by George Takei
Tom laughed and said, “George, I’ll do you a favor. You campaign for me, and I’ll break that curse for you. I’ll free you of that ugly dead albatross hanging from your neck.” We shook hands right then and there to seal the compact. And I threw myself with gusto into another wild and woolly campaign.
It was election night 1973, and Bradley for Mayor supporters all converged on the Los Angeles Hilton Hotel. The main ballroom was crammed with nervously expectant campaign workers, political junkies, and celebratory revelers. They spilled out into the bars, lounges, and corridors of the hotel.
I was with Tom and his lieutenants in his top-floor suite. All eyes were glued to television sets scattered about. The numbers were looking good. But tiny, needlelike memories of the mayoral election night of 1969 still prickled at me incessantly. We had mounted a strong, vigorous campaign again. We were clear and forceful on issues. And most importantly, the people of Los Angeles had gotten to know Tom Bradley. And yet, I was nervous. I couldn’t shake those tiny stabs of guilt. Despite my compact with Tom, I didn’t feel I would shake my jinx this time. I still felt the weight of that dead bird hanging on me. Could my curse strike another election?
As precinct after precinct reported in, the numbers became better. More precincts reported, and the numbers continued to improve. A phone call came for Tom. He took it and all eyes shifted from the television sets to him. He listened and than broke out in a great, sunny smile. He kept smiling, then started nodding at all of us. As he hung up, he announced, “He just conceded. Let’s go downstairs!” To a burst of wild applause, he led our jubilant group to the elevator and down to the roar of the ecstatically cheering crowd waiting in the ballroom below.
May 29, 1973, was a history-making evening. Tom Bradley became the first black mayor of a major American city. And even more momentously, George Takei had come up with a winner! At long last, the curse had been broken. I was freed of my onerous, stinking burden.
* * *
Miracles happen in threes, they say. The first two had now happened. I wondered if there might not be that proverbial third.
After the cancellation of STAR TREK, I had returned to the rat race of guest appearances on series television. A month after the last STAR TREK episode was finished, I was toiling among stars, not the galactic stars of the future, this time, but the tinseled stars of modern-day Hollywood, as a hippie film studio photographer in an episode of a new series called Bracken’s World.
STAR TREK was behind me, I thought. It would enjoy a reasonable extended life on the rerun circuit for a few seasons and then gracefully fade away—like all canceled series. But with this one, something strange was happening. The ratings for the reruns were better, relatively speaking, than when we were on first run. And the numbers were growing.
The early warning signal was sounded by a phone call from Walter Koenig.
“Guess what I heard!” Walter’s voice was excitedly conspiratorial. “You won’t believe it, but . . .”
“Well, if I won’t believe it, why are you telling me?” I teased.
“If you don’t want to know what’s happening with STAR TREK, then I won’t tell you,” he retorted. He knew well I wouldn’t be able to resist.
“All right,” I conceded, “please tell me what I won’t believe.”
There were rumors, he told me, that STAR TREK was being considered for revival back on television because of the great ratings in syndication. That sounded interesting but highly unlikely. I told Walter that I’d believe it when I saw it actually happen. I told him that, but in the back of my mind, the thought of the two miracles that had already happened began to stir. Perhaps? Maybe? Could it be? I couldn’t help wondering.
But those rumors were like spring wildflowers; they bloomed enticingly only to fade with the heat of summer. As the season turned, they bloomed again. I became cynical about revival rumors. While STAR TREK was on prime time we had been put on a psychological roller coaster ride, hanging on for dear life, and expecting death on the other side of every hairpin turn. I refused to be put through that again, this time grasping every wispy ghost of a rumor for our resurrection from the graveyard of cancellation. But Walter continued to feed me those wisps with excited updates on every fresh hope as well as every new disappointment.
“Guess what? It’s definite!” This time Walter’s excitement was unreserved. “They’re definitely going ahead with the revival as a series! It’s definite!” My cynicism couldn’t resist his enthusiasm. I caught his fever.
“That’s fantastic! You know, I’ve actually been expecting some kind of miracle to happen. And this is it!” I told him about my anticipated third miracle. This one wasn’t in the political arena, but it was a miracle nevertheless, I exclaimed.
“Guess what?” Walter continued, “we’re coming back as a cartoon series!” Immediately, I realized I had been had. Walter loves to tease and abuse my trusting nature, and usually I don’t fall for it. But my secret wish this time had made me take his bait. I was mortified that I had shared my third miracle hopes with him. I expected his mocking, high-pitched laughter as he reeled in his gullible victim. But it didn’t come.
“I think it’s an interesting approach,” Walter persisted dead seriously. “Animation will allow STAR TREK to handle all sorts of science fiction concepts without an astronomical effects budget.” I silently refused to be suckered in further. I didn’t respond. “Well, what do you think, George?” he finally asked.
“Walter, I don’t think it’s funny. I really believed you.” I frowned.
“No. It’s really true,” he insisted earnestly, “STAR TREK is coming back as an animated series through Filmation!” His impassioned persistence seemed credible, but I had been taken in by his act once too often. I told him that I’d check around to verify his words.
