I Am Not Spock

I am not Spock.

Then why does my head turn in response to a stranger on the street who calls out that name? Why do I feel a twinge when someone says, "What happened to your ears?" I am not Spock.

Then why do I feel a wonderful warmth when I hear or read a compliment aimed at the Vulcan ?

Spock for President reads the bumper sticker on the car in front of me. I'm filled with pride and I smile. I'm not Spock.

But if I'm not, who is? And if I'm not Spock, then who am I?

I have a brother, Melvin. He lives 3,000 miles away. We have a good relationship. But it's different. Yes, if someone compliments him, I take pride. If someone were to malign him, I would be hurt. But he is he. I am not him and he is not me. We exist independently. Spock and I do not. So, Spock is not my brother.

What is this relationship between Spock and me? Is it like the Corsican brothers? Even when miles apart one felt the pain when the other was injured! Empathy. Maybe that's the answer. But there's a difference. The Corsican brothers could exist in two different places at the same time. Spock and I cannot.

And it's more complicated than that. Perhaps worse than that. The question is, without Spock, who am I? Do I, or would I, exist at all without him? And without me, who is he? I suspect he might do better without me than I without him. That bothers me. Or more accurately, it concerns me.

That's why I'm writing this book. Maybe if I can get it all down on paper and see the words and ideas staring me in the face I might understand. I might get a better fix on what I am and who he is. With Spock and me it's a unique game of "I'm O.K. We're O.K."

I might get to know something about myself that millions of others know better than I. If I could only see myself as others see me.

Recently I sat with a group of actors I'd just met. We talked of theatre, plays, TV, characters. Good talk. And then as I was leaving one of the actresses said, "Leonard, we love you." I smiled and I was warmed. I said, "Thank you" but I wanted to add, "I'll tell him when I see him."

She loves Spock! I know it! I'm sure of it! But to whom else could she say those words? They must be said to me, or more precisely, through me. Yes, there was a sense of camaraderie. Actors talking to actors. Creators of characters talking to one of their own who has created a character who has become legendary.

That's nice. More than nice, it's wonderful. But standing silently behind my shoulder is a very jealous, ever-present Vulcan!!

SPOCK: Tell her I accept her compliment, emotional though it may be.

NIMOY: What compliment? SPOCK: She said they love me.

NIMOY: That is not what she said. She specifically said, "Leonard, we love you." And I know there's nothing wrong with your hearing!

SPOCK: If you're so certain of her intent, why are you becoming agitated?

NIMOY: That's ridiculous. Every time I'm paid a compliment you grab it away. You grab it up for yourself!

SPOCK: Would she have paid you that compliment if not for me?

NIMOY: No!

SPOCK: Then how can you claim it for your own?

You see what I mean?

I walked onstage in a performance of Caligula night after night, convinced that I was Leonard Nimoy giving a good performance as the mad emperor. "We are resolved to be logical." That was one of my lines. And night after night I dreaded it. I dreaded the moment when that word would fall out of my mouth. "Logical"—that's his word. Spock's word, and everybody knows it. But I had to say it. I wanted to swallow it, mumble it, chew it up, rather than say it! Why? Because I knew that the moment those three syllables sounded through the theatre, he would be there! That alien would be there, demanding what was his! Identity.

I struggled with it. Night after night. I approached it like a horse approaching a fence, not wanting to jump but knowing that I must. Searching for an escape, dreading the moment when I could hear or almost hear that laugh which would follow the utterance. That communal laugh of recognition which would say, "He's here. Spock is here."

SPOCK: Greetings—you've been away.

NIMOY: Yes, doing a play in Austin, Texas.

SPOCK: And the title?

NIMOY: Caligula.

SPOCK: Oh yes—the Roman emperor.

NIMOY (surprised): That's right! You know his story?

SPOCK: He was quite mad. . . .

NIMOY: They say he was a good man until he became mentally disturbed.

SPOCK: Yes, I remember also that one theory ascribed his madness to a love potion given him by his mistress.

NIMOY: Right!

SPOCK: Who authored the play?

NIMOY: Albert Camus. When he was only 25.

SPOCK: Oh yes . . . The French existentialist. A contempo­rary of Sartre and Gide . . .

NIMOY: Spock, you amaze me.

SPOCK: Of course . . . and what is his theme?

NIMOY: "Men die, and they are not happy."

SPOCK: Ah. . . . the pursuit of happiness does frequently have tragic consequences.

NIMOY: Let me put it another way. Caligula, in his madness wants "to change the scheme of things" ... to teach his people to demand more of themselves and each other.

SPOCK: And how does he proceed. . . . ?

NIMOY (hesitantly): By insisting that they take action based on logic rather than emotion.

SPOCK: Brilliant! I must reread my Camus.

NIMOY (springing the trap): But Caligula is mad . . . and even he, in the end, realizes he's lost his way.

