i wrote a thing.
~
on love, death, and star trek
my brother and i weren’t allowed to watch much tv when we were kids. (our parents were hippies, you see.)
the rule was one hour a day, and double that on saturdays.
we were sneaky though. he routinely got up at the butt crack of dawn on saturdays to squeeze extra cartoons in before our parents woke. and i bribed him with homemade cookies to not rat me out to our mama for watching soaps after school. we suffered through pbs fundraising drives in order to gorge on old doctor who episodes and walked literal miles to rent original series star trek on vhs.
some might suggest that we ended up creative thanks to our relatively low-screentime childhood. but i don’t know about that. because i wrote anne of green gables inspired poetry back then, and he drew his own teenage mutant ninja turtles comics. once we grew up, i wrote my heart into fan fiction and made friends across time zones and generations that way. meanwhile, he was doodling steampunk starship enterprises in his sketchbooks and writing a matrix musical.
a week before my brother died, he called me on my birthday and we discussed whether or not we thought it was possible for us to maintain romantic relationships with people who don’t like star trek. (probably not.) he told me about his upcoming wackadoo musical performance art tour and promised to visit soon with his new love.
it’s been two years since my soul cracked all the way open. one of the ways i’ve been mending it back together has been to rewatch all of the star treks, including the ones i don’t know if he ever even watched. i made a point of wearing my pendant with a pinch of his ashes in it for every episode of star trek: discovery that aired after his death. (discovery was his favorite. it’s the one where spock’s secret human sister does a mutiny, saves the universe, time jumps to the 32nd century, and then saves it again. there’s also a starship powered by magic mushrooms, plus trek’s first canonical gay husbands who actually get to smooch. you should watch it.)
star trek is about hope for the future. it’s about dreaming of a more tolerant, diverse community and the end of capitalism. it’s about love and science and found family. it’s about an android writing odes to his pet cat.
my beautiful brother was hope incarnate, even when he was riddled with anxiety and self-doubt. he gave me so much: unconditional love and radical acceptance, endless patience, years and years of quality friendship with most of his ex-girlfriends, a portrait he painted of me standing on two television sets holding a winged book, another where thoughts are exploding out of my head, and a lot of other art. so much art. so much.
(he also stole my favorite cat-print leggings, but i forgave him for that.)
he was a flesh-and-blood mirror who always reflected back the best version of me. in death, he rejuvenated my ability to feel deeply and provided a vibrant, arty community to nurture my broken heart.
i talk about him more than is comfortable—possibly for others and definitely for me. i can’t seem to help it. he was—he is—essential to me. he’s part of my essence.
when lieutenant tasha yar died in season one, episode 22 of star trek: the next generation, she left a holographic message for her crewmates. in it she said, “death is that state in which one exists only in the memory of others. which is why it is not an end. no goodbyes, just good memories.”
i have so many good memories. too many to keep to myself.
~
