting with your fucking haircut. 

Being good or even great at skateboarding is not for sale. You have to earn it. No part of it will come easy. You have to sacrifice every fiber of your being and align body with spirit. And back then, no one outside of skating approved or cheered you on. Every message received from regular society was negative, dismissive, and disapproving. The average person in Lynbrook and the surrounding areas, or even on all of Long Island, hated skateboarding and by extension us kids because we skated. And I hated them right back, with a determined coldness that still lingers. I used to comfort myself with the fantasy that when I graduated high school all the pieces-of-shit people who I was surrounded by got on one big yellow bus that drove off a cliff and burst into flames. 

Was I going to commit a violent crime against any one of the jocks, poseurs, hot girls, nerds, or adult authorities? Unlikely. But what I definitely did was use violence and primal rage to survive my hatred and loneliness, by investing that raw energy into skateboarding. My home life was chaotic and dysfunctional and unsafe. I didn't have the proper groundwork to even pursue more traditional sports. Right around Y2K, my parents split, we left the house I grew up in, and the financial security I was promised vanished. It was natural, in a way, for skateboarding to take over. I needed a teacher and a guide when I was young and lost and it helped me find elements of those things, which I used to teach and guide myself. 

And that brings us to Jamaica, an imposing, beige, corporate building in what is generously referred to by the townsfolk as downtown Lynbrook…