SPOCK: Unfortunate. A fine idea gone astray in the hands of an unbalanced human.

NIMOY: Spock . . . this competition between us is silly . . . SPOCK: I'm not aware that one exists . . .

NIMOY: Well, it does . . . and it's silly . . . don't forget thatI'm real and you're only a fictitious character.

SPOCK: Are you sure?

I am not Spock.

But I'm close to him. Closer than anyone. How much closer can two people be than to stand in the same body, occupy the same space?

Yes, there are benefits. I have an audience, a platform because of him. But it must be shared. I have written two books of poetry. They have been widely circulated and well-received. The one word which comes back most consistently is "surprising."

Why surprising? "Because," I'm told, "the writing is sensitive." "Thank you, but why should that be surprising?" "Because one doesn't expect sensitive poetry from a cool, rational, pragmatic, logical person." "But you're talking about Spock! I'm not Spock!" "Oh really?"

I like being Spock. But I like myself too. I'd like to be me independent of him. I try—very hard, but it's tough. Sometimes I think I've done it. Sometimes I work very hard at doing my things, thinking my thoughts. To be me, Leonard Nimoy. Sometimes I think I've got it made! Then I'll get on an airplane and somebody'll flash me a Vulcan salute. Or some nice lady will ask for my autograph and I'll proudly sign, "Leonard Nimoy," and then she'll say, "Please sign Mr. Spock. That's the way my son knows you."

So sometimes I get tired of the struggle and I simply sign, Spock. I tell myself it's faster. It's only five letters instead of twelve. But who am I kidding? No one. I do it because the look in this particular child's eyes says, "I love you, Mr. Spock" and I know that if I signed any other name, two people would be cheated: The child and Spock, and I can't do that. I don't want to hurt that child, and I must be fair to the Vulcan. I think he would do the same for me.

I am not Spock.

But given the choice, if I had to be someone else, I would be Spock. If someone said, "You can have the choice of being any other TV character ever played," I would choose Spock. I like him. I admire him. I respect him.

If someone could wave a magic wand and make him go away, disappear forever, I wouldn't let them do it. I would choose to keep him alive. I don't really have that choice. He'll be around anyway. But if I had that choice I would keep him alive. He stands for something that makes me feel good. Dignity and honesty and a lot more. And whatever of that rubs off on me makes me feel good.

But, I am not Spock.

I have a daughter, Julie, born March 21, 1955, 9:30 P.M. EST—Atlanta, Georgia.

I have a son, Adam, born August 9, 1956, 11:22 P.M. PST—Los Angeles, California.

Two miracles. And yet not miraculous. Miraculous to me suggests unusual. These two events are unusual to me because they happened only those two times in my life, but thousands of these events take place on our planet everyday. We call them "miracles" and then we go about our business.

When Julie was born I was in the next room. I heard the sounds of labor; I heard the silence of relief from pain. I heard the first cries and I looked at my watch.

When Adam was born I was three thousand miles away working in upstate New York on a TV episode. The phone rang. My father-in-law said, "You've got a son!" and gave me the positive health report on mother and child and I looked at my watch.

In the physical and spiritual sense, I was involved in another birth, that of the alien, Mr. Spock. I was present. More present in some ways than in the two cases I've just described. I suffered the labor pains, but I don't think I'm the mother.

There were no doctors in attendance. It was not a medical procedure. There were no first cries and there was no precise recording of the time. I didn't look at my watch.

It's frustrating. I don't know exactly when it happened. I recall vividly when the seed of this life was planted. I can still see the face of Gene Roddenberry, the man who did the planting. I can recall his voice and his words but, the birth, I don't know exactly when it took place and it's frustrating.

I have given birth to, or been present at the birth of, other characters. In some cases I can recall the instant that the new life arrived. In some, I can't, but that doesn't bother me. In this case it does. It's important somehow.

This being, this particular being, is still here in a very real sense. Still with me and, through me, with millions of others. He still affects my life and that of many others. Living because of me, going where I go, doing what I do. Affecting my speech, my walk, my thinking, my life.

My children, Adam and Julie, are grown. They are "away at school." But this alien, although grown, is never "away." I suspect that if I knew exactly when he began, I could have a more definite feeling about when we would end. If, in fact, I were to desire that end.

I wanted this birth. In a physical sense, I worked harder for this one than I did for the others. But somewhere I lost control. This being, this character, this "life" sneaked up on me. Not in one tidy, precise moment, but in a mosaic of tiny events, in several mini-births, over a period of at least a year and a half. From the first seed-planting conversation with Gene Roddenberry through weeks of thought and gestation. Through countless hours in front of mirrors. Through eternities of tedious sessions with tailors. Through turbulent nights of tossing, turning in my brain, dredging up bits and pieces of ideas, trying them in the puzzle pattern, keeping some and discarding others.

