Roller skating’s recent online revival swept across digital channels like a 1950s waitress at a drive-in diner.
Harkening back to images of romanticized Americana throughout the ages, the en vogue quad skating aesthetic that now dominates Tik Tok, YouTube, and Instagram is fueled by the nostalgia for bygone eras, from your parent's disco to your own childhood roller rink birthday parties.
Like all resurrections of America’s past, though, the online skating craze also comes with an undercurrent of racism and Black erasure. As with so many popular trends, if you dig past the sea of predominantly white faces populating the 1.5 billion TikToks under the #rollerskating tag, you’ll find the largely overlooked history of Black communities that never let it go out of style in the first place.
“It’s really disorienting because the roller-skating community online is so different from the roller-skating community I grew up with — you know, just rolling around the cul de sac with my homegirls,” says one skater from Atlanta who goes by Faeiryne on Instagram and YouTube.
Inspired by the social media trend, Faeiryne, (who asked to go by her username, like many other skaters in the community known by their online aliases), recently got back into skating. But after moving to Seattle where there isn’t much of an IRL scene, she instead turned to the digital communities fueling its comeback. “But the people who are the face of the skating movement right now have nothing to do with us at this point. And until people educate themselves, it won’t do Black skaters any good.”
Roller skating has thrived in Black cultures for decades across every corner of this country. Showcased most recently in the 2018 HBO United Skates documentary, almost every city or state boasts its own unique style of dance or jam skating. The most dedicated of these skaters even travel thousands of miles every year to come together for national parties, where local communities compete, show off skills, and teach each other new moves. Roller skating was even a fundamental chapter of the civil rights movement, when Black skaters protested the segregation of roller rinks only to be met with police brutality and white violence.
But that rich cultural history is rarely part of the general public’s conceit of roller skating. Certainly, that legacy is nowhere to be found in the most visible parts of skating’s online revival, where it’s any white girl sexy-walking backwards on pastel skates’ game.
The whitewashing of skating’s online resurgence can in part be traced to racial biases embedded in social media algorithms used by platforms like TikTok. While we don’t exactly know how TikTok’s algorithm works, it does favor creators who are similar to the ones a user already follows, creating an echo chamber of same-ness that can feed into racial disparities.
“Saying that roller skating only just came back is demeaning when there’s so much history."
“Humans create the algorithms driving these platforms, so they’re going to be just as racist in terms of who they uplift,” says Faeiryne. “It knows people who look white do better —bonus points if you're blonde, if you're skinny, if you look able-bodied.”
But algorithms are far from the only culprit. Over the past few weeks, people from every online skating niche have proven just as quick to suppress racial equality in social media's biggest new trend.
“The reason I get upset when people say so-and-so brought back roller skating is because, for most of us, roller skating never left. It’s something that literally has kept communities together, kept people together, keeps kids from getting into bad stuff,” says Ahmad Dunson, a California-based skater with 14,000 followers on TikTok who grew up in Ohio and attends those annual national skate parties. His most popular video calls out the blatant disparities in who succeeds on the app, with another pointing to the overwhelming whiteness of it all. “Saying that roller skating only just came back is demeaning when there’s so much history, when it’s meant so much to so many people for such a long time.”
Roller skating’s digital segregation
Faeiryne came up against this ignorance during an incident with Indy Jamma Jones (whose real name is Amy West), a YouTuber with 214,000 subscribers and many of the most-watched beginner skate tutorial videos.
At the end of May after the death of George Floyd sparked nationwide protests over police brutality, the popular Planet Roller Skate Facebook group that Jones runs was criticized for censoring Black skaters. A skater had posted about getting racially profiled by a cop, so others expressed support with their own stories of discrimination while skating, relating the issues back to Floyd and the Black Lives Matter movement.
Moderators inexplicably deleted the threads, even banning members like Faeiryne who then questioned why. Jones herself stepped in to explain that the post violated their guidelines for being political, before suggesting these conversations move to a separate skate group where the community could address what was described as “adult” topics. In a video that went unexpectedly viral, Faeiryne pointed out that this rule against political posts stood in stark contrast to the many other threads permitted in the group about LGBTQ rights, feminism, and body positivity.
Aside from the discrepancy in enforcing the rule on political posts, what Jones failed to understand was that Black people talking about facing racial discrimination is not “political,” but a daily reality. Suggesting that the topic of police brutality is an “adult” conversation ignores the fact that Black children are killed by it. Knowingly or unknowingly, Jones’ offering a separate (read: segregated) group where Black skaters’ concerns could be addressed even harkens back to the coded language used to segregate roller rinks decades ago. To this day, rinks across the country still designate certain nights as “adult nights” (or R&B, Soul, or Hip Hop night) which have become known as the nights when freestyle jam skating styles from Black communities are allowed.
