Jacoby Cochran - Rich City Skater

 

 

I'm standing on the sideline of the largest roller-skating rink floor in Illinois, and it belongs to Rich City Skate, my family's skating rink. Yeah, I'm 15 years old when my stepfather and his parents decide to realize a lifelong dream that I had never actually heard of to own and operate a skating rink. And so, somehow, they bought it. Our entire family renovated and renamed it, and now it was our inaugural national party. Make some noise if you ever been roller skating. So, y'all know, y'all know. [audience cheers and applause] 

 

Now, if you've never been roller skating in your life, a national party is like the Grammys of roller skating. Yeah, I'm talking about some of the greatest roller skaters in America all in one place showing off their moves, their music, their style. And the place is packed. When all of a sudden, the DJ starts to roll call, which means every city or state comes on the floor one by one to represent. So, you’ve got people in there from Texas doing the slow walk, [audience laughter] folks from Detroit in there doing the ballroom. 

 

You got partners in there doing Kentucky throws and New York trains. They had come from California to Florida. And the music was thumping. The synchronized lights were blaring, the fog machines were humming, when all of a sudden, the sound of The Godfather of Soul, James Brown fills the building. 

 

Now, when you hear those horns from the intro or the payback, you know it's time for Chicago to get on the floor. Suddenly, my mother skates by me and she throws me a wink. You see, my mom is one of the greatest roller skaters in Chicago, which means she one of the greatest roller skaters of all time. Everybody knows sweet tea. [audience laughter] And when she skates, it's like time stands still. I'm lucky that she passed down some of her gifts and a little bit of her first love for skating to me and my siblings. 

 

So, yeah, I grew up my entire childhood from field trips to weekends to juke jams, all in the skating rinks on the south side of Chicago from Markham to Glenwood to the famous rink on 87th street, and now Rich City Skate. And I loved it. When my family bought this rink, it immediately became like a family affair. 

 

My stepfather immediately became the general manager. My grandparents were CEOs. My mom, the CFO. Aunts, uncles, cousins filled a myriad of roles throughout the building, from the snack bar where we had to cook the food and serve annoying birthday parties, to the stuff shop where we sold light up trinkets and candy, all the way to the skate rental where we had to collect, repair, and pass out skates. And me, I learned how to do everything. You name it, I learned it and I loved it, all the way down to cleaning them nasty ass bathrooms. But I threw myself into the rink. Every free moment I had, I was at the rink. 

 

When I described myself, it was Kobe from the south side of Chicago, I work at my family's rink. And somehow that was cool when it came out my mouth. [audience laughter] But I realized quick it just wasn't my family or my love, but the communities as well. You see, black owned skating rinks are far and few in between. And these places have been a safe haven for blacks dating all the way back to the Great Migration. 

 

So, from the very beginning, our community supported us. They showered us with love as we threw bigger parties, as we threw political rallies. We were on the radio and skated at Bud Billiken parades. Every day, I had never seen so much joy in one place. It felt like a family reunion. We were flying high a few years later when I went off to college. But you know, don't worry, I only moved like two hours away. So, every weekend or holiday, I could visit, but college was an opportunity for me to define myself, for me to stop just being Kobe who worked at the roller-skating rink. So, I joined a speech team. Joined Alpha Phi Alpha. I got a job on campus. 

 

But of course, every waking moment I could, I would go back to the skating rink, and I would just like to fall into things like I never left, skating with my homies till 04:00 AM in the morning. And let me be clear, I'm a badass motherfucker on them, skates. [audience laughter] But that distance I had put between myself and the ring gave me a new vantage point. 

 

I started noticing things on my visits. I started realizing that my mom and my stepdad were fighting more, but they were putting on smiles for the people. I started noticing that the growing pressure of running a family business was starting to heighten the tensions and the egos as people positioned themselves for more control. I started to realize that my younger siblings, who are now in high school, had put a lot of space between themselves and the rink, which was a complete 180 from how things were when I was in high school. But throughout all of this, I just figured, hell, this is part of the business. This is what comes with turning a hobby into a hustle. This is the small business tax you pay. 

