Star Trek Changed My Life Forever And Reigns As The Greatest Sci-Fi Franchise Of All Time

I can't say if I fell in love with "Star Trek," or if it fell in love with me. 

Like many Trekkies, I came to "Star Trek" at an early age. Throughout the 1980s, reruns of the original series would air on my local station (KCOP, channel 13 in Los Angeles), and they would serve as a periodic video backdrop to our dinnertimes. As a child, "Star Trek" was merely an action-light, horror-heavy sci-fi adventure series, and my older sister and I would gleefully yell out when Spock (Leonard Nimoy) performed his notorious Vulcan nerve pinch, or when Captain Kirk (William Shatner) got to snog an itinerant babe. We would hide our heads from the monster of the week; like many, I was terrified by the scowling face of Balok, the Ted Cassidy-voiced puppet alien from "The Corbomite Maneuver" (November 10, 1966). 

Perhaps unusually for a child, I wasn't powerfully drawn to action, fights, or explosions in my entertainment. I would indeed watch the era's toyetic wartime cartoons like "Transformers" and "G.I. Joe," of course, but I didn't care deeply for the characters, nor have much invested in their dramatic stakes. I had trouble taking the "oorah" action seriously, perhaps already innately understanding that the cartoon soldiers were fictional and their triumphs were only temporary; what is the meaning of a victory when the bad guys will merely return the following week?

I only realized this in retrospect, but "Star Trek" was secretly providing an antidote to the breathless mayhem oozing from every pore of my generation's childhood entertainment. It was a series that, despite bad guys, monsters, and fights, was ultimately teaching intense lessons of diplomacy and leadership. The crew of the Enterprise weren't "violent/cool," and I liked that. Finally, I realized, here was a show about pacifism.

And, yes, "Star Trek" communicated themes of pacifism. It might have been a fluke of 1960s special effects budgets, but "Star Trek" rarely showed the USS Enterprise firing off its weapons or getting into full-scale starship battles. The common playground pop culture query of "who would win in a fight?" seemed churlish with "Star Trek." Would Kirk win in a fight with, say, Han Solo? Even as a wee bairn, I had to ask why Kirk and Han Solo would be fighting in the first place. I figured Spock would merely ask Han Solo about his ship while Kirk invited him in for a meal. Power, "Star Trek" argued, wasn't derived from one's ability to dominate and overwhelm others with tactics and weapons prowess, but to negotiate, adapt, and remain friendly. 

(It should be noted that I didn't see any "Star Wars" movies until I was 18, perhaps key to my philosophical development.)

Whether "Star Trek" taught me to be a pacifist or whether I was already a pacifist can be debated, but creator Gene Roddenberry and I were definitely on the same wavelength. "Star Trek" took place in a post-war universe at a time when humans had outgrown the need to kill each other for resources, and petty political grievances were a thing of the past. 

These themes became all the more explicit with the debut of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" in 1987. I was nine, and the premiere was a big event in our household. A new "Star Trek?" And one that took place almost a century after the last one? And it's even more aggressively devoted to themes of diplomacy, multiculturalism, and pacifism? Sign me up! It was all thrilling. 

It was then that I realized a glorious thing: I am a nerd, and I love it.

While it may be a cliché, I still maintain that "Star Trek" is for nerds. That is, I should hasten to add, a high compliment. With the release of "Next Generation," I was given my clearest, most refreshing draft of action-antidote. I began to realize that the rest of the American viewing public longed for conflict and war and action in their entertainment, with boys my age constantly raving about the latest 'splosion-fest that evoked the word "awesome." 

Meanwhile, over on "Star Trek: The Next Generation," the universe had already graduated, moved into the stars, and gave up on action altogether. Oh sure, Commander Riker (Jonathan Frakes) was handy with a phaser, Worf (Michael Dorn) could murder you with a bat'leth, and the USS Enterprise-D needed to employ some sneaky battlefield tactics to outgun the Borg (or any number of other opponents), but one always got the sense that weapons and fights were a last-ditch tactic, a formality that must be seen through before an understanding could be reached. War was to be avoided at all costs. 

What's more, there were classical references! Whenever Picard quoted Shakespeare, my heart would sing. By the time I turned 13 (when NextGen had just finished its fourth season), I too was getting into Shakespeare and Picard emerged as a teacher, a fictional professor that you didn't want to disappoint. I finally realized that the nerdy sci-fi technicalities of "Star Trek," along with its classical obsessions, workplace propriety, devotion to diplomacy, multicultural mindsets, and ability to brainstorm open-minded solutions to complex problems ... these were all aspirational states. Scoop in a few ethical dilemmas — racism, euthanasia, gender politics — and "Trek" gave me everything.

Like with the original series, the peacefulness of "Next Generation" could easily have been a product of its budget; without the money to stage massive phaser battles, fights and scrapes rarely rose above the skirmish level. This, by necessity, required the show to de-emphasize violence. The makers of "NextGen" also couldn't afford to visit alien worlds regularly, forcing them to shoot on the same six or seven sets week after week. 

The limitations, however, allowed Trekkies to enjoy our time on board the Enterprise. "Star Trek" is, after all, a workplace drama above anything else, and we loved seeing the characters do their jobs on an day-to-day basis. We lived with the Enterprise crew long enough that we started to get a sense of how the ship worked. That, in turn, led directly into fantasies of living in "Star Trek," knowing we could operate the machinery if asked. It also didn't seem so terrible to live in a world that was devoted to science, peace, and diplomacy. 

