The Unseen Bonds Beneath the Burnside Bridge: A Skatepark’s Story Beyond the Concrete
There’s something profoundly human about spaces that aren’t just built, but claimed. Burnside Skatepark in Portland, Oregon, is one such place. When I first heard about the documentary Through My Board, I was struck by how it frames this iconic skatepark not as a mere landmark, but as a living, breathing community. Personally, I think this is where the film’s genius lies—it’s not about tricks or ramps; it’s about the people who found purpose, connection, and even redemption under that bridge.
A Park Born of Defiance and Rain
One thing that immediately stands out is the park’s origin story. Burnside wasn’t commissioned by the city; it was stolen from neglect. Skaters, tired of Portland’s rain ruining their sessions, took matters into their own hands—literally pouring concrete on Halloween night. What many people don’t realize is that this act of rebellion wasn’t just about skating; it was about reclaiming a space overrun by gangs and drugs. The skaters didn’t just build a park; they created a sanctuary.
From my perspective, this DIY ethos is more than a subculture—it’s a metaphor for resilience. Burnside became the world’s first concrete skatepark not because of its design, but because of the community’s refusal to wait for permission. If you take a step back and think about it, this is the kind of grassroots action that cities often overlook. It’s messy, unauthorized, and yet, it works.
Paul Johnson: The Heart of the Story
The documentary centers on Paul Johnson, a deaf Black skateboarder whose presence at Burnside is both ordinary and extraordinary. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Johnson navigates a world that often isn’t built for him. Director Dan Eason’s decision to focus on Johnson wasn’t accidental—it’s a lens into the park’s inclusivity.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how Johnson’s communication with hearing skaters evolved. Eason admits their first interactions were like “playing charades,” yet this barrier became a bridge. This raises a deeper question: How often do we let language or differences keep us from connecting? Johnson’s story suggests that shared passion can transcend words.
Seven Years, One Pandemic, and Countless Stories
The film’s seven-year production is a story in itself. Filming through the COVID-19 pandemic wasn’t just a logistical challenge; it was a testament to the park’s role as a lifeline. Skateboarding, being an outdoor activity, became a rare source of continuity during lockdowns. What this really suggests is that spaces like Burnside aren’t just about recreation—they’re about survival.
Eason’s struggles—securing interpreters, balancing perspectives—highlight the complexity of telling a community’s story. In my opinion, this is where many documentaries falter. They either romanticize or oversimplify. Through My Board doesn’t shy away from the messiness. It explores aging, addiction, and the tension between preserving history and embracing change.
Beyond the Park: A Call to Reconnect
Eason’s hope for the film is clear: He wants us to look up from our screens and engage with the world. Personally, I think this message is both timely and timeless. In an era where social media promises connection but often delivers isolation, Burnside offers a counter-narrative. Skateboarding, as Eason points out, is a “real, raw space” where generations and backgrounds collide.
What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about skating—it’s about the human need for belonging. Burnside’s story challenges us to ask: What spaces in our own lives are waiting to be reclaimed? What communities are we overlooking because they don’t fit the mold?
The Future of Burnside and Its Legacy
As Through My Board travels to festivals across the U.S., it carries with it a question: Can Burnside’s spirit outlast its concrete? The park’s fame has brought attention, but also commercialization. In my opinion, this is the tightrope every grassroots movement walks. How do you preserve authenticity while growing?
One thing is certain: Burnside’s legacy isn’t just in its ramps, but in its ability to inspire. If you take a step back and think about it, the park’s story is a reminder that communities aren’t built by institutions—they’re built by people willing to take risks, break rules, and pour their hearts into something bigger than themselves.
Final Thoughts
Through My Board isn’t just a documentary; it’s a mirror. It reflects the best of what we can be when we stop waiting for permission and start building. Personally, I think that’s the most powerful message of all. It’s not about skating—it’s about showing up, connecting, and leaving something better than you found it.
So, the next time you see a skatepark, don’t just see ramps. See a community. See a story. See a space where, for a moment, the world makes sense.
