Star Trek and History

by Reagin, Nancy

  Another facet of Manifest Destiny can be seen in “Arena” and “The Devil in the Dark.” In “Arena,” when Kirk finds the Federation colony at Cestus III has been destroyed, he immediately attacks the reptilian Gorn species and pursues them. Spock tries to end the chase, but Kirk will not stop. He asks Spock, “How can you explain a massacre like that?” Later, he learns that Cestus III was a part of the Gorn’s sphere of influence and that the Federation colonists were, in fact, the invaders. In “The Devil in the Dark,” Kirk orders his men to kill the shaggy, silicon-based life-form called a Horta, which is interfering with mining operations that are important to the Federation. Here, as in the exploitation of the Indians and the taking of their lands by the U.S. government, the ends justify the means. If it is necessary to kill an alien creature that appears to be one of a kind, Kirk is willing to do that to return the mine to a normal work schedule. Eventually, he finds that the miners have been destroying the creature’s eggs, and as he does in “Arena,” he makes the choice to save the alien’s life.

  Like many of the people who settled the American West, Kirk has an ambivalent relationship with death and extinction. He combines a wistful respect for life with a reckless haste. In “The Man Trap,” he makes little attempt to reach a peaceful agreement with the last-surviving member of a salt-craving race. His emphasis is placed entirely on saving his crew and killing the creature, but after Dr. Leonard McCoy kills the creature to save Kirk’s life, a contemplative Kirk tells Spock that he is “thinking about the buffalo,” which once covered the plains of North America in huge herds. The people who brought about the extinction of the buffalo missed them when they were gone, but apparently they could not stop themselves from carrying out the almost total destruction of the species. By eradicating the buffalo, these men were destroying a way of life for those plains Indians who had not already fallen prey to white people’s diseases or to their bullets. Kirk’s acknowledgment of his own role in contributing to the extinction of a species represents the civilized man’s regrets that he must exterminate others to preserve his own kind, while also demoting the alien in “Man Trap” to the status of grass-grazing quadrupeds. Interestingly, in all three of these episodes, Kirk’s foe was a creature extremely alien to him, rather than a somewhat different humanoid.

  Kirk is more open to correcting his errors than the nineteenth-century settlers and oppotunists who spread across the western United States like a plague on the Indians. Nevertheless, many episodes are driven by his biased assumptions. That the ends justify the means for Kirk is best spelled out in “A Private Little War,” the Vietnam allegory in which Kirk fuels an arms race among primitive people because the evil Klingons are arming the other side, as Bruce Franklin discusses in another chapter in this volume. The same message becomes clear in “The Enterprise Incident,” when Kirk flagrantly steals a Romulan cloaking device. In the West, this rationale provided the justification for cavalry men and vigilantes to commit atrocities against Indian villages that they saw as potential threats to white settlers. In Star Trek, the Federation’s fears and its needs obviously outweigh every other consideration—the same could be said for white settlers’ interests on the frontier.

  In some ways, Kirk is similar to one real-life Western adventurer. His charisma and sometimes foolhardy daring are reminiscent of George Armstrong Custer, who, like Kirk, apparently never considered the likelihood of a no-win scenario. Custer met his Kobayashi Maru at the Little Bighorn, while the much-luckier Kirk survives many close calls by rewriting the rules of conduct. Part of the public fascination with Custer springs from his long-burnished image as a heroic figure—an image with a foundation almost as fictitious as James T. Kirk’s. After a period of revisionism in which Custer was labeled as a reckless bumbler, historians now seem to be swinging back toward a more even-handed evaluation in which Custer is seen as neither an egomaniacal warrior nor a heroic officer. He remains a fascinating leader, and both Custer and Kirk resonate with legendary heroism. Just as Sparta’s Leonidas faced an overwhelming horde of “barbarians” at Thermopylae, Custer confronted an overwhelming force of angry Indians. Kirk, too, steps into the breach more than once to defend and promote the United Federation of Planets against an apparently superior enemy.

