Lieutenant Yar on Vacay: Secret Longings and Writing the Death Scene

My mother used to go to a particularly woo-woo chiropractor in Malibu, CA. I tagged along one evening, and as we wound cliffs that overlooked the Pacific and into his long, gravel driveway, huge amethyst geodes glinting across his lawn. I never forgot this scene, not because of its beauty or because of the chiropractor’s eccentric personality; rather, I remember it clearly because it is where, a week earlier, my mother met Denise Crosby, the actress who played Tasha Yar in Star Trek: The Next Generation. She had gotten Crosby’s autograph for us kids, and my fourteen-year-old heart could have burst.

I recently wrote about my childhood affinity for Tasha Yar in “Well It Used to Be: Thoughts on Evolving Perspectives.” When my mother met Denise Crosby, Tasha Yar’s character had already been killed off in an episode where some sludge monster offed her in the first twelve minutes (“Skin of Evil”). Later, they brought her back (“Yesterday’s Enterprise”) only to kill her again in a more guns-blazing fashion. The latter was a better move since they were able to write Denise Crosby a role as Tasha Yar’s part Romulan daughter (long story) who is the same age as Tasha would have been, in the “current” Enterprise’s timeline (temporal rift + math = headaches). 

I have been writing a book of poems about Star Trek: The Next Generation, and not surprisingly, I’ve written several poems about Tasha Yar. Recently, Cahoodaloodaling published my poem, “Tasha Yar At Her Best” for their “Joy Sticks” issue. As I was looking for poems that express finding joy without using the word “joy” (which was the requirement of that issue) I thought of this poem’s take on Tasha’s true desires. 

I thought Tasha was usually portrayed as either particularly hard or particularly vulnerable. When not flipping around men and telling off Q, she’s crying in the penalty box and catching the sexy disease that makes her hot for Data. In my poem, I wanted to write her character as more complex, which in my mind, means “normal.” I gave her mundane life challenges:  unreasonable family expectations, a difficult daughter, and a father-figure she could never quite please. In the show, Tasha Yar wanted to die in battle, to lose her life for the protection of others, but I wanted her to harbor a secret wish to die by the pool, while in the midst of a pleasant holiday. I wanted her to relish the idea of peace and pleasure, to soften her without diminishing her strength. I also wanted her afterlife to be exciting instead of assigning her the usual “rest in peace” trope.

Writing about death is challenging since most of us have no proof of anything. My favorite life after death poem is Langston Hughes’ “Sylvester’s Dying Bed.” During most of the poem, the last of Sylvester’s life is filled with “moanin’,” “cryin’,” and “beggin’” (mostly done by all his “pretty mamas”) until the very end “When the Lawd put out the light. // Then everything was darkness / In a great…big…night.” I love the contrast between noise and silence, chaos and calmness, and the way he slows the poem with ellipses after Sylvester’s death.

Instead of slowing Tasha’s afterlife and illustrating a dark calmness, I gave her “colored panels, / indigo and reds, the fire-pink / of cherry blossoms,” and let her slip “into the deep / and changing sea.” 

Considering Tasha’s various incarnations, coupled with the strict regime of Starfleet, I think a colorful, flexible afterlife would begin a proper adventure, hopefully, immune to sludge-monsters and defeating time loops!

To  read “Tasha Yar At Her Best,” click here.

Or listen to it here…

 

To read “Sylvester’s Dying Bed,” click here.

To hear an awesome jazz version of “Sylvester’s Dying Bed,” click below!

But That’s Not My Name

Growing up, the only other people I knew with the name “Shanti” went to my church (which I wrote about in “Christians and Buddhists and Pagans, O My!”). People always pronounced my name correctly there, but everywhere else, it was touch and go. For some reason, many people want to call me “Shanty,” which is an actual word that means “poorly built shack.” I’ve always found it strange that someone would assume that’s what my parents named me; however, we do live in a country that allowed a teenage boy to legally change his name to “Trout Fishing in America.” Meanwhile, in France, the law does not allow anyone to bestow names on children that may result in mockery. For instance, the names “Nutella” and “Strawberry” were nixed in 2015. Go France!

