I tried to do an ollie on my skateboard, fell, and landed on my hip. Ten years later, the same fall would probably mean a hip replacement surgery. But for me, it just means a sharp wince and some ripped jeans. It was one of my many falls on the skateboard I had purchased recently from Amazon. The same set of events followed. I broke the fall with my right hand, left some scrapes here and there, but as per usual, I got up ready to attempt more ollies.

Growing up, I never had a skateboard. My parents didn’t let me have one, it’s not like I wanted one either; I simply didn’t want to be associated with the identity of someone with a skateboard. They have tattoos, smoke weed behind the school gym, and listen to Blink-182, or so I have been told. And me, being the neurotic pre-collegiate machine I was, never desired such a lifestyle that seemed to be counterproductive to my academic success.

But then, as college decisions rolled into my life, the same pre-collegiate stresses that seemed to permeate every aspect of my existence seemed to dissipate in importance. I got a skateboard.

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