  Like Custer and many of the whites who settled the American frontier in the nineteenth century, Kirk sees himself as an agent of civilization, and he often chooses to force his perspective on others who have no interest in his brand of peace. Moreover, Kirk’s many uninvited forays into alien space bear similarity to Custer’s violation of the Black Hills, which, by treaty, belonged to the Lakota people (the Sioux). The same sense of entitlement that drove Custer also spurs Kirk into some clashes. A perceived right to make contact and to gain new information propels Kirk from mission to mission. Custer was driven by a less admirable motive: the unending white hunger for wealth in the form of land and gold.

  Matthew Wilhelm Kapell notes that the myth of James T. Kirk is no more fantastic than the legend of Wild Bill Hickok. In fact, the Hickok legend’s central confrontation—a gunfight with the train-robbing McCanles Gang—may never have happened, and yet the story has been elaborated through a biography, a dime novel, multiple movies, a TV series, and magazine and newspaper articles. In fact, Kapell suggests that the myth of Hickok may have as little to do with history as the fictional existence of James T. Kirk does.7

  JFK, JTK, and the Final New Frontier

  Stepping outside the Western myth and taking a look at the use of its imagery, it seems clear that the designation of space as the Final Frontier might have come from a piece of real history—John F. Kennedy’s decision to call his agenda the New Frontier during the 1960 presidential election campaign. Representing himself as an agent of change in a period of great unknowns, particularly where nuclear weapons and space travel were concerned, Kennedy found resonance in the frontier label. As he asked Americans to make sacrifices to help their nation, he recalled the inner strength required to survive on the hardscrabble frontier, a quality that was central to the American myth of the West. Technology, which included nuclear weaponry, created new challenges for Americans in the Kennedy years, but social challenges such as African Americans’ drive for equal rights also required Americans to demonstrate bravery and the willingness to change. Kennedy has enjoyed a bifurcated afterlife as both a mythical hero and a historical figure, and it’s clear that the mythical John F. Kennedy and the fictional James T. Kirk have more in common than similar initials. As leaders, they venerate courage and toughness in the face of adversity. As men, they have a weakness for the opposite sex, and both are endowed with wit, good looks, and eloquence.

  If Kirk’s connection to the Western mythos requires any further proof, one need only examine the later Star Trek movies and series, which tie Kirk to Western imagery. In The Next Generation’s “Unification, Part II,” Captain Jean-Luc Picard refers to Kirk’s work as “cowboy diplomacy,” and in Voyager’s “Flashback” Captain Kathryn Janeway expresses an unfulfillable wish to “ride shotgun” with an officer like Kirk. In addition, Western episodes found their way into both The Next Generation and Enterprise. Lincoln Geraghty has written that Enterprise’s theme can be reduced to two words: pioneer spirit.8 Deep Space Nine also connects itself to this milieu through its remote location and through Dr. Julian Bashir’s desire to practice “frontier medicine.”

  By embracing the Old West, William Blake Tyrell contends that Star Trek “takes our roots and disguises them as branches for some of us to cling to.”9 Locating the science fiction future in the frontier of the past enabled the series’ producers to achieve several goals. By making the show quintessentially American, it offered the hope of a brighter future to those people struggling through the political and civil conflicts of the late 1960s in the United States. At the same time, a science fiction setting established a psychological and sociological distance from current events, which made it possible for the series to comment on situations in the real world (like
Vietnam) without generating political opposition. Star Trek also was able to rework an imperfect American past by using a mythic Old West to promise a brighter and greater future. The series thus offered viewers the stability found in the familiarity of a nostalgic past, even as they faced the uncertainty of the future.

