by George Takei
With the campaign we mounted, we were able to demonstrate that a hard-fought race can be rooted in issues, be broad-based, and still be focused on common ideals. We built a coalition that reflected the diverse rainbow of our district and the richness of our ideas. We demonstrated that principles do not have to be forfeited in the name of political expedience. I was proud of the campaign, for while we lost in the race for the office, we succeeded as a testimony to the vibrancy of our American electoral process.
And personally I won on two counts. First, I won political credibility. I demonstrated that I could be a significant vote-getter and a builder of coalitions. And more personally, I won back my career that I cherished. The STAR TREK reruns resumed. The cartoon series began airing in Los Angeles. And shortly after the election, I was back in the recording booth at Filmation doing the voice of Sulu for the animated STAR TREK series.
* * *
A few years later, I was approached again to run for office—this time for a seat in the state legislature. The incumbent assemblyman from my district, Mike Roos, was entangled in a struggle involving the majority leadership position. His base was factionalized, and the people urging me to run against him felt I could oust him. Again, I was confronted with a fork in the road. I wanted time to consider the proposal.
Somehow, rumors of my possible running for the seat reached the ears of Assemblyman Roos. He called to ask me in for a meeting. I was happy to oblige.
The assemblyman greeted me with wary formality in his district office. When we shook hands, only the faintest hint of a smile creased his face. Were the rumors true? he wanted to know. I responded that I indeed had been approached but that I had not made a decision. I was thinking it over. He hinted that, among the things I should be thinking about, perhaps I needed to consider the Federal Communications Commission’s “Equal Time” rule.
Again, that outrage against the meaning of the word “equal”! That affront to rationality! I left Assemblyman Roos’s office livid at even the suggestion that this absurd bureaucratic nonsense would be made a factor in the electoral process again.
This so-called “Equal Time” rule is a discriminatory law against a category of citizens who happen to be in a specific business—film and television. I did not become an actor in order to gain visibility to run for public office. Acting had been my established means of livelihood for over fifteen years. Offering oneself for consideration as a candidate for public service is both a citizen’s right and responsibility.
Every candidate gains recognition from the voters via his or her work professionally and in community service. A businessman with his name attached to his business is not required to remove that name from signs and other advertisements for his business when he campaigns for office. His business identity is part of his credentials for his candidacy. Only those in film and television are penalized for their professional work and visibility by this federal ruling.
In Los Angeles, those in the film and television business make up a significant portion of the population. It is a sector of the community that warrants a voice in the arenas of government. As a member of that community, I felt that I could articulate its interests as well as others. To run for public office, I, as an individual, might be willing to forgo my residual fees when shows are not aired in response to the “Equal Time” rulings. But if by my candidacy I should cost my colleagues—other actors, writers, and directors—their residual revenue, which for some is not an insignificant part of their annual income, then I could not be a very credible voice for their interests. A candidate for public office from the film and television community would penalize that very community he or she represented.
I decided not to do it. I decided against running and provoking Assemblyman Mike Roos into calling up the madness of the “Equal Time” ruling again. As my example demonstrates, this ruling of the Federal Communications Commission is not only an unequal and unfair dictate, it is the single most effective inhibitor of the exercise of a citizen’s right to run for public office. It flies right into the face of the ideals of participatory democracy.
20
Rapid Transit
MAYOR TOM BRADLEY WAS CALLING. He needed my help, he said.
“Tom, you know I’m available to you. I’d be happy to help you in whatever way I can.” I thought he might have wanted me to serve as an MC for some function.
“George, I’d like to ask you to represent me on the Board of Directors of the RTD,” he said. I didn’t think I had heard right. The RTD was the agency of government charged with public transportation for the southern California area. It ran the comprehensive bus operation for the entire metropolitan district. During the mayoral campaign, Tom had vigorously advocated as a top priority the need for improved public transportation and the construction of a subway system for Los Angeles. All this would fall into the province of the RTD, whose full name was the Southern California Rapid Transit District. What could he have meant asking me to represent him on such a board? I was an actor. I must have heard wrong.
“Did you want me to represent you at some dinner of the RTD?” I asked.
“George, I’m asking you to be my appointee to a seat on the Board of Directors of the RTD,” he repeated, chuckling at my confusion. I hadn’t heard wrong.
“But, Tom. I’m an actor. I don’t have any experience. . . .” I started to demur.
“If I remember your bio, George, you’re an actor who has studied architecture and urban planning. And if I know you, you’re a citizen-activist who is a good quick study. You’ve got political smarts, and you’re articulate. You’re just as qualified as the businessmen, lawyers, and other politicians that sit on that board, and you just might bring more background than some of them. Let me send you some material for you to look over. Then let me know.” This was an astounding and totally unexpected offer. And it was tantalizing.
I call myself a city kid. I love cities. I love visiting many cities to savor their urbane pleasures but also to study the unique qualities that give them each their individual character. What is it that makes a charming city charming? What makes one city more alluring than another? Even failed cities, urban basket cases, I find fascinating. An understanding of the causes of urban disaster areas is as necessary to building a successful city as knowing the manifest delights of great ones.