There was even a premature semi-birth in what was called, "the first Star Trek pilot." And then back into incubation for a year or more. There was even a semi-death when NBC rejected that first pilot and particularly the character. "Wrong," they said, "this must not live. This strange alien life is not to be." They had no idea how stubborn this entity could and would be. How determined to live!

They were successful in putting to death all the other characters in the world called Star Trek. Easily. There was no outcry. There was no criminal investigation—no inquiry. They simply placed an order for production of a second pilot and a new group was born. Captain Kirk, Dr. McCoy, Scotty, Sulu, Uhuraand so on, full-blown from the brow of Zeus. But this one, the character named Spock, refused to die. He simply watched, perhaps smiling internally and waiting patiently. Then he stepped into his place in this recreated, reordered, repopulated society and he lived. And he lives. Oh how he lives.

I suppose I could be arbitrary about it and establish an artifical date of birth. Thursday, September 8, 1966, 7:30 P.M. EST. The first televised appearance of Star Trek and Mr. Spock. But somehow that doesn't satisfy me. The character was born before this. In this book I will mention several incidents which took place during the development of the character before that September date, any one of these would make a more appropriate "birthdate." And perhaps that's the answer. Perhaps Spock had many births. It's possible that various aspects of the character were born at different times. Still I search for a key moment.

In May of 1975 I was rehearsing at one of the Drury Lane theatres in Chicago for a production of The Fourposter, a two-character play spanning some 40 years. My partner, Ann Eggert, and I had a terrible creative struggle in our efforts to master the first scene—the young teenage couple arriving in their bedroom on their wedding night. It is a delightful scene. Later it was to be a joy to play. But she and I both had to shed years of maturity, wisdom and experience to capture the simplicity of those two people at that time in their lives.

Day after day in rehearsals it was wrong. So wrong it was painful. But then on the 8th day of rehearsal it happened. I looked at her and she was my bride, young, silly, charming and beautiful. And she must have seen her young groom. Awkward, excited and embarrassed. The characters were born and the scene came to life. And when we were finished, and I knew that it was right, I was terribly depressed. I suddenly realized that I had had a glimpse back into the innocence of my own youth.

There was a very profound feeling of loss; it was romantic, not real. Because, in truth, that was a very painful period in my life as it is for most of us. But I had touched that universal "loss of innocence" that the poets talk about. The artist in me felt a sense of relief because I now had a grip on the character. But the human me felt something quite different.

It was a moment and an experience that I will always remember whenever I think of "Michael" in The Fourposter.

In the case of Spock, time passes and I doubt that I will ever have that one profound moment to look back on and say, "That's when he was born."

And what about me? Why me? Why am I connected with an indestructible umbilical cord to this creature ? What sensi­ble connection? What clues in my lineage, my parentage, my childhood, my environment would suggest this connection? What preparation, what reading, thinking, fantasizing, would lead a researcher to say, "Aha! That's how it began. That's why he was chosen!" None. Absolutely none.

If the lists of all the members of the Screen Actors Guild had been tacked to a wall, and Gene Roddenberry had thrown a dart and assigned the role to the actor whose name was struck by the point, the choice could easily have made as much sense at least in "logical" terms. But I hardly dare use that word. That word logic belongs to him, this alien, this force, this child, father, brother of mine—Spock.

Let's turn to magic. Maybe that's where the answer lies. I've been told as much. Told that I was "chosen" in a metaphysical sense. That I am a channel—a vessel. Chosen by nonearthly means by nonhuman beings to house this "life." Maybe so. It makes as much sense as the other more "real" possibilities!

Let's try lineage. Descended from Russian, nonartist, extremely pragmatic earthly parents. Father—a barber. Nothing there to hold onto as a clue. Except perhaps that my parents came here, to the United States, as aliens. Maybe that's important.

I'm a college dropout. Does that help? Maybe. The key word is out. I must admit that could be useful. In high school my favorite subjects were English and physics. I almost hate to admit it because Spock certainly has a command of both!

Something makes me want to deny it. To deny that there's any sense to the whole thing and yet there may be some pattern after all—some real connection. Some preparation for this possession.

For that's what it was. A possession. Not without rewards. There have been many. And, scanning the events from the seeding through the labor pains to the present, one event rings clear as a special moment. Perhaps it should be called "the end of the beginning." April 1967. No doctors or nurses in attendance. Only our mailman. He dropped a letter in our slot. It hit the floor in our living room. The return address was the Academy of TV Arts and Sciences.

Dear Mr. Nimoy:

It gives us great pleasure to inform you that you have been nominated for an Emmy in the category: Best performance by an actor in a continuing supporting role in a TV series.

My wife and I embraced each other and cried.

Maybe I should have looked at my watch!

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 1250