  As Jon Wagner and Jan Lundeen explain in Deep Space and Sacred Time: Star Trek in the American Mythos, “A Hollywood Western may or may not deserve to be called mythic in itself, but it is part of America’s foundational myth of the Old West, a myth that addresses in a uniquely American way our national preoccupation with the individual vs. society, nature vs. culture, and the wild vs. the tame.”10 In many ways, these issues are Star Trek’s as well. We learn that humans of the twenty-third century celebrate the differences between individuals and value that uniqueness as an ingredient in society. The Prime Directive is not blatantly an issue of nature versus culture, but it is aimed at protecting naturally developing alien cultures from losing their way as a result of unnatural interference. The officers of Starfleet are trained to respect the wild in its own environment, while helping civilization to tame the unruly forces that threaten to generate galactic chaos.

  James T. Kirk abounds with pioneer spirit. However, like any mirror reflection, his image carries with it both the good and the unseemly characteristics of what it attempts to copy. In the Western mythos, he is both the hardworking adventurer and the clever exploiter, the virtuous explorer and the unwanted intruder.

  Notes

  1. Jon Wagner and Jan Lundeen, Deep Space and Sacred Time: Star Trek in the American Mythos (Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers, 1998), 126.

  2. Daniel Bernardi, “‘Star Trek’ in the 1960s: Liberal Humanism and the Production of Race,” Science Fiction Studies 24 (2): 223.

  3. Ace G. Pilkington, “Star Trek: American Dream, Myth and Reality,” in Star Trek as Myth, ed. Matthew Wilhelm Kapell (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, 2010), 57.

  4. This parallel is discussed by Leslie Fiedler in Love and Death in the American Novel (New York: Stein and Day, 1975), 192. Fiedler describes Cooper’s heroes as “two lonely men, one dark-skinned, one white, bent together over a carefully guarded fire in the virgin heart of the American wilderness; they have forsaken all others for the sake of the austere, almost inarticulate, but unquestioned love which binds them to each other and to the world of nature which they have preferred to civilization.”

  5. April Selley, “‘I Have Been, and Ever Shall Be, Your Friend’: Star Trek, The Deerslayer and the American Romance,” Journal of Popular Culture 20, no. 1 (Summer 1986): 89–104, http://www.bookrags.com/criticism/television-and-literature_14/.

  6. See Robert Murray Davis, “The Frontiers of Genre: Science Fiction Westerns,” Science Fiction Studies 12, no. 1: 33–34.

  7. Matthew Wilhelm Kapell, “Conclusion,” in Star Trek as Myth, ed. Matthew Wilhelm Kapell (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010), 214–215.

  8. Lincoln Geraghty, “‘Carved from the Rock Experiences of Our Daily Lives’: Reality and Star Trek’s Multiple Histories,” European Journal of American Culture 21, no. 3: 171.

  9. William Blake Tyrell, “Star Trek as Myth and Television as Mythmaker,” in Star Trek as Myth, ed. Matthew Wilhelm Kapell (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010), 20.

  10. Wagner and Lundeen, Deep Space and Sacred Time, 3–4.

  Chapter 2

  More Than “Just Uhura”

  Understanding Star Trek’s Lt. Uhura, Civil Rights, and Space History

  Margaret A. Weitekamp

  As the scene opens on an isolated roadhouse bar, the viewers’ first glimpse inside the establishment reveals a tall, attractive woman striding confidently toward a set of swinging doors, her profile reflected in the photographs hanging along the hallway. As she pushes through the doors, the music booms. She greets some friends at a table and heads straight for the bar, her long hair swinging behind her, her step in time with the music. At the bar, she places a large order of drinks with alien-sounding names. Her good time with her fellow Starfleet cadets is interrupted, however, when a young man, a local, whom the viewers recognize as an inebriated James T. Kirk, starts hitting on her, trying to buy her a drink:

  “Her shot’s on me,” he directs the bartender.

  “Her shot’s on her,” she answers. “Thanks, but no thanks.” As they banter, she remains unflustered, an equal in the verbal sparring. When Kirk asks her for her name, she replies, “It’s Uhura.”

  The author with actress Nichelle Nichols, who gave an interview for this chapter, in the National Air and Space Museum’s art gallery.

  “Uhura what?”

