by George Takei
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To Daddy
Contents
Prologue
An American Beginning
1. Journey to Arkansas
2. Rohwer Remembrances
3. Chill Wind of Tule Lake
4. Home Again
Growing Up Different
5. Tacos and Mariachis
6. Mt. Vernon Days
7. To Be or Not to Be
8. Separate Dreams
To Be an Actor
9. Wild Luck
10. Burton and Guinness
11. Fly Blackbird!
12. Return to Hollywood
The Trek Begins
13. Meeting Mr. Rosenbury
14. Where I Had Never Gone Before
15. The Launching
16. Return to Tomorrow
17. Mission: Impossible
Life After Cancellation
18. Political Animal
19. The Campaign Run
20. Rapid Transit
21. Ventures and Enterprises
STAR TREK Lives
22. The Motion Picture
23. Wrath of Khan and Other Demons
24. Don’t Call Me Tiny
25. Trek Wars
26. River Kwai to Edinburgh
27. Trek Wars, the Sequel
28. Captain Sulu at Last!
Live Long and Prosper
29. Gene
Photographs
Thank You
The idea of this autobiography first sprang from a lunch I had over a year ago with Tom Kagy, the publisher of Transpacific Magazine. We were on the terrace of an ocean-view restaurant in Santa Monica when he suggested that the story of my life as an Asian American actor/activist would make an interesting chronicle. A week after that, my agent, Steve Stevens, proposal the notion of recounting my almost thirty years with the STAR TREK phenomenon as an autobiography. I had been demurring on all such suggestions, claiming that I was much too young to be writing about my life. But I realized that when two people whose judgments I respect come up with the same idea only a week apart, I couldn’t continue to pretend that I was a blooming adolescent. My time had come.
But as I began grappling with the notion of putting my life down on paper, the growing awareness of the scope and complexity of my experiences began to loom formidably. I have vivid, real memories from my days of incarceration in America’s internment camps, but I felt the imperative of placing the child’s recollection in a larger, historic context. For assistance in the recounting of those years spent behind barbed-wire fences, I am deeply indebted to many people: from the Japanese American National Museum—curator Dr. Kaoru Oguri, microfilm manager Clement Hanami, and Legacy Center manager Chester Hashizume; from the Japanese American Citizens League, Carol Saito; and from the Japanese American Cultural Community Center, Kango and Katsumi Kunitsugu. I am also appreciative of the help on my family’s background provided by Dr. John Kashiwabara and Ken Wakabayashi.
To nail down the details from the STAR TREK years of my life, I owe a great debt of gratitude to Richard Arnold, TREK consultant extraordinaire, ably assisted by Phil Burrill.
My thanks to Ana Martinez-Holler, publicity director of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, for assistance on the history of Hollywood.
My special appreciation to journalist Brad Altman, who was indefatigable in providing advice and research assistance. Without the constancy of his support, this effort would have been less joyful.
PROLOGUE
Silver Anniversary
A QUARTER CENTURY. TWO AND a half decades. It was an undreamed-of anniversary. STAR TREK was twenty-five years old. The television show first aired in September of 1966, and now, in what seemed like only a shimmer of the transporter, it was 1991. From cancellation to revival, from blockbuster to disappointment, from fictional space battles to real-life Trek wars, we had persevered through ecstatic highs and utter discouragements for twenty-five years. We had lived an unexpected lifetime. Never in our wildest dreams could we have fantasized all that actually happened. And now, we had reached a rare and unimagined milestone. In 1991, STAR TREK celebrated a glorious silver anniversary.
The centerpiece was the release of STAR TREK VI: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. But the day before the opening of the film, on December 5, 1991, all seven of us—Bill Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, DeForest Kelley, Nichelle Nichols, Jimmy Doohan, Walter Koenig, and I—gathered at a historic landmark on Hollywood Boulevard, the Chinese Theater, for a fantastic ritual ceremony.
The Chinese Theater was the most glamorous film showcase in town, built in 1927 in a “Chinese” architectural style that cannot be found anywhere in all of China. It is singularly Hollywood-style “Orientalia.” And the concrete squares in the forecourt of this theater contain the autographs and handprints of the great luminaries of motion picture history.
This was the theater that my parents took me to as a kid on special occasions. I remember putting my hand in the huge palm prints left by Gary Cooper, Gene Kelly, and Clark Gable and getting goose bumps at the thought that my hand was occupying the very same space that had held the hands of those magical heroes of the screen. Now, we of the STAR TREK cast were gathered in the same forecourt, to add ours to that exalted collection. We were joining those legends of movie history!
But before the ceremony, in an informal briefing inside the theater, we were instructed to write only our autographs in the wet cement and nothing else. Space in the block was limited, and we had to get seven names in. It was emphasized repeatedly that only our names could be written in the square. Then, we were hustled out the back way and loaded into convertibles for the parade down Hollywood Boulevard.
