Rollin' like a Zombie: CDMX
Everyone hates a clique: until they are allowed into it.
Roller Derby is as empowering as everyone says (if they know what it is) but, it's not so progressive that it avoids the Hollywood 'Mean Girls' trope.
You can strap on your skates and choose a life of laps. Hits. Falls. Repeats. You can marvel as you tap into a reserve of resilience, previously unknown to you, and overcome: injuries, mental barriers, burnout periods, more injuries, tantrums on track, burning hot tears, more injuries, low attendance, not being rostered, more injuries, fouling out, league participation pressure, more injuries, feet being slower than your brain, the rule changes, more injuries, the 'Negative Nelly' (all teams have at least one), the travel expenses, more injuries, the hand signals, the 'Untouchables' (star players who don't contribute to other areas of the league fully) and the constant blue, green, yellow hues of derby kisses across your body.But... You're still likely to find yourself hitting something more damaging than a blocker, sooner or later; because, like in any team sport, popularity matters.
Like in any team sport, winning matters. Like in any team sport, there are often mini rivalries within the roster.
I will never forget the first time I went along to an intro to roller derby session, the primary reason for this, the only one I ever mention aloud, is because I knew, right off, that this was the sport for me. The bread to my butter. There is a second, equally important, memory though, the one of only the coach and two other friendly players being the ones to offer me anything more than a cursory smile or tactical avoidance. Sitting on the bench, alone, trying to work out which way around the pads went on was lonely. Doing a relay race in teams and seeing others carefully avoiding standing near me, to ensure I couldn't slow them down, was lonely. People not introducing themselves, and being too shy to call them by their derby name (to be fair, one of them was called 'Big Willy') was lonely.
When Georgia and I moved to Mexico City leaving Manchester, and all we'd both ever known of roller derby teams, behind us; we had vowed to carry on skating and packed our kit. What possessed us to have that level of confidence, to rock up to a new country without the ability to speak the language and just tell the natives we'd like to join their team, is a symptom of derby obsession, pretty normal within this community.
Skaters gonna Skate!
Turns out, roller derby in Mexico is pretty similar to roller derby in the UK, and everywhere, in terms of tattoos. feminists and boldly coloured hair. Unlike the UK however, we were immediately in the clique. The entire team was invited to the house of a player to get ready before participating in a 'Zombie Walk' through the centre of the city. This particular Mexican team were called the Burdel Zombies so it seemed only right to aim to be the main event. As luck would have it, the hostess was a make-up artist. No woman to be left undead was the rule.
Everyone who was available that day crammed into her apartment and latex wounds were applied, weird tacky goo was plonked onto teeth and then dabbed with some sort of paint that made them look rotten, backcombing stations were set up on the sofa, at the dining table and on cushions on the floor.
Boyfriends and children wound in and out of the scene and the spitfire Spanish made our ears sing. After the uglification we were away in cars, thoughtlessly dripping blood on the seats of bangers belonging to people we hadn't even caught the names of yet. This scene is the stuff of team dreams. Less awkward more easy.Something I don't feel gets noted enough, or ever, about Mexicans, is the way in which they don't take themselves too seriously.
Firstly we had arrived 2 hours after the start time and it made no difference because there had been some confusion or another, as the Chilangas (slang term for residents of Mexico City, in the feminine) had predicted, so we were actually 'early'.
Secondly, It was clear that many people on this walk had spent a long, long, looooong time getting ready, but that didn't stop them delaying their progress for foreign bodies rushing up for photos, or that they minded having babies flung into their arms while parents gabbled and giggled at the irony of it.
Plus, Mexicans know how to take it too far! All the way baby! (Pride was yet to come and topped even the madness of this!) Finally, we didn't have our path carefully monitored by police or curtailed by barriers or tape. Zombies roamed lawlessly.Unlike real zombies, we couldn't sustain ourselves on blood alone and ventured into China Town, for the first time, in full apocalypse make-up.
The special that day was Sesame Sticky Beef and it was the best thing we had eaten in weeks. I remember us gently tapping our teacups together, with undisguised stares from other customers, and being glad we'd taken up the offer of going; glad we hadn't panicked at the cacophony of words we couldn't yet interpret; and, most of all, grateful to the girl whose name we didn't even know that had lovingly covered us with bites.On the way home, we caught someone taking photos of us as we sat chattering on the floor of the train.
We laughed like hyenas. It turns out being a zombie can help strip away more than just flesh!