One of the basics to building a healthy city is efficient circulation of people and goods—it is the civic artery that carries energy to the body of the city. And essential to that healthy circulation is an efficient, affordable public transportation system. Public transit, whether buses, trolleys, subways, or ferries, is vital for a dynamic city. It provides mobility and access to the diverse work, service, and cultural locales of a metropolitan area. And a vibrant city sparkling with urbane spirit is unimaginable without the pedestrian life that public transit creates.
Mayor Bradley was offering me the opportunity to be a shaper of policy in this vital area of urban planning. My city, Los Angeles, despite our history of a fine network of trolley car transit, was known more for private automobile dependence. It was an enticing challenge I couldn’t refuse. I called the Mayor and accepted.
The press had fun with the Mayor’s appointing an actor to the transit district board. Did the Mayor think he was casting a movie with his appointments? Maybe the campaign had made him too “spaced out.” “Earth hailing Mayor Bradley: Beam back to planet Hollywood,” they teased.
But the media-savvy Mayor knew just how to play their game. When he was needled about his choice of a member of the Screen Actors Guild as his representative on the RTD Board, he responded, “All America has been watching George Takei drive a public transportation vehicle called the U.S.S. Enterprise all over the galaxy. Now you’re going to see how he can get the people of Los Angeles from downtown L.A. to Van Nuys, from East L.A. to Culver City. Stay tuned.”
The joking stopped—but I knew I had to prove myself. I had a lot of homework to do.
* * *
&nb
sp; The Mayor had made a priority commitment in his campaign to the building of a modern heavy-rail rapid transit subway system. I agreed wholeheartedly. It was essential to making Los Angeles not only a strong urban center, but also to addressing the air pollution, traffic congestion, and land use issues.
The real challenge, however, lay in building the political consensus to support a tax that would be the local matching fund needed to secure federal funding. We knew that if the current traffic congestion continued, it would start adversely impacting the local economy, job growth, and the quality of life. We campaigned long and hard and finally in 1980 succeeded in the passage of Proposition A, a half-cent sales tax dedicated to transit improvement. We were halfway there.
Now we had to secure the federal match. To accomplish this, it was useful to participate on the national transit scene. We needed to build alliances with other cities planning public transit projects and support each other’s efforts. I had become active with the American Public Transit Association headquartered in Washington, D.C. In 1978, I was elected Vice President of Human Resources of the Association and served for two years.
In 1980, a Californian was elected President of the United States. Ronald Reagan, former actor, former president of my union, the Screen Actors Guild, and former governor of our state, was going to the White House. We were optimistic that we would have one of ours in Washington to move our project along. I even went to the gala send-off luncheon at the Biltmore sponsored by the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce, hopeful of the President-elect’s support for our subway project.
But we were to be sadly disappointed. The Reagan administration’s “supply side” economists would not supply the full federal matching funds. Instead, they whittled them down even more. We had to lobby strenuously to be able to announce in 1983 the completion of the funding package for the Metro Rail system for Los Angeles.
It was a Herculean effort that involved the dedicated labor of hundreds of people, from legislative advocates, elected officials, transit staffers, to a host of concerned citizens. In this process, I came to understand the essential role of leadership in a project of this magnitude. The Metro Rail could not have become reality without the foresight, political skills, and impelling drive of Mayor Tom Bradley and Congressman Glenn Anderson. They were the dynamic political duo that led the campaign for building the funding base of the project. It was a gigantic task successfully accomplished.
But not a spade of dirt had yet been turned on this, the biggest public works project proposed in southern California. The building of the system itself was the next challenge.
* * *
During the time that I served on the board, I had decided to place my commitment to the Rapid Transit District as a high priority and had passed on many television guest appearances—save for one. In 1974, I took time out from my transit duties for an offer that was impossible for me to pass up. It was a drama entitled Year of the Dragon by an extraordinary talent, Frank Chin.
I had seen the play months before when I was in New York for a transit conference. After a wearying day of meetings, I looked in the theater listings in the newspaper and found a play that had an interestingly Asian-sounding title playing at the distinguished theater company American Place Theater. I went to see Year of the Dragon, and that night, for the first time in my years as an inveterate theater-goer, a play spoke to me viscerally as an Asian-American.
It was the story of a Chinese-American man, Fred Eng, living in Chinatown, San Francisco. Not old but no longer young, still single, still living in his father’s house, working as a tour guide in his father’s business. Shaped by the forces of his culture, conflicted by the values of American society, and feeling that he had sacrificed his life to the exigencies of family circumstances, Fred was an angry man on the verge of a breakdown. It was a potent drama with insinuating resonances for Asians in America. The role of Fred was brilliantly brought to life by actor Randall Kim.
I went backstage after the performance and was introduced to Frank Chin. We went out for a drink. And from that after-theater get-together, I got to know an artist churning with ideas, a man of explosive emotions and a blistering personality. I went back to the hotel exhilarated, not only by one of the most powerful and at the same time personal dramas I had experienced, but by having met Frank Chin, an enormously gifted dramatist who understood the experience of being Asian in America so deeply and so intensely.