The natural outcropping of "Star Trek" obsession is, of course, the vast extant fan community. In the 1990s, "Trek" surged in the commercial marketplace, putting out books, models, pins, toys, and comics at a volume not seen before. If you wanted to delve into deep-cut expanded universe lore, there were millions of fans to help. I was a teen. I fell in hard. I purchased uniforms and decorations and read the books. As Gowron (Robert O'Reilly) so often implored, I experienced the glory.

That fan obsession felt healthy to me. Yes, my fellow Trekkies and I had far too many nitpicky conversations about canon and character and what movies were or weren't the best (these kinds of conversations are not unique to "Star Trek" fandom), and those weren't always the most intellectually inspired conversations. It also wasn't lost on any of us that "Star Trek" took place in a post-capitalist, non-religious utopia, and Trekkies felt the need to spend their capitalist dollars in an expression of pop worship. We were a little embarrassed by it, but we embraced the irony. 

The conversations became more complex with the launch of "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine" in 1993. Here was a "Star Trek" series that forced its utopian characters to live in a world of religion, turbulence, and wartime suffering. Could Starfleet retain its ideals when confronted with their opposite? The answer was: not always. In a way, "Deep Space Nine" was the most practical "Star Trek" series, offering a metaphor for Trekkies constantly butting heads with the outside world. 

Just as Commander Sisko (Avery Brooks) had to wrangle the scheming machinations of militant Cardassians and the power-hungry preaching of corrupt Bajoran theocrats, so too did we Trekkies have to wield our optimism in the face of a greedy, war-hungry world. While others longed for violence, both real and fictional, we insisted on idealism and negotiation. Conflict resolution was better than saber-rattling. All of a sudden, my "Trek"-taught childhood optimism became a philosophical rallying cry. Maintaining peace isn't something that we can take for granted. Pacifism is an active, hammer-like philosophy we need to handle and express every day. The politics were clear. 

By the end of the 1990s, I had left home to attend an out-of-state college, and my media consumption shifted dramatically. I fell out of "Star Trek" by necessity. It wasn't until several years later that I gathered the wherewithal — and collected the DVDs — to catch up. "Star Trek" ran hot and cold (some of those "Voyager" episodes were rough), but it was always careful to abide by its principles. Weirdly, the franchise's radical optimism couldn't survive the bleak, warmongering post-9/11 world. A series about diplomacy, reaching out to enemies, de-escalating conflicts, and non-weapons-oriented solutions wasn't welcome in the age of George W. Bush. 

When J.J. Abrams' 2009 "Star Trek" reboot film came out, the franchise was altered to be one of the usual action flicks that "Trek" previously eschewed. It appealed to a mass audience. Conversations began as to what constituted "real Trek," leading directly into additional conversations about gatekeeping, fandom, and franchise evolution. Is "Star Trek" for nerds, or can it appeal to — for lack of a better term — jocks? 

Conversations between Trekkies in the 1990s were impassioned, but rarely caustic (at least in my experience). In 2009, however, notions of fan toxicity were more openly acknowledged among pop obsessives, and people became angrier about their obsessions. All of a sudden, I was an "old school" Trekkie. 

I was 31 and okay being "old school." After all, decades had passed since "Next Generation," a series that responded to Ronald Reagan and flourished during the 1990s. Why shouldn't it adjust again? I didn't like the franchise's actioned-up response to 9/11, but I was still happy to have debates as to what "Star Trek" meant and what modern action films communicated. 

"Trek" taught me to negotiate ... about "Trek."

I am on record with my feelings about the Paramount+ era of "Star Trek," and I have frequently been rather critical. I want to go on record, however, that my criticisms are not based in misplaced nostalgia, prejudicial hate against new "Star Trek," nor a gradually closing mind (an unfortunate affliction that can sometimes strike people rounding middle age). Indeed, I have liked a great deal of the "Star Trek" shows that have debuted since 2017. I think "Star Trek: Lower Decks" perfectly balances humor and irreverence with notable "Star Trek" themes of growth and maturity. "Lower Decks" is about lower-ranking officers who have the crappiest jobs on a Starfleet vessel, and struggle to grow up when they have a twentysomething's instincts toward laziness and bad decision-making. "Star Trek" is about adults, and "Lower Decks" sees people becoming adults. 

Likewise, "Star Trek: Strange New Worlds" returns to an episodic structure, allowing for miniature dramas and handily-packaged morality plays to be presented more cleanly than the broad arcs of "Discovery" or "Picard." I only wince at "Star Trek" when it violates its own principles or lazily falls into action-based stories that (perhaps unwittingly) glorify combat, war, and aggression. And make no mistake, these kinds of stories were always part of the franchise; they didn't start in 2017.

I love "Star Trek" deeply because of its radical, aggressive optimism. It envisions a world, and a form of entertainment, that downplays conflict. Drama and power can come from elsewhere. The future, "Trek" always declared, was going to be populated by nerds, miracle tech, and egalitarianism. And what's so funny about peace, love, and understanding? 

War was our awkward adolescence, "Trek" said, and our adulthood is in the stars.