The mispronunciation of my name got more complex, as I got older. Once a man asked my name, and when I replied, “Shanti,” he clarified, “Shanita?” 

At a previous job, a co-worker called me a record-breaking number of variations of my name, over the course of several weeks. “Shantaqua,” “Shantell,” “Chantal,” and then, one day, “Shania!” I had grown accustom to responding to any “Shh” sound that came out of this guy’s mouth, and so I turned around. He proceeded to ask Shania on a date. 

This year, I started working on a book of poems about Star Trek: The Next Generation. I wrote “What’s in a Name: Picard Calls Lt. Barclay ‘Broccoli,’” (first published in Valley Voices: A Literary Review, V18, N1) after watching the episode “Hollow Pursuits.” Lt. Barclay, a nervous, annoying Starfleet officer, secretly nicknamed “Broccoli” by the annoying Wesley Crusher, has no friends and bad holodeck manners. 

On a side note, I don’t think anyone should have been allowed to conjure images of people already alive, while on the holodeck. I always found it interesting how STNG managed to thoroughly disinfect holodeck indiscretion plots. No amount of sanitation makes it less creepy to me, though. And to my recollection, only the dudes did it, and I thank the TV gods that holodecks don’t exist in other sci-fi shows, like the reboot of Battlestar Galactica, because that would have gotten nnnaaaasssty! 

Anyway, in my poem, I wanted, first, to identify with Lt. Barclay’s name issue, by sharing my own struggles with interpretative pronunciations. However, I also wanted to address the creepy way he used the holodeck to fulfill fantasies regarding the ship’s crew. In “Hollow Pursuits,” Barclay’s addiction to his holodeck storylines are further exasperated every time he clashes with Commander Riker or shies away from the attractive Counselor Troi. To make matters worse, after Picard does his darnedest to stop people from disrespecting Barclay, he slips and calls him “Broccoli.” 

In the last stanza of my poem, I wanted to focus on the darker aspect of the episode: how he dehumanizes his fellow crew members by rewriting them as flat characters who can never evolve or leave the parameters of his narrative invention. I also wanted to tie that idea to the way women, in our time, are similarly dehumanized to harmful and troubling effect. Women are often first considered sexual objects, but then, if any further dimensions are added to the woman, she soon becomes stereotyped as evil or undeserving, despite any reasonable notion of reality. In the poem, I liked the idea of entwining simple name mistakes with the much bigger problem of removing someone’s depth, which leaves them an easy target, and easily subjugated, at least in the mind of the objectifier.   

If you have any good mistaken name stories, anything cool to say about STNG, or anything generally cool to say, please reply in the comments!

To hear the audio version, click here:

 

What’s in a Name: Picard Calls Lt. Barclay “Broccoli”

I tell them my last 
name is pronounced 
“Why-land,” as in, why
is it pronounced that way?
But my first name stumps. 
They want to call me 
a broken house, some old
lady by the riverfront. They claim 
that some say it 
pahs-ta, some pass-ta, 
but I say, think 
of your favorite 
Sean or Shawn,
that man or woman 
who held you close, 
told you how clever 
you were the day you fixed
the water heater.
Now, give that person 
a cup of tea. “Shawn-tea.”

It’s different 
for Broccoli.
Even Picard 
screws that up.
Barclay’s nickname,
and creepy holodeck
programs, left us
zipping up our tops
higher than ever,
but I get it. Suspicion 
makes sense until they need you 
on the bridge.
Trust’s a virtue until they call you 
“Broccoli.” 

But your holodeck fantasies 
were blunt. Deanna’s your babe; 
Riker’s your bitch.
In my day, a poet named
Lucille Clifton once claimed
it’s only a matter
of time before a discussion
about women turns 
to witchcraft. You can see 
it, right? How my clear plans, 
in a world of men, well-lit
streets where all 
red riding hoods make it
safely to grandma’s, 
seemed dark to them?