After a few calls, I discovered that Walter was, indeed, telling the truth. We were, in fact, coming back as an animated series for the Saturday morning youngster audience. Then, another call from Walter followed.
“Guess what?” His voice sounded crestfallen.
“What is it?” I asked. I hadn’t heard him sounding so dejected before.
“We’re not in it. They’re only going with Bill, Leonard, De, Jimmy, and Majel. They’ve got a tight budget. We’re not going to be doing the voices for our own characters.” It was shocking news. But it was also typical. Our emotions were shot up and then plunged down just like that roller coaster ride during the filming of the series. So although STAR TREK was taking off again in another guise, we were not going to be a part of this ride. I learned that Jimmy was going to be doing Sulu’s voice and Majel was voicing Uhura. I finally began to reconcile myself to the fact that STAR TREK really was going to be in our past.
My third miracle, however, was yet to happen. Leonard Nimoy was doing something few actors have done. First, he was taking a position on principle. Secondly, he was standing up for other actors. And astonishingly, he was putting his own job on the line for them.
Leonard had learned of our not being included in the cast of this revival of the show, and he took action. STAR TREK, he argued with Filmation, was at its core an affirmative vision of our future. That vision was based on the idea of drawing our strength from our diversity. Nichelle and George were the personifications of that statement in STAR TREK. If Filmation did not recognize that, then he was not interested in being a part of the project. They would have to go ahead without him.
It was a bold stand. It was a stand of integrity. And it was a stand an actor didn’t have to take. He could have done the voice of Spock under the guise of a mere hired hand . . . or voice, in this case. But Leonard represented more than actor as mere hireling. An actor, in the truest sense, is an artist who bears the values and the ideals of his culture. Leonard Nimoy is such an artist. I will always be grateful to him for having kept Nichelle and me connected with STAR TREK, and I take great pride in my association with him for who he is as a man.
Unhappily, Walter was not
on the final cast list. But, ever the enterprising man, he continued his association with this version of STAR TREK by sharing with us another of his many talents, this time as a writer. He wrote the script of the animated episode “The Infinite Vulcan.”
19
The Campaign Run
TOM BRADLEY, MY OLD CITY councilman, was the new Mayor of Los Angeles. His council seat was now open. Friends in the political arena began suggesting something I had never considered. They began urging me to run for that vacant seat on the city council.
I had been active politically because of issues and the principle of participation in the process. I was a citizen-activist. I knew I would always be involved in supporting the good candidate or contributing to the important causes, but I had never envisioned myself running for public office. But now here were friends and people I had worked with in the political campaigns who were strongly encouraging me to run. It was a unique opportunity, they pointed out. This was a special election to fill an unexpired term, so there would not be a runoff, only a “sudden death” election where the candidate with a plurality of votes would be declared the winner. Already there were about a dozen potential candidates indicating their desire to throw their hats into the ring.
But I loved acting. The council seat was a full-time job that would require me to forgo my career. The political arena was a calling that meant relinquishing private pursuits for exclusively public service obligations. I was hesitant about forfeiting all that I had worked for up to this point in my life.
But, my friends countered, there had never been an Asian on the council. This was a unique opportunity to bring diversity to the civic body. As far as I knew, there had never been an actor on the Los Angeles City Council either. Both were constituencies that deserved representation, my friends argued. And besides, added a savvy politico, I had a shining image from STAR TREK. I was eminently electable.
There are points in life when unique circumstances demand equally singular decisions. This was an opportunity to contribute in a previously unimagined way in an unexpected arena. I enjoyed the excitement and the engagement with the issues of our times. I believed in the idea of citizen participation in government. I felt that part of the problem with our system was professional politicians who were disconnected from the people; I felt I had that linkage to offer. Like Tom Bradley, but as an Asian American, I could also be a coalition builder. But however attractive the opportunity, I knew that it came with a big price tag. It was a high cost—but the opportunity was equally big. I decided to pay the price and declared myself a candidate for the 10th District seat on the Los Angeles City Council.
I put together a crack campaign team. Marj Shinno was my campaign manager. We had worked intensely together in many political wars. Jerry Zanelli, a sharp political professional, was my consultant. Mike Yamaki, a dynamic young law student, was the campaign coordinator. Al Green and Bill Collier, friends from the Democratic State Central Committee, were my advisors and advance men. Les Hamasaki, an urban planner and an old friend, was a close confidant. And I called on friends from STAR TREK: writers Dorothy Fontana and David Gerrold, who had written that delightful episode “The Trouble with Tribbles,” which I had lost to Walter Koenig because of my absence filming The Green Berets. The group also included Bjo and John Trimble, activists extraordinaire, and their two little girls, as well as fans from all over southern California. They stuffed envelopes, built a telephone network of supporters, and leafleted the entire district.
A campaign moves on its stomachs, and my mother kept the volunteers well fed. David Gerrold told me he was a volunteer not because of me, but because of Mama’s sushi—and I don’t think he was just kidding. I did notice he didn’t show up on the hot dog days.
