As the city’s avenues thrum with the hum of wheels on concrete, silhouettes glide in rhythm through the margins—empty lots, wide streets, nearby parks—turning overlooked patches into thrilling arenas. To many, skaters are a public nuisance and intrusion. But to those maneuvering the boards, skating is a ritual of expression, escape, and belonging—a way of carving space where none was meant to exist.
In a metropolis that constantly tightens its urbanized arteries, skaters must make do with whatever terrain remains. The abrupt demolition of Paco Skate Park in 2025 signaled more than the loss of ramps and rails; it erased one of the few spaces where skaters found a culture of motion in solace. Promises from Mayor Isko Moreno to rebuild offered momentary hope, but pleasantries alone do not suffice. As the city redraws its public spaces, skaters are once again pushed to the periphery, exposing the battle between development, access, and defiant movement.
Not a phase, but a lifestyle
Underneath the preconceived notions surrounding skateboarding are the meaningful things it symbolizes for those who practice it. For some, it is a means of self-expression. The signature styles of gliding, the fashion embedded in the culture, and the ways skaters customize their gear are just a few of the things that elicit creativity in the sport.
Princess Cruz (AB-ISE, ‘24), meanwhile, describes skating as a form of “movement poetry.” Every skater carries their own unique flair in the tricks they perform while cruising throughout the city. The passion, rhythm, and technique that go into this craft allow skaters to channel their artistry. Manuel Besana shares this sentiment, adding how the video content he creates on skateboarding brings his thoughts to life, similar to other creative outlets. This shared sense of liberation is what seems to unify their experiences. Whether through solo cruises or rides with friends, the collective freedom felt between skaters is what inspires them to continue with the craft.
Skateboarding pulls people across different backgrounds together, forming a tight-knit community bound by pavement and practice. Regardless of one’s background, the community is accepting of all. In the Philippines, however, the skating community remains relatively young. Mari Torres, the co-founder of Skate Plant, a skate school in Ayala Alabang, notes that compared to skating communities abroad, local interest is still growing. But it continues to thrive despite only having a few members.
Skating, then, becomes more than just a “hobby.” It transcends stereotypes and misconceptions, solidifying itself as an identity—a lifestyle one can never leave behind.
Turning friction into inspiration
Fueled by the board’s resilient rhythm, skaters seek marvel beneath the metro’s chaos, turning obstructions into opportunities. However, some challenges prove to be more difficult to cruise through than others.
There are only a handful of skate parks in Metro Manila, and they are scattered far apart. This scarcity is exacerbated by chronic neglect—years of erosion that have transformed these rare havens into perilous terrains for patrons. Describing the now-demolished Paco Skate Park, Cruz narrates, “Slowly, the skate park just deteriorated. The ramps were breaking apart.” Over time, she explains, skaters were forced to seek alternative “better spaces outside that [were] better for [their] board [and] for [their] balancing.”
For women skaters, however, friction grows beyond the cracked pavement as they battle with a more pervasive architecture of exclusion: sexism. Recalling her parents’ response to her interest in skateboarding, Cruz admits, “I hated how their first reaction was how [it was only for men], how only males could do it. And I hated how it basically cut off any chance of me ever getting into skateboarding.”
Despite these obstinate misconceptions, Cruz continues to stoke the flames of her passion through self-learning and reliance on the community’s inclusive culture. “My friends and the community really gave me a lot of confidence when the doubt was louder than the support.” While public stereotypes often illustrate skaters as troublemakers, Cruz underscores their warm, welcoming, and inspirational demeanors. Behind their rough exteriors and ferocious spirits, she reminds everyone that “skating builds discipline, not delinquency.”
In the face of these challenges, skaters continue to turn the city’s dilapidated structures into their personal canvases. From empty basketball courts to parking lots, these unlikely places offer a thrilling challenge for innovation despite hardship. But similarly, their continued growth throughout the metro remains symptomatic of a deeper contention between skaters and the city’s physical and social infrastructure.
Belonging, in motion
Despite being pushed to the margins, the skateboarding community has not only survived—it has sustained itself through infrastructures of care. Older riders teach newcomers the basics. Crews build independent skate parks. Online networks coordinate donation drives and pop-up classes. Together, these preserve a living culture grounded in mutual support.
This resilience carries clear aspirations. Besana rejects stereotypes that justify public policing. “People think skaters are like street kids [and] gangsta kids,” he states, stressing that “most of them just want to get out of their problems and have fun.” Similarly, for Torres, the aim is intergenerational. “The younger generation is really lucky now because before, you had to figure it out on your own,” he remarks, referring to the skate schools and volunteer-built parks born of community effort.
Torres has turned this personal advocacy into action; aside from launching a skate school, he has also helped pioneer a skate park in Muntinlupa. Alongside his friends, he remains involved in donation initiatives, including Push Philippines, providing boards and shoes for local skaters in Manila and Cebu. “We just show up,” Torres says about the community’s approach, an effort that has gradually turned the narrative in their favor.
Ultimately, their wish is modest but meaningful: when a city makes room for skaters, it makes room for movement, risk, and becoming—refusing to let its concrete harden against futures in motion.