“There's always been a conversation about the silencing of Black skaters in the skating community. But with the current times, people are now getting heard when it’s called out,” says Toni Bravo, who has 286,000 followers on TikTok. One of her videos pointing to these racial disparities also went viral.
Neither Bravo nor Faeiryne are bringing attention to these issues out of a desire to get Jones or any other white skate influencers “canceled.” It’s more a disappointment at people’s ignorance and failure to take responsibility for healing festering wounds. While Jones privately reached out to apologize to some of the skaters silenced in the group, it’s been crickets on her social channels ever since a failed (now deleted) town hall.
Mashable reached out to Jones several times for comment on the incident and her plans moving forward, but did not receive a response in time for publication.
“You’re a white woman who has made a career and profited off of something that is historically and inherently very Black. But when this community needs allyship and support the most, you’re nowhere to be found. That sends a very clear message,” says Bravo. “When you have a platform as large as she does, what she says — and doesn’t say — matters.”
Pigeon, Jones’ former business partner, says part of the problem is that a lot of the biggest white YouTube skating influencers like Jones and herself come from roller derby, which is an overwhelmingly white scene. (Note: Pigeon, who owns the shop previously known as Planet Roller Skate, parted ways with Jones after the Facebook group incident and has since changed the shop’s name to Pigeon Skates). There are of course some notable exceptions to that, like Courtney Shove, aka @fat_girl_has_moxi. But Mota Skates, one of the biggest derby skate manufacturers, also faced backlash recently for posting an All Lives Matter-esque meme in response to the protests.
Faeiryne also made another video bringing attention to racism in a Facebook group for artistic dance skating, a competitive sport akin to figure skating. A woman tried to start a discussion on racism in the community by bringing attention to a coach’s racist comments, made only more concerning by a picture of the coach teaching a young Black skater.
But her post was deleted by the group’s administrator for being a “hate message.” That same administrator, a white man, was then called out for deleting the post in another Facebook group he runs for jam and freestyle skating. But he only doubled down, labeling those wanting to address racism in these forums “race baiters.” It’s just one other incident of racial gaslighting in online skate forums, though who knows how many others have gone without notice.
California-based skater Aaliyah Warren knows firsthand exactly how much those conversations about racism in artistic dance skating need to happen. She trained for years in it when she was younger, with instructors requiring her to pin down her natural afro hair.
“I won, but then got tired of always following their rules,” she says. “So I quit artistic skating and started doing more R&B jam style skating — which my coach hated.”
It was clear to Warren then and now that, “They're not ever going to change their rules to let our styles of skating into artistic spaces.”
The segregation of Black and white roller skating communities is alive and well in every corner of its digital revival. Hiding behind the cutesy bubblegum veneer of the whitewashed TikTok trend is an ugly systemic reality: Popular white and white-passing skate influencers attract newcomers (often also white themselves). Those influencers then teach newcomers the styles of skating they learned from almost exclusively white communities.
Almost all of the biggest roller skating influencers thriving in skating’s digital renaissance are white or white-passing women (while being white-passing often comes with the privilege of visible whiteness, it doesn’t always protect one from other forms of discrimination): Indy Jamma Jones, Piegon, Dirty Deborah, Queer Girl Straight Skates, Moxi Skates founder Estro Jen. Then there’s Tik Tok’s reigning skate queen Ana Coto (1.5 million followers), an actress of Puerto Rican and Cuban descent who recognizes she's white-passing. Though there’s plenty of love and appreciation for Coto, there’s an understandable resentment toward coverage in Buzzfeed, the New York Post, and even the New York Times that almost credits her with single-handedly reviving the scene.
Meanwhile Black skating culture continues to be disregarded as “other,” pushed to the side of the mainstream — despite the fact that Black communities are largely the reason why skating maintained any sort of modern relevance in the years before it became an internet fad.
The erasure of Black skater excellence
Though Black people are largely erased from the online skating influencer culture, their impact is still all over its aesthetic. Hip hop is often the go-to soundtrack for white girl skater TikTok. Then there’s the sexy, slidy style of skating that’s a trademark of many styles originating in Black communities that use skates with fiberglass wheels (especially in California).
“That smooth, walking-on-air style of skating that draws people in, especially in the short video formats of TikTok and Instagram — we saw all that in Black communities first. But we all know when white or white-passing people do it on social media, they pop off and get way more attention, even when a Black person's been doing it for twice as long,” says Bravo. “The big problem is that people looking at roller skating on the surface think when a white person does it, they must’ve created it.”
It’s that watered-down skating “style” (if you can call it that) popularized on TikTok that made musician and skater Joshy Soul (48,000 followers) hesitant to even associate himself with the scene.
