Boldly Go: How Star Trek Helped Me Survive

On Sunday, March 12, 2023, I saw William Shatner live at Clowes Hall in Indianapolis. I even splurged on a VIP photo op—because of course I did.

But the photo never happened. And yes, I cried on the way home.

Sounds silly to some. I know. But there’s a reason. And it runs deep. 

The Personal Stuff

This part isn’t easy to share. It’s heavy. It has lived with me for decades. I am just not sharing with others, not because I was ever ashamed, but because others were. My family buried it, enabled it, and in many ways, abandoned me in it.

That shame? It belongs to them. And to predators.

I was the only Black child in a white family. When my parents divorced, we moved from Chicago to Indianapolis, and I lived with my three older white siblings. Over time, they moved out, married, built their lives. Eventually, it was just me and my mom.

When I was six, my mother remarried. His name was Bill. At first, he felt like a gift—Dr. Peppers, Milky Ways, attention. A full-on father figure at a time when my own father was not present. I soaked it in.

But that kindness curdled.

He was grooming me. Isolating me. Exploiting the fact that I was the “only,” a little girl deeply attached to her mother and very alone.

The abuse started gradually. Then it became weekly. Sometimes more, depending on my mother’s schedule. He weaponized religion. If I told, Jesus wouldn’t love me.

But the real threat? My mother wouldn’t love me anymore. I was six years old. She was everything.

His strategy worked. He abused me for six years—until I became strong enough to fight back.

(And yes, I landed punches. That’s another story.) 

Escape to the Final Frontier

My mother was the organist at our church. She played saxophone, led the choir, and ran Sunday services. Sunday evenings were big, and she often had to be there early, sometimes staying until 10 p.m.

Which meant I was left alone. With him.  Sunday nights became my battlefield.

I learned to negotiate. Sometimes that meant “paying tolls”—an unthinkable reality for a child. Sometimes I could trick him, leave to get candy and stay away until he was too drunk to come after me. Other times, I couldn’t. It was survival. 

One night, around age seven, I negotiated my way out to buy candy necklaces and a soda from a small store nearby. On my way back, I saw two kids sitting outside, Melissa and John, two siblings, arguing and eating snacks.

We started talking. They weren’t the cool kids. Just regular, slightly awkward, snack-eating kids. They invited me inside to watch Star Trek. 

Now, I hesitated. I had been tricked before. “Friendly” invitations from kids had turned into cruelty too many times—being mocked, locked in rooms, trapped.  But that night, the danger I knew was worse than the one I didn’t. So I went in. 

The Moment Everything Shifted

We sat down with our candy. They explained the characters. And then I saw her. Lt. Uhura. She was beautiful. Radiant. Strong. A Black woman commanding space alongside men.

I gasped. Melissa looked at me and said, “You could be as pretty as her someday.”  That moment cracked something open in me.

The Ritual

After that, Sundays became bearable. Still painful sometimes—but bearable. If I could survive the first half, the second half was candy, soda, and starships. I became obsessed. I lived for Star Trek.

Especially Season 3, Episode 10: Plato’s Stepchildren. That kiss between Captain Kirk and Lt. Uhura? I nearly passed out from joy.

“See!” I told Melissa. “Kirk likes colored girls.” (That was the language of the time. I was colored.)

We fought over him constantly. Eventually, she assigned me Spock so I would stop “stealing her boyfriend.”

I watched every rerun. Even the animated series. I had escape routes mapped out in space.

When Escape Disappeared

Unfortunately, all too soon, Melissa and John moved away. And with them, my sanctuary vanished. 

Watching Star Trek at home meant higher tolls. I wasn’t sure how much more I could give. Then something shifted. Bill picked up Sunday shifts with the city bus company. And I went to church with my mom.

For the first time in years, I felt safe on Sunday nights. 

Big Girls Do Cry

I never stopped loving Star Trek. I still wear the shirts. I travel with episodes on my iPad. And yes, I still maintain that Captain Kirk is better than Picard. (I said what I said.) 

So, when I heard William Shatner was coming to Indy, I didn’t ask my husband Joe—I told him. I bought the tickets. The VIP passes. We were going.

We watched Wrath of Khan with a thousand fans. Then Shatner—92 years old—took the stage and rambled his way through stories. And then came the photo op, with three hundred and fifty people ahead of us.

Joe said gently, “Babe, we can’t wait. It’ll be 3 a.m.” I struggled. I stood there, trying to find an answer. But, we left.

On the drive home, I was quiet. I said I might go back. He told me, “Honey, they won’t let you in.” He was right. I cried. Quietly.  Not because I worship William Shatner. (His reputation is… complicated.) But because that moment meant something. Standing next to William Shatner, even behind plexiglass, would have been a full-circle moment.

A picture of survival.

It was proof that I made it. 

Because those Sunday nights weren’t just dark. They were terrifying. And for 60 minutes every week, I got to leave. I got to be a child. I got to be free. And that mattered more than anyone ever knew. 

The Legacy

Lt. Uhura is gone. Leonard Nimoy too. Only Shatner and George Takei remain. Shatner won’t be here forever. I missed the photo. But I saw him. I was there. And I’m still here. 

What Remains

I’m working on a blog series: Leadership Lessons from Star Trek. I’ve posted one LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/leadership-lessons-from-star-trek-linda-calvin-jd-she-her-hers--y0kqc/

I am generating more topics, and until my recent size shrinking, I had a command-gold shirt! 

Some day soon, I’ll publish more lessons.  But until then, I’ll keep watching OG Star Trek (I’ve watched the other series, Discovery, Strange New Worlds, but always Star Trek Original Series will be my favorite). I will keep healing, keep dreaming. Because for one little Black girl in Indianapolis, space was the safest place she had ever known. 

Boldly go. Survive. Thrive.