The cheering crowd, the rousing marching band, the congratulatory speeches from officials, and finally, the moment for Hollywood’s version of an investiture ceremony came. Bill was the first to walk down the red carpet and get on his knees. He picked up the writing stick and, with bowed head, dutifully inscribed his name in cement—only his name, as instructed. Then Leonard followed suit and completed his act of inscription into the hallowed forecourt. De was next. He seemed a bit nervous. I didn’t blame him at all. It was an awe-inspiring experience. He got down, wrote his name, and got up. Somebody whispered, “He’s misspelled his name.” Bill heard that and yelled out, “De! You misspelled your name!” We looked down at his autograph. There in concrete was written D-e-F-o-r-e-t Kelley. De had left out the 5 in his name! Grinning with red-faced embarrassment, De got back down and squeezed the missing 5 into his autograph. The flashbulbs were blinding. De’s public shaming made the rest of us very cautious.
When my turn came, I carefully wrote my name on the viscous surface, crossed my T, and prepared to dot the final i. But suddenly, an awesome sense of responsibility struck me. I realized that I was the only native Angeleno in our group. Leonard was from Boston, De from Georgia, Nichelle was from Chicago, and Walter from New York. Bill and Jimmy weren’t even Americans—they were from Canada! None of them could be expected to know the history and tradition of the Chinese Theater. But I had grown up here with it. I had a responsibility as the sole Angeleno! Then I remembered, we had been strictly instructed—only our names, nothing else.
But, I deliberated, what could they do? They wouldn’t dare erase it! I dotted my i, put my stick down, and, with mind heavy with the obligation to the tradition that I alone bore, I opened my palm wide and sank it firmly into the wet cement. There was shocked s
ilence. It was broken only when Bill gasped, “George put his hand in!” I felt the stillness of accusatory silence, but I continued pressing down. Then Bill cried again, “I want to put my hand in, too!” He dashed down the red carpet and with a loud “splat” slapped his palm right down by his name. The floodgate was opened. All the rest ran down to their respective names and started slapping their hands into the now drying cement. But ever-aware Leonard, always in character, sank his hand in solidly, forming his Vulcan salute.
* * *
STAR TREK VI: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY was a triumph. The critics raved, the box-office exploded, and our silver-anniversary showpiece was another gleaming achievement in our twenty-five-year trek.
Two months after the opening of the film, Majel Barrett and the rest of the cast gathered again, this time on the opposite coast, at another landmark institution, the National Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. This was another premiere, but of a totally different kind. It was the grand opening of a museum installation titled The Twenty-Fifth Anniversary STAR TREK Exhibit. This, too, was an unanticipated distinction.
We were assembled onstage for the press conference prior to the opening festivities. It was a huge, hangarlike hall packed with representatives from the print and electronic media. A reporter got up and addressed this question to the curator of the exhibit, Mary Henderson:
“The National Air and Space Museum here is the most distinguished repository for our civilization’s achievements in air and space exploration. We have the original Spirit of St. Louis that Charles Lindbergh flew in the first solo flight across the Atlantic. We have astronaut Neil Armstrong’s space suit that he wore on the moon. We have a genuine chunk of the moon rock here in the collection of the Smithsonian. Why should a television and movie series, a piece of entertainment, be honored with an exhibit alongside these genuine artifacts of our space achievements here in this museum?”
“Yes,” Mary Henderson responded. “We do have the genuine artifacts you mentioned here. But this museum is not just a repository for these pieces from history. Our collection is here to teach young people about our achievements. They are here to stimulate their thinking. To encourage and arouse their curiosity about the universe beyond.
“STAR TREK very much has a place in this museum, because over the last quarter century, the show has sparked the imaginations of not just youngsters, but so many people. STAR TREK inspired many to a life of inquiry and exploration. School teachers, engineers—indeed astronauts—have been touched by the ideals of the show. STAR TREK over the last twenty-five years has generated a vibrant excitement about the exploration of space. The STAR TREK Exhibit most certainly belongs here, right in our nation’s capital, because STAR TREK, with its ideas, has galvanized a powerful sense of adventure for the challenges of our future and for the great conundrums that we face here today.” Mary Henderson was confident and eloquent. She filled me with a pride that soared through that vast hall.
The exhibit was scheduled for a three-month run. I don’t think the Smithsonian people really knew of the enormity of our audience base—or of its determination. From the opening day on, the museum was encircled by an endless line of people patiently waiting to get in. The schedule was extended. Then, it was extended again. Then again. People flew in from all parts of the world to view the exhibition. The Twenty-Fifth Anniversary STAR TREK Exhibit ran for a record-breaking eleven months and finally had to be closed because another exhibit couldn’t wait any longer for the space. The Smithsonian had never before had such a response to an exhibit. For STAR TREK, it was another precedent-setting distinction.
* * *
The Silver Anniversary STAR TREK Convention in Los Angeles was the biggest ever held. The gargantuan Shrine Auditorium was packed beyond its capacity. STAR TREK was now a worldwide phenomenon, and fans flew into Los Angeles from throughout the world—Europe, the Americas, Asia, and Australia. The metaphor of Starship Earth had become stirring reality, and the assembled fans buzzed with anticipation in a myriad different accents and a multitude of languages.
