It was 1976, I was 17, a very new mother, and married to an unhappy groom. Being socially awkward, I had no one to confide in or turn to, so I watched television. A lot of it. Every night at 7 PM, while my husband worked late or hung out with his friends, I would tune into Star Trek on the local rerun station.
I became obsessed. The man of my dreams was Spock; he was so dependable, so smart, so sexless. The crew was peopled with all creeds and colors, and even though they disagreed, everyone belonged. They backed each other up as they fought their way across a galaxy full of unknown worlds and monsters. During each episode the crew met the unfamiliar on their own terms, bended it slightly to their wills, and moved on unchanged to meet other obstacles.
I don't remember anything else about my marriage during that time except watching Star Trek. My husband took me to a party one night, where I managed to sneak into the room with the TV and turned it on so I could watch. Another awkward soul, a guy, slipped in to watch it with me. We both knew the episode by heart, commiserated about the plot, and cheered Captain Kirk as he defeated his enemies. In the other room the revelers downed their mixed drinks, peered in at our odd arrangement, and walked away perplexed. I felt oddly validated in my obsession after that.
A few months later my husband and I agreed that he should not come back home. I turned on Star Trek as he drove away. I don't remember what I thought or felt, I just remember that I sat down to watch humans make sense of yet another alien landscape.
No comments:
Post a Comment