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May, 2002, LOS ANGELES - T. S. Eliot said, "April is the cruelest month." He meant it in the tragi-poetic sense of spring, the beginning of life, being the beginning of the suffering and sorrows that is an inescapable component of existence. The ultimate cruelty of life is death. In recent weeks I have lost two people - Nobu McCarthy and Fred Okrand -- who played important roles in my life.
Nobu McCarthy was a lovely actress and a good friend. She played opposite me in my very first paying TV engagement, a role in the famed live television program "Playhouse 90" in 1958. I played a defeated Japanese soldier who returns to war-ravaged Japan only to discover that his betrothed, the character played by Nobu, had fallen in love with a GI with the American occupation forces, played by Dean Stockwell.
Nobu herself had only recently arrived from Japan as the bride of an American GI whom she had met and married in Tokyo. Her television role closely paralleled her own life. But she was untrained as an actress and halting in her command of English. Rehearsals were an arduous struggle for her. At first, Nobu's stunning beauty was what struck me. But as I got to know her better during rehearsals, I was impressed by her grit and will to grow as an actress. She worked with determination from first reading to dress rehearsals, and, by air-date, she was nervous but ready. Nervousness just made her that much sharper. She turned in a beautiful performance.
A few months later, we were again cast together, this time as lovers in an episode of "Perry Mason." She was wonderful. With diligence and determination, she continued her study, and, ultimately, transformed herself into a fine actress. And we became good friends. We saw each other often socially. But we didn't work with each other again until the early 90's when we did Philip Kan Gotanda's play "The Wash" in New York and Los Angeles. Again, we played lovers - but now as senior citizens. Nobu played a woman trapped in an unhappy marriage; I played a lonely widower. What a joy it was playing her lover in the autumn of the character's lives. It was bliss just being on stage with Nobu. She was now a consummate artist, as well she should be. She had a collection of distinguished achievements both on stage and on film. She had been much lauded for her moving performance in the television drama on the internment of Japanese Americans, "Farewell to Manzanar."
Nobu had added another dimension to her career as well. She had become a teacher and a cultural leader. She taught drama at California State University at Los Angeles and at my alma mater, UCLA. When the East West Players, America's oldest Asian American theater, was in turmoil in the early 90's, Nobu stepped in as Artistic Director and brought it stability and balance. Thanks to her efforts, East West Players today is a solidly established and respected theater company in Los Angeles. Nobu was playing a leadership role in the cultural life of the community.
I last saw Nobu two months ago at a press conference called by the lieutenant governor of California to announce the funding of a program to make video copies of her television film "Farewell to Manzanar" available to schools in California for educational purposes. Nobu was glowing with happiness. This program combined the two passions of her life, one as an artist and the other as an educator. It was wonderful to see her in such good high spirits.
Shortly after that press conference, Nobu flew to Brazil to work on a film on location. The next time I heard of Nobu was a phone call notifying me of her passing in Brazil.
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The other immeasurable loss is Fred Okrand. He was an attorney and an extraordinary fighter for justice who also had a unique Star Trek connection. His son, Marc, is the creator of the Klingon language.
I didn't meet Fred Okrand personally until Marc and I became friends during the filming of Star Trek III, The Search for Spock. But I knew of Fred Okrand since childhood. My father had talked of the attorneys who stood against the wind and challenged the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. Fred was one of the few. He had been a principled, courageous, and lonely voice during that time of war hysteria. A lifelong advocate of civil liberties, he later became the Legal Director of the American Civil Liberties Union. Honored frequently for his work, Fred is the holder of the Justice Award of the Japanese American Citizens League and was named Lawyer of the Year by the Constitutional Rights Foundation. The ACLU also presented him with the Lifetime Achievement Award.
Through Marc I got to know Fred, not only as an iconic fighter for justice, but as a whimsically rugged individualist as well. His most striking idiosyncrasy was in his clothes. He wore checkered trousers with wildly contrasting sport shirts or pale pastel pants with colorful Hawaiian shirts. He was clad in his office as if he were on a golf course. And he literally whistled while he worked. With his round, smiling eyes beaming out from behind large, round spectacles, Fred exuded an irresistibly elfin charm. Facially, Marc is the youthful spitting image of his father, but in attire, Marc is much more restrained. In contrast to his father, Marc is downright drab. When at work, however, Fred was a single-minded workaholic. He preached, practiced, and wore on his body the freedom guaranteed in the First Amendment of the Constitution.
Throughout his illness, Fred never stopped working. At the time of his passing, he was co-counsel on another extraordinary class action lawsuit that went back to the unfinished business of World War II internment camps. Mochizuki versus U.S. is on behalf of over two thousand Japanese Latin Americans who were uprooted from their homes in Latin America and forcibly brought to and imprisoned in American internment camps during World War II. Japanese Americans had received apologies and redress from the U.S. government in 1988 but Japanese Latin Americans had not been included. Fred was continuing their battle for justice at the time of his death. Most fittingly, his memorial service was held in the stately Aratani Central Hall of the Japanese American National Museum. Fred Okrand's legacy is as strong and as magnificent a pillar of the U.S. Constitution as those elegant white marble columns at the entrance of the United States Supreme Court.
I will miss deeply the two wonderful people who passed away in recent weeks. But their legacies will always be with us to remind us of their magnificent work during the time they shared with us. Two beloved lives well lived, productively lived and importantly lived. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
January, 2002 I felt a rising sense of gravity as I was driven toward Manhattan. I'd just completed my engagement with Slanted Fedora Entertainment's Star Trek convention at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. The skyline of Manhattan was clearly visible in the crisp, mid-morning light. I saw the elegantly tapered silhouette of the Empire State Building once again dominant as the tallest structure on the horizon. The vacancy in that skyline was heartrending. It was almost as if I were being driven to visit the grieving family of a deceased friend - except that I, too, was a member of that family.
As we emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel into the relentless hurley-burley of 42nd Street, it was almost comforting to be engulfed by the familiar New York assault on the senses. Neon lights blazed in broad daylight. Traffic noise blared in competition with each other. And the unyielding mass of humanity still poured through the streets with determination. New York was resiliently, vibrantly alive.
The next morning