 

Things didn't really crystallize for me until about midway through my junior year when I get a call from my mom, who is deeply angry but completely calm. Yeah, sweet tea wasn't really one for small talk. She said, “Kobe, I called to tell you that I'm finished, that me and your father are splitting and I'm leaving the rink.” I was shocked, but I just wanted to hold on to that fantasy, that family affair. So, I begged her, what can I do? What can the family do? How can we turn back the hands of time? And she said, “We can't. Kobe, this was never my dream. And now, I don't even feel the love.” I knew she wasn't just talking about for the rink or her marriage, but her first love for skating, which had become my first love. 

 

After that phone call, the visits started becoming a little less frequent. Family members started to feel like they had to choose sides. And so, when I would go back, the place started feeling like a ghost of itself. When I graduated, I went from living 2 hours to 12 hours away because, like I said, I just wanted to hold on to that fantasy, so I ran. But, you know, I told myself that even though I was throwing myself into something new, that I would go back and visit, that I would help out at some point, but a month became six months, which became two years. And then, the summer of 2016 rolls around and I look myself in the mirror and I say, I can't for the life of me miss another Rich City Skate national party. 

 

It's our 10-year anniversary. And so, I grabbed my skates and I headed there. I knew that things at the rink had changed. But when I walked through the doors, many of those synchronized lights and humming fog machines were out of order. A lot of those thumping speakers had blown. And I'm standing on the sidelines of the largest roller-skating rink floor in Illinois, and it now has humps and dips and a clear spot that's been roped off because that's where the ceiling leaks. 

 

And yet, somehow this place is packed from side to side. People had rolled in there from California to New York to Florida. And at that moment, the DJ starts the roll call, and my heart swells as you got people out there from Texas doing the slow walk, folks from Detroit doing the ballroom. You got partners doing Kentucky throws and New York trains. When the sound of James Brown feels the room, I sprint on the floor. But I'm a little rusty. It's been some time. But with each passing song, as those humming-- the horns go on and on, the magic returns to my body. The moves start flowing through me like I never left, and I think to myself, this is what it was all about, the people. And the people are here. 

 

As the sweat pours from my face and the music fades, my father skates by me and he throws me a wink. He grabs the microphone and he thanks everybody for being there, for making this one of the best national parties that the rink has ever seen. He thanks them for their love and their support. And then, he tells us that this is going to be the last Rich City Skate national party, because Rich City Skate is closing its doors. 

 

I'm hearing this for the first time and it feels like a punch to the gut. I'm looking around as people are sobbing and hugging. You can hear as people are begging, “What can we do? What can the community do? How can we turn back the hands of time?” And he says “We can't.” He says, “This was always my dream, but now it's time to wake up.” I'd never seen so much sadness in one place. It felt like a funeral. I don't really know what to do, so I just do what comes natural, and I start cleaning up. 

 

From the nasty ass bathrooms to the snack bar, to vacuuming the stuff shop, to collecting skates when I come across this wall that is filled with pictures. 10 years of my family's history strung out in polaroids. And there are birthday parties, and graduations, and rallies and parades. I see this picture in the middle of my family during our inaugural national party and our freshly pressed polos with smiles as wide as naivety will allow. You see, for years, I started to resent this place, wondering if it had took so much from us and if it was worth it. But as I stared at these pictures, I realized that for so many people, this place was home. 

 

So, before I left, I went to my stepfather and I asked him for one last favor. And he walks into the DJ booth, and the intro to the payback starts playing in the background, and I hop on the floor, sweat intermingled with tears running down my face and I take one last skate around the largest roller-skating rink floor in Illinois and realize, building or not, I’m always be a Rich City skater. Thank you.