“It’s a lot of blonde girls dancing with their hands — it’s not really skating,” he says. “It made me feel like, yeah, that’s not a place for me.” Part of the representation problem, he thinks, might be that, “a lot of Black people just don’t want to be corny.” And a lot of what’s popular on TikTok is corny as hell.
He balks at all the newfound attention he’s getting lately on TikTok, with white folks posting fawning comments like “immaculate” and “chef’s kiss,” when he knows his skill doesn’t compare to other under-recognized Black skaters on the app. It’s also why he’s itching to get his pair of Moonlight Roller skates (created by Black designer Adrienne Cooper) so he can custom fit them with the fiberglass micro wheels he hopes to master.
“Those take real skill,” he says of the smaller wheels that are almost non-existent on mainstream skating TikTok. The girls waving their arms around “wouldn't dare put them on because they wouldn't be able to skate in them.”
The folks perhaps most erased by the whitewashed skating of TikTok are precisely those who’ve spent a lifetime conquering the most challenging feats attempted on quad skates.
“But you’re not gonna get followers based on your talent alone,” says Dunson.
After ditching artistic skating for R&B freestyle jam skating, Warren went on to become part of the Sk8 Mafia crew, getting featured in music videos and the United Skates documentary. At a national party last year, she won the award for Best Female Skater.
But she only has about 8,500 followers on TikTok, despite posting all kinds of tricks that run circles around the most popular white skaters.
“It’s upsetting for our community because it’s like, ‘Is this really all that people are into?’” she says. “I just want everyone to see how much variety there is in skating styles because when they do, people go wild. They’ve never seen anything like it — they can’t believe it. They love it.”
But TikTok is an app best suited to semi-attainable aspirational ideals. That’s why almost all the most popular TikTok skaters use Moxi skates, with wheels best suited for beginners and casual outdoor “lifestyle” skating. The barrier to posting something in line with the TikTok aesthetic is low when all it takes is a pretty white girl waving her arms skating down Venice beach.
Meanwhile styles that require smaller wheels need seasoned skaters with access to smooth surfaces like a roller rink. For years now, though, the rinks serving predominantly Black communities have been shutting down due to lack of funds. Other white-owned rinks like Moonlight Rollerway in Los Angeles still discriminate against micro wheels (and hoodies), essentially acting as a ban on an entire demographic’s skating style. The owners maintain the ban protects the rink’s floor from scratches, but the fact that it discriminates against a skating style used by local Black communities still remains.
Simply put, there’s increasingly less space — on and offline — for Black skating styles to flourish. That in turn feeds into the cycle of skating’s online whitewashing, since those styles can’t be as easily taught through tutorials.
Fixing Black erasure in skating’s online revival isn’t just about more Black skater visibility. It’s about putting in the time and effort to appreciate Black skating styles.
“It’s about knowing your history and getting better at skating,” Soul says, whose fashion style evokes the 60s and 70s counterculture. “It needs to be more like ‘Alright, let me get good enough to be accepted by Black skate communities, to groove with Black skaters.”
"It's about knowing your history."
That’s why supporting and amplifying Black skating coaches is so crucial. One popular TikToker and Instagrammer known as Gypset offers a plethora of online roller skating classes and edifying benefits for Patreon supporters. Dunson is also now making his own TikTok tutorials too.
The absence of these styles from the online skating scene is everyone’s loss. But it’s especially a lost opportunity for new Black skaters who turn to a digital community out of necessity when local IRL rinks shut down.
“Most of the people that are big on these platforms can't really give good tutorials on what people want to learn these days because they haven’t spent time in our communities. They don’t know what we do,” says Dunson. “I want to be a giant content creator. I want to teach people. I want more Black kids to get inspired to skate because they see my videos.”
But how can he begin to do any of that when not even the internet can make room for how he skates?
The wheels of change
The inequalities Black skaters face online are devastatingly similar to the battles Black skaters faced decades ago in the civil rights era. Like back then, skaters today are turning those injustices into a fight for Black liberation.
Over the past several weeks, Black Lives Matter skate protests have sprung up everywhere. Soul describes the one he attended in Utah as “unreal,” with skaters of all colors and types taking over the busiest streets of downtown Salt Lake City.
“Utah’s predominantly white, so it was powerful because it brought out some kids that maybe don't think about racism at all,” he says. “It's playing a role in teaching the youth about standing up for something right by using what you’ve got. People are learning their history, because they're replaying it — but in a positive way.”
Bravo agrees, seeing similar benefits at the many skate protests she’s attended in Los Angeles.
“It's a great way to reach out to people through common interests,” she says. “It furthers conversations around racial injustice while showing just how similar we all are.”
Faeiryne’s negative experiences on the Planet Roller Skate Facebook motivated her to host a meetup with Black skaters in her area, which was a small but powerful gathering.
“This can all be an opportunity for people to see that racism exists everywhere around them, even in their niche little sport hobbies."