The convention, befittingly, was a tribute to Gene Roddenberry, the creator of STAR TREK. The entire program was dedicated to Gene as an expression of gratitude and affection for an artist-visionary who had touched so many in such incalculable ways.
All of the actors were again gathered to honor the man who had drawn the international legion of fans here. We, who were blessed to know Gene as a friend, spoke from the vast stage of the Shrine. Fond memories were shared, amusing anecdotes related. Our admiration of Gene was expressed with appreciation and affection.
But throughout our speeches, there was a hint of melancholy. For Gene had been ill for a long time. Over the past year, we had watched him assaulted by a series of strokes. First, his speech had suffered from a slight slurring. Then another attack took from this giant of a man, a former police officer, his firm, purposeful steps. From then on, he walked with a cane and a quivering, timorous shuffle. By the time of the great convention, Gene was in a wheelchair. But that puckish smile and the twinkle in his eyes could never be taken from him.
Gene was the last to be introduced. He had been waiting in the darkened wings of the stage, seated in his wheelchair. His smile, as he listened to all the accolades, beamed out at us onstage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour, the man for all seasons—Gene Roddenberry.” The master of ceremonies’ voice reverberated through the tremendous space of the auditorium. Gene’s wheelchair, pushed by his son Rod, began rolling across the stage. The lights came up on the entire house. We were lined up in front of the back curtain. As one body, the entire auditorium exploded in thunderous applause. The sound grew and grew as Rod pushed his father’s wheelchair to the center of the stage. Like one giant tidal wave following another, the massive ovation continued roaring in.
I looked over at Gene’s hunched figure in his chair. And a flash of alarm shot through me! Gene’s arms, pressed on the armrest of the wheelchair, were trembling furiously. I looked at Rod questioningly. Why wasn’t he doing something? Then I noticed Gene waving off Rod’s concern with his head. Gene didn’t want help. He was forcing his body up with the muscles in his arms. His legs may no longer have been able to support him, but he was determined to rise up on his own to acknowledge the great sound of tribute that continued rolling onto that stage. It was heart-stopping to watch. Gene’s arms shook and wavered perilously. But with sheer willpower, he was pushing his stocky frame upright to receive the endless sound of gratitude and love. With the fierce determination that had characterized his life, he commanded every resource within him. Slowly, agonizingly, he rose up, tall and smiling. Standing proudly, he whispered to the world, “Thank you very much.”
That Silver Anniversary Convention at the Shrine Auditorium will remain for me the shining highlight of an extraordinary year glittering with the laurels, trophies, and mementos of an undreamed-of twenty-five years.
That this quarter-century association with STAR TREK should even be a part of my life is the most unexpected miracle. As inextricably identified as I am now with soaring galactic voyages, to a boy in Los Angeles more than fifty years ago, gazing up to the stars and dreaming, the idea would have been the sheerest of fantasies. For that Japanese American boy and his family were on another, quite different, journey. Their world was collapsing around them in a chaos of cataclysmic events. I was that boy. And my personal journey began in the turmoil of World War II.
AN AMERICAN BEGINNING
1
Journey to Arkansas
A GUST OF HOT, DUSTY wind beat against the window and just as quickly blew away. The train was moving at top speed, but in the empty vastness of the desert landscape, only the occasional dust billows and the lonely saguaro cactus that sped by defined any sense of movement. That and the steady, monotonous rocking of the train. The scene outside remained the same. Hour after hour, day after day.
I was four years old and sensitive enough to feel the
tension. There was a strange solemnity in the leathery faces of the old folks as we swayed together in unison. Some of the women had cried when we left Los Angeles, but now they just stared out at the silent emptiness, impassively swaying, their dry tear stains leaving lacy patterns on their cheeks. All of us wore numbered identification tags attached with soft wire firmly twisted into our clothes. I was No. 12832-C. Occasionally, the Military Police, standing like statues at parade rest at both ends of the railcar, would thump their rifles on the floor to break their tedium.
Our father had told us—my younger brother, Henry, and my baby sister, Nancy Reiko—that we were going for a “long vacation in the country.” I believed him. I thought it would be a wonderful adventure. I just assumed that this was the way people went to the country for a long vacation. I only wondered why that sick lady at the far end of our car, who kept up a constant onslaught of hacking and coughing, had to go on this vacation with us. Our father told us we were going to a camp called Rohwer in a faraway place called Arkansas. When I asked him what it would be like there, he said he wasn’t sure and didn’t say anything more.
The trip seemed interminable. It was the second day, and Camp Rohwer felt no closer. The rocking and the swaying was never-ending. The hard, upright wooden seats were torturous. The dull heat, relentless. Everybody was numbed into a muzzy lethargy.
Suddenly, the tedium was broken. For no discernible reason, the train came to a roaring, huffing, squealing stop in the middle of the desert. Immediately, everyone was alert. What was happening? My mother tightened her hold on my shoulder and drew me toward her as she held my sister in her arms. She looked at my father, who was fixed on the MPs. Alarm flashed in everyone’s eyes.
“All right. Everybody out for exercise. Outside. Outside.” Both MPs were gesturing for us to leave the car.