So when the offer came to play the role of Fred Eng in the television adaptation for the Theater in America series on Public Broadcasting, I was not conflicted. I made arrangements with the Rapid Transit District to take a leave of absence for about six weeks.
The time I spent in New York rehearsing and then filming Year of the Dragon with Pat Suzuki, Tina Chen, Conrad Yama, and Lilah Kan was deeply fulfilling. Sinking my thespian teeth into a chunk of dramatic red meat for the first time in my professional life served only to remind me of the meager fare I had had to nibble on in my acting career. The difference was in the writers—the chefs who can prepare such rich, savory fare, such solid nourishment for the soul. When we were finished, rather than being satisfied, I was hungry for more. I was convinced that we needed to encourage good writers who understand the unique American experience of Asians.
I returned to Los Angeles revitalized as an actor and ready to continue my work of moving people, not so emotionally this time, but from one place to another. The Metro Rail project still had a long way to go.
21
Ventures and Enterprises
“HEY, GEORGE, YOU WANT TO make some money?” It was Jimmy Doohan calling with a business proposition. “There’s a seminar at the L.A. Hilton downtown. Meet me there, and you’ll hear about something fantastic. You’re going to be thanking me for the rest of your life.” With that ebullient but cryptic invitation, he hung up.
I went to the seminar and discovered that it was a women’s cosmetics pyramid scheme. It worked this way: Jimmy bought a supply of cosmetics from his supplier, then he was to find other people to supply. Those people would, in turn, find their customers to supply, and so on and so on. If everyone continued finding new customers to supply, then the person at the top of the pyramid would be, as Jimmy put it, “fabulously rich.” The trick was for us to build such a pyramid under us. He wanted me to be the first under him.
Jimmy was uncontainably optimistic. Californians are beauty conscious, he enthused. We lead the rest of the nation in trends. And these cosmetics were going to be the next thing in a nationwide craze. These were all purely organic; made with real fruits and vegetables. We were getting in on the ground floor of a giant new empire of organic beauty products. I bit. I “invested” in a few hundred dollars’ worth of women’s cosmetics from Jimmy.
But I found it difficult to find people with the same entrepreneurial spirit that we had. They were busy at other things, they didn’t have the time or the money, or they weren’t interested.
About a year later, rather than selling my supply of cosmetics to dozens of other buyers and counting my profits, I found myself giving them away as gifts to Josie, my mother, and my sister. I wondered what Jimmy did with his? I didn’t have the heart to ask him.
* * *
The starship that transported us through the galaxies was called the Enterprise. The name suggested boldness, a readiness to challenge uncertainty, to take the initiative. The word also means an undertaking for profit, an industrious effort at moneymaking, a plain business venture. And STAR TREK did indeed spawn a whole galaxy of entrepreneurial brave spirits.
I first got an inkling of this a year after the cancellation of the series. The telephone rang. A young female voice was inviting me to come to a downtown Los Angeles hotel for a gathering of STAR TREK fans. Could I join them for coffee and conversation?
How sweet, I thought. The show was dead and resting in the cancellation graveyard, but these dear people were still gathering to reminisce over the embers of glowing memories. I agreed to drop by.
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br /> The gathering was indeed a small group—at most, about three dozen people—mostly women, who wanted to talk about STAR TREK and ask some questions about the making of the show. They were also offering for sale mimeographed collections of essays, poetry, and short stories they had written. I thought they were rather dearly priced, but they were selling. The profit margin had to have been substantial, and I’m sure they did quite well that afternoon. This was my first introduction to the great ship of fan entrepreneurs. It was still only gently warming up for the big blast-off.
STAR TREK conventions were the mother vehicles for these bold entrepreneurs. A prime component of the STAR TREK conventions was the “hucksters room,” usually a large ballroom of a hotel where everything from T-shirts to tricorders with blinking lights were displayed for sale.
My nephew, Scotty, saw a phaser gun at one convention I took him to. “Uncle George, I want that,” he announced. It was a handsome mock-up of a phaser gun. It weighed, felt, and sounded more realistic than the painted balsa-wood props that we actually used on the set. And incredibly, it was priced at five hundred dollars! But Scotty wanted it. And Uncle George, ordinarily a hardheaded bargainer in business, became a mush-brained soft touch. Scotty was the first kid on the block—and, as it turned out, the only kid in the neighborhood—to have one.
This was how the ship of enterprise was fueled and gained momentum—collectors and doting uncles buying the output of enterprising people. It wasn’t long before it was cruising along at warp speed.
In the wake of the entrepreneurial ship, however, were more than a few casualties of this explosive new development. Fired up, more by fan fever than by prudence, and forgetting the first rule of entrepreneurship, which is to venture only after thoroughly studying the market, some fans attempted staging conventions with their family savings or even mortgaging their homes. Las Vegas might have been a better bet. Among the flotsam and jetsam of the soaring STAR TREK entrepreneurism are some tragic stories. The success stories, however, are as remarkable as the STAR TREK phenomenon itself.