  “Just Uhura,” she replies. Her brush-off answer is an inside joke for Star Trek fans: in the original 1960s television show, her character never had a first name. (Kirk’s quest to learn her full name became a running joke throughout the 2009 film.)

  But Kirk refuses to be deterred by her rebuffs. “So, you’re a cadet, you’re stunning. What’s your focus?”

  “Xenolinguistics,” she replies, adding, “but you have no idea what that means,” lobbing another volley in their somewhat-flirtatious verbal duel.

  Although this scene offered viewers of J.J. Abrams’s Star Trek (2009) their first view of Lt. Nyota Uhura, the character entered the room carrying a lot of history. First introduced in Gene Roddenberry’s original television program Star Trek in 1966, Uhura is arguably the most historically significant character in the franchise. Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock may be the leads, but Lt. Uhura broke new ground in television and helped to change history for real women. Over the course of three seasons of the original series, the animated series, seven major motion pictures (including the 2009 film), as well as a series of novels, Lt. Uhura, a Starfleet officer from the United States of Africa, evolved from a miniskirted communications officer without a first name into a powerful central character with a talent for xenolinguistics and a vital role on the Enterprise’s command team. More so than would be the case for a white male character (whose culturally invisible race and gender allowed for greater individuality in characterization), as a woman of color depicted in popular culture, Lt. Uhura both evoked and played against the contemporary historical context. Developed in the second half of the twentieth century, a period of tremendous change for African Americans and women in the United States, the character of Lt. Uhura cannot be understood outside of that historical context.

  “Changing the Way People See Us”

  Lt. Uhura represented a key part of the original Star Trek’s racial, gender, and national diversity. Gene Roddenberry envisioned an integrated crew for the starship Enterprise, initially tapping a woman as the first officer (to be portrayed by Majel Barrett) and depicting a heterogeneous crew. Although NBC rejected that pilot (“The Cage”), when Roddenberry rethought the show he increased the emphasis on portraying a racially diverse crew. The new cast included Nichelle Nichols, the African American actress and singer with whom Roddenberry had worked briefly on The Lieutenant (1963–1964) for an episode that never aired. Nichols recalled that Roddenberry created the role of Lt. Uhura for her. In addition to Nichols’s portrayal of Lt. Uhura, actor George Takei appeared as Sulu, another character without a first name, but whose depiction of an Asian crew member cut against popular media stereotypes of Asian characters as villains. With those choices, Roddenberry’s vision offered a stark contrast with the all-white universe presented in other contemporary science fiction television, such as Lost in Space (1965–1968). Unconventional racial and gender casting became one of Star Trek’s hallmarks.1

  The decision to cast Nichols gave Roddenberry the potential for complexity in his series’ characters. Nichols recalled, “He didn’t want just a communications officer. Anyone could to that, could say lines. He wanted to add a dimension to [these] people who go out where no man or woman has gone before. To be real people. To have other talents. And so Uhura’s [talent] was as a singer.” Nichols also saw the character as a well-rounded person with strong personali
ty traits. “She [Lt. Uhura] had a sense of humor. She had a no-nonsense mind. . . . That is, ‘When I’m on the job, that’s who I am. When we go into the relaxing area, then you can have fun.’”2

  Throughout the three-season run of the show, Lt. Uhura broke barriers. Most notably, the third-season episode “Plato’s Stepchildren” (original airdate November 22, 1968) included the first interracial kiss on network television, a forced embrace between Lt. Uhura and Captain Kirk orchestrated by a race of curious aliens. Moreover, every week Lt. Uhura’s presence on the Enterprise’s bridge inspired a generation of viewers and fans to imagine that the future of race relations could be different. African American viewers could see someone who looked like them on the bridge. Nichols herself recalled how powerful that depiction was: “And that [the original series] was done right at the crux of the [civil rights] Movement, in the transition from people thinking of people whose background were slavery . . . and their power, and their assumptions, and he [Roddenberry] took it [contemporary racism], in one fell swoop, and tore it all apart and threw it away.”3