Some of my favorite memories as a child were going on photography assignments with my dad. I’d watch him pack up lights, lenses, and cameras, placing them with care into the trunk of our Ford Explorer. I always stood at a distance as he did this. I was scared to handle the equipment; it was heavy with its natural weight but also heavy with its artistic endowments, which, at the time, I didn’t believe I had.

On the drive, I asked him what he was shooting: The Rat City Rollergirls. This was before the rowdy ‘09 film Whip It, a coming-of-age Elliot Page comedy, so I had no idea what roller derby was as we walked inside the rink.

Roller derby is pretty simple: each match is called a “bout” and is played between two teams. The teams each have a pivot, three blockers, and a jammer. The jammers can score points by lapping opposing members of the “pack.” The blockers’ job is to keep the other team’s jammer from scoring. Like most full-contact sports, it’s violent, oddly sexual, and funny as hell.

As we got closer, a tattooed woman cut us off, waving down another woman with the same haircut as my mom. As they hugged each other, I realized they were wearing the same uniform and carrying the same elbow pads. As my dad set up his equipment, I struggled with this scene. I had never seen such an assortment of female personalities. It wasn’t until much later, when I saw their bodies in movement, that I understood what they all had in common.

As a prepubescent girl, what I saw before me was exciting and intimidating. These women offered me a physical manifesto: Big women and small women, lawyers and bartenders, purple hair and perm jobs, old bruises and cheek kisses, lesbians and single mothers, snarls, and smiles. Everyone was tough; everyone was equal. I had never seen this many female bodies in motion, taking up space, owning their softness and edges.

Before the match started, my dad took their portraits. He had me hold the reflector, a giant golden disk that, if angled precisely, cast a flashing light on a model’s features. My dad took two pictures of every woman: before and after applying their war paint.

Looking back at these pictures, I can now appreciate this duality. A woman didn’t just have to be a travel nurse coordinator; she was also “Diva Skate” in red lipstick, whose specialty was throwing out a hip to knock out an opposing jammer. Even now, I find it interesting that my dad’s art allowed me to access this idea of femininity.