Alter Egos Meet True Family on the Roller Derby Track
Chosen family and open affirmation power a sport where getting knocked down always means getting helped back up
As Pride celebrations bring chosen family together across Southeast Michigan, the state's roller derby tracks buzz with their own year-round version of radical belonging. Here, the search for community happens at every practice and every bout — complete with bruises, glitter and the kind of fierce acceptance that comes from blocking someone at full speed and then helping them up.
At a roller derby bout, skates pound the floor, the crowd roars and perfectly timed blocks send players flying. But beyond the spectacle, Michigan's derby scene offers something deeper than sport: a sanctuary where queer, trans and nonbinary athletes find not just teammates, but true family.
For the uninitiated, roller derby is a fast-paced, full-contact sport played on an oval track. Two teams compete to score points by helping their designated "jammer" lap opposing players, while blockers try to stop them — sometimes with strategic hits that are as punishing as they are precise. Think rugby on wheels, with a little glam and a lot of grit.
In cities like Detroit and Lansing, derby isn’t just athleticism — it’s identity, freedom and belonging all rolled into one.
Veronica Cockrell, known as Red Zeppelin on the track, found that sense of home when she joined Lansing Roller Derby. After relocating to the area, she craved connection and found it at a bootcamp hosted by the league.
"It's so hard as an adult to find adult friends, unless you work at a place that has a really good work culture,” Cockrell says. She adds that it helps when people see themselves reflected in the team. “The majority of our skaters are not heterosexual, and I think that makes it easier for other LGBTQ+ people to also want to join.”
Derby’s embrace of queer and trans athletes isn’t accidental. With DIY roots and punk-feminist flair, modern roller derby was revived in the early 2000s by skaters who built grassroots leagues, crafted their own gear and adopted bold alter egos, according to the National Women’s History Museum. It quickly became a magnet for those pushed to the margins of traditional sports — a space shaped by Riot Grrrl ethos and third-wave feminism.
That legacy is alive and rolling in Michigan.
“It’s a very fun, welcoming environment,” Cockrell adds. “The games are very fast-paced. It’s a lot of fun to get out and just cheer for your friends.”
Detroit Roller Derby skater Marie Mastrangelo, known by her derby name Tonka, came to the sport during a major turning point in her life.
“I’ve been skating with the league for a little over a year,” she says. “I had never skated before joining, so I went through the bootcamp process, which is the standard way to get into the league unless you already have derby experience.”
She had dreamed of skating ever since watching "Whip It," the 2009 roller derby film starring Elliot Page, which was filmed in Detroit. Life, however, got in the way. “I was in college, working three jobs... I just didn’t have time,” she says.
Looking back, she’s glad she waited.
“I grew up super conservative, and I don’t think I would have been ready for the radical culture of derby at that time,” Mastrangelo explains. “I went through major life changes — coming out, leaving conservative religious spaces — that really shaped me.”
She adds, “Derby has been a huge part of that journey. The league is incredibly diverse in age, gender expression, socioeconomic background and identity… It’s a vulnerable and welcoming space, and I wouldn’t have been ready for it 10 years ago.”
It was a connection through her wife that ultimately brought Mastrangelo into the sport.
“My wife ran a coffee shop and was hiring baristas. She hired someone who had grown up playing roller derby. The first time we met, she immediately asked my wife, ‘Has Marie ever considered derby?’ Apparently, I had the build for it,” she says. “She spent two years trying to recruit me, but I knew how big of a commitment it was, so I kept saying no.”
Then, in December 2023, Mastrangelo had a moment of reflection where she felt ready for a new hobby. Today, Mastrangelo not only skates, but she also serves as the league’s human resources rep, welcoming new skaters and helping them step into derby life.
“I probably get three or four emails a week from people who hear about us in different ways — whether they see us in action, meet a skater or just find out about roller derby and think it’s cool,” she says. “My job is to guide them through our process, which usually involves getting them into our bootcamp programs. That’s how we teach people to skate and prepare them for a full-contact sport.”
This kind of intentional care and inclusivity is built into the infrastructure of the league in many ways.
“There has been a very intentional shift from ‘Detroit Derby Girls’ to ‘Detroit Roller Derby.’ The rebranding is a big deal — it reflects our commitment to inclusivity,” she says. “The league has a lot of trans and nonbinary skaters, and when you join a home team, your jersey includes your number, name and pronouns.”
Small but meaningful steps like that make the league a truly affirming space. But that sense of community goes beyond identity.
For skaters like Abby West — whose derby name is Shulk, a nod to She-Hulk — derby also offered visibility and belonging she hadn’t found elsewhere. She joined Detroit Roller Derby in 2016, just after the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association (WFTDA) updated its gender policy to be explicitly inclusive of trans athletes.
But inclusion hasn’t always been consistent.
After moving back to Traverse City in 2020, West skated with two local rural leagues before cutting ties due to discriminatory practices.
"As of June 11 last year, I cut ties with both leagues because of things they were doing that I could not support,” she explains.
Still, West remains deeply connected to the community she found in Detroit.
“Derby just spoke to me,” West says. “I jumped in, broke a pair of skates within a month and a half, and realized, ‘I need to invest in this.’ I haven’t had any regrets since.”
The culture off the track is just as dynamic as what happens during jams.
“You’ll see some of the widest mixes of people you’ll ever see,” West adds. “Blue-collar, white-collar, high income, low income, queer, straight, trans, cis — it’s a really great way to bring different facets of people’s identities together.”
But derby’s governing structures still have growing to do. WFTDA, hampered by limited funding, lacks enforcement power when it comes to discrimination.
“If someone experiences transphobia or discrimination, there’s no official reporting mechanism,” West says. “That needs to change.”
Still, skaters like West, Mastrangelo and Cockrell remain hopeful. The bruises and grueling practices are real, but so is the joy — and the love. Roller derby in Michigan is more than a sport. It’s about finding your people — and knowing they’ve got your back, on and off the track.
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