“This can all be an opportunity for people to see that racism exists everywhere around them, even in their niche little sport hobbies,” she says. “It's not just some far off intangible concept that you don't have to worry about. It's happening in your community. It’s something we all have to actively address no matter what space we're in.”
While Warren didn’t attend organized protests, she and her friends did skate together while holding signs in solidarity with the movement. An older white man called the cops on them with a noise complaint.
“It's just annoying,” she says. “No one is gang banging. No one is selling drugs. We're literally just roller skating.”
Once the cops left, they just kept skating.
Like every problem with racism in America, though, it’s ultimately not up to Black skaters to fix an issue they didn’t create. To its credit, much of the online skating community is trying to be part of the solution, albeit with varying degrees of performance rather than effectiveness.
It’s great to support Black skaters by following them to try and correct biased algorithms, for example. But there’s a fine line between supporting and tokenizing.
“I wish people would just include us in the overall narrative instead of designated us to, like, Black Skaters Week, or a Black Skater Moment versus all the ‘Normal Skaters,’” says Faeiryne.
It’s notable too that many of the skaters featured in this article only started getting attention on TikTok for calling out racism. Videos of them simply enjoying skating or demonstrating their skills still get less than half as many likes or views.
Bravo says that white people seem to think that by following Black skaters, they’re suddenly not part of the problem anymore.
“Marginalized people can find instant community, instant connection through roller skating.
“But there’s a lot of introspective work you need to do before you message all these Black skaters asking for handbooks on what to do,” she says. “Ask what internalized, racist qualities you have or were taught, what do you need to dismantle and destroy within yourself and those around you?”
Roller skating is an activity that has attracted all kinds of marginalized folks throughout history, and its recent revival has been a safe haven for LGBTQ communities in particular. But for a long time, its leaders hid behind ideals of inclusivity and diversity as a way to deflect from dealing with racism.
“Marginalized people can find instant community, instant connection through roller skating. It’s full of very supportive, compassionate people. But they do have to be held accountable,” says Bravo. “Ignorance is something that has to be unlearned and untaught — it’s an active choice. You have to actively be anti-racist everyday. You can't just be not racist.”
Some allies with big influence do appear committed to learning how to do that.
The owner of Moxi Skates, Michelle Steilen (aka Estro Jen), was often mentioned as someone taking responsibility for her company’s role in it. In May, Black staff members hosted a town hall on Moxi’s massive YouTube platform to discuss experiences of racism in the community. The company also supported and hosted videos of the Rise & Skate and Speak Up Roll Out protests organized by Abombinatrix and kianayouwanna. Dunson even remembers Steilen attending a national skate party in the past, where she put in the effort to learn and earn the community’s respect.
“Change takes work and you need to lean into the discomfort of emotional labor to make it happen,” says Steilen.
Pigeon was criticized for her initial response to the Indy Jamma Jones situation, with some still worrying it’s being swept under the rug. But in a video, Gypset personally named her as an ally who supported her long before the recent controversy by sending her free skates and other resources before she had any following. Pigeon hopes other white shop owners will be more cognizant of stocking affordable options, since price is often a barrier to entry.
When reached for comment, Ana Coto was open about being inspired by Black skating culture in the first place, recognizing her privilege and platform as a responsibility. Instead of being defensive, she agrees with the frustrations that TikTok is just “a bunch of people that look like me getting millions of views.” Her feeds right now are mostly devoted to attending skate protests, spotlighting Black skaters, and educating others about skating’s civil rights history. She purposely wore Moonlight Roller’s new Moon Boot for a New York Times photo shoot, too.
“It's the one place you're 100 percent in control.”
Only time will tell if allies persist in what’s a long road ahead. What remains unchanged, though, is the joy Black skaters create for themselves.
“Skating is my therapy,” says Warren. “If everyone is bummed out about something we just all go skate with each other so we can rant, forget about it, and just be together.
The world melts away for Dunson the minute he enters the rink, too. “It's the one place you're 100 percent in control,” he says. He can forget the pain of missing his family back in Ohio when he’s with his California skate fam because, “I feel at home. They’re my extended family.”
Faeiryne describes how, “When I'm skating, I feel so free, so accomplished. It feels like I'm flying.” More than ever, she says, the escapism roller skating offers is crucial because, “We're in the middle of a global health and economic crisis. Marginalized people are the ones suffering most from it. So people are skating it off.”
For Bravo, skating is a way to connect with its history of Black excellence and perseverance.
“Knowing that my fellow Black brothers, sisters, elders all paved the way for me to just be able to even go into skating rinks and skate freely, it makes me feel a lot more grateful to be on skates,” she says. “For me it’s therapeutic, just knowing the impact that Black people have had on roller skating, continue to have.”
