Skateboarders are always portrayed in the media as devil-may-care bad boys. From the rambunctious rebels of "Rocket Power" (remember that gem?) to "Hannah Montana's" Lily Truscott, skaters were always the characters that I wanted to be. Growing up, my mom never let my sister and I even think about learning to skateboard. We weren't even allowed to ride our Razor scooters in the quiet street of our development; it was just too dangerous!

The idea of skateboarding faded from my mind until high school, when I became friends with a group of skaters. With their help, I began learning how to longboard. When I first got the basics of standing on a moving board, I felt like I was achieving my childhood halfpipe-dreams. That is, until a nasty downhill tumble left me bruised and board-betrayed.

I didn't ride until recently when a friend lent me her skateboard. To my surprise, I picked it back up quickly. I was feeble on this new board- which is a few inches thinner and shorter than your typical longboard. I was nervous, as my college campus is full of more experienced skaters; "real skaters" I suppose. On our first outing this weekend, I trailed behind my friends on the sidewalk, embarrassed of my poor balance and scared of falling into the busy street.

We found ourselves an empty lot with perfectly smooth pavement, and I practiced cruising back and forth for an hour or so. I felt like I was making some decent progress. When the sun was setting, we got on the train, boards in hand, and began the commute home. A man sitting near us took notice of the boards and began asking us questions. It seemed innocent at first, as he seemed genuinely excited to talk about skateboarding with us.

He asked me if I knew how to ollie. I smiled politely and shook my head, explaining that I was just starting to learn to board. His happy expression changed, and he suddenly took on an accusatory tone. "So you're just following them around then, huh?" He asked, referring to my friends.

He proceeded to berate my friends and I with several questions, including, "Aren't you embarrassed to have her following you guys around?" He then named some famous skateboarders, explaining to me that those were true legends, and I was just a poser.

No matter how much I ignored him, or politely smiled and explained that I was learning, he persisted. He was pretty fired up about me ruining the sanctity of his skate culture, as he even took notice of the cleanliness of my sneakers, and explained that it showed how I was a poser. I wouldn't have minded much had it not been for the group of older men listening in and laughing. It was something comically surreal, like a scene in a movie that would lead me to angstily snap my board in half and give up on my skater dreams.

Unfortunately, I had expected to receive some sort of reaction similar to this man's. I had always heard the terms "poser" thrown around in regards to people who skate, or tried to skate but couldn't. I felt discouraged to learn, because I'm afraid of being made fun of by the "real" skaters.

Excuse me for bringing gender politics into this, but I also feel like girls who skate are more often accused of skating to appeal to a certain aesthetic or get boys' attention, which bothers me most of all. Countless memes were made using the quote, "Don't wear Thrasher if you don't skate," referring to teenage girls wearing the iconic flame-laden logo on hoodies and t-shirts.

Now that skating has been brought back into pop-culture with movies like "Mid '90s" and the revival of Van's Sk8-Hi's, I can understand why the true skaters are defensive of their sport. However, I do wish that there was less of a stigma surrounding girls like me, who still wobble when cruising on flat ground.

Despite the conversation I had on the train, I'm going to continue to learn on my own and with friends. For now, my goal is to be able to ride through campus without falling onto my face, but maybe I'll learn to ollie as well.