My father pitched in wherever he was needed. He phoned, he stuffed envelopes, he walked precincts, he even swept the headquarters after everyone had gone home for the night. There wasn’t enough he could do. I worried that he might overwork himself, but he brushed aside all such concerns with a smile and a breezy “There’s a lot of work to do till election day.” Seeing him bustling around the office exuding pride, watching the joy he took in every detail of his son’s candidacy for elective office—for this alone, I was glad I had made the decision to run.
Walter Koenig was indefatigable speaking on my behalf at every street rally and any coffee klatch. Nichelle Nichols sang for me at the drop of a request. A letter from Leonard Nimoy helped cinch the important endorsement of the Democratic County Committee. And at my first fund-raising dinner, the guests of honor were Gene Roddenberry and Majel Barrett, who had recently returned from their Shinto Japanese wedding ceremony in Tokyo. His keynote speech was warm, gracious, and very Gene. It was not stirringly flag-waving. It was not electrifyingly political. It glowed with generosity. It was suffused with love. It was just the right note for my candidacy.
I loved campaigning. The old pros told me that one of the first rules of running for office is not to let the people see you sweat. I broke that rule profusely. In the blazing midsummer sun, I walked the precincts, going from door to door, talking to the voters in their homes. It was exhausting but enormously fulfilling. Talking with neighbors about the concerns of the neighborhood is the basis of our democracy.
The candidate’s nights in the neighborhoods, where all the aspirants for office engage the voters in a question-and-answer session at gatherings in community halls or high school auditoriums, were tremendously stimulating. This, the old tradition of town hall meetings, was what participatory democracy was all about.
But town meetings were updated, Los Angeles style. At one of these candidate’s nights in the east side of the district, where the people were primarily Hispanic, I got a leg up on the other candidates. A question was asked in Spanish. As I started to respond in Spanish even before the translation was begun, the stunned expressions on the faces of my opponents amused me no end. I was the only candidate who spoke Spanish.
I was living, sweating, and enjoying the fundamentals of what I had studied in my American civics class in high school. And always, there was my father’s beaming face, standing in the back of halls, on street corners leafleting, or back at the headquarters busily stuffing envelopes.
Ironically, STAR TREK became a major problem. The Federal Communications Commission’s so-called “Equal Time” ruling unexpectedly intruded as a giant obstacle. This rule required, in essence, that if any candidate for office appeared on any medium, then that station would have to offer equal time to all other candidates for the same office. STAR TREK was airing on a local channel every night in reruns. I was visible nightly on television. But, of course, this was not as a candidate; it was as an actor . . . playing Mr. Sulu, the helmsman of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Yet, when my opponents all claimed their equal time based on my speaking fictional lines as a fictional character in fictional situations, they were able to campaign as themselves, as candidates for office, on issues relevant to the contest—on crime, on education, on taxation. It was the most preposterously unequal interpretation of the notion of “equal time” conceivable. And the “offending” station had to offer each of the twenty-eight candidates running against me, individually, free time equivalent to the amount of time Mr. Sulu was on the air. Whether a viable candidate or one that could garner only a dozen or so votes, they all got “equal” time. The loss to the station was staggering. After complying for one interminable night of electioneering by my opponents, it prudently began airing only those episodes in which Mr. Sulu did not appear.
To further compound this bizarre turn of events, the cartoon STAR TREK series was about to premiere nationally on Saturday mornings. Except that in Los Angeles it was blacked out for the duration of the election campaign, simply because the cartoon drawings were accompanied by my voice. It was madness. But it was madness we could do nothing about. There seemed to be more intelligence in the cartoon characters than in the rigid minds of the bureaucrats in Washington.
* * *
Spirited exhaustion—that was the feeling on election night, September 18, 1973. All the speeches had been made to the point of raspy hoarseness. The precincts had been walked till my leg muscles ached as much as the smile on my sunburned face. And yet, I felt a zest, a hunger for the unknown that awaited us. I felt an appetite that actually seemed to be fed by the fatigue, like the second wind that energizes a long-distance runner.
We gathered in the banquet hall in the back of a coffee shop near our headquarters. Volunteers, staff, campaign advisors—we had worked together intensely, passionately, and we wanted to be with each other to share the hours as the vote counts came in.
The polls were encouraging. They said it was a two-man race between David Cunningham, a political consultant who identified himself on the ballot as a “businessman,” and me. When the first votes were announced, we were in the lead. As the numbers flowed in, the race began to seesaw. We traded places in the lead. He was ahead at one point, then I was. It continued like that until about nine-thirty. Then the tide turned. He continued to maintain a slim lead. By eleven o’clock, it was clear that I would not be the councilman of the 10th District. I conceded the election. I had lost the race by a heartbreaking 1,647 votes. The curse of George Takei struck again! It had not been broken. And this time, my curse hit me!
* * *
Running for elective office was exhausting, and it was, at times, tremendously draining. I saw venality; I experienced meanness; I had to deal with manipulators. But this was a part of society, and in a hard-fought race, inevitably these elements surface. But I also saw massive dedication to the ideals of this system in the many volunteers of so many different backgrounds who gave so much of their time, energy, and funds. I experienced our American electoral process as personally as a citizen could, and I found it bracing. My experience of running for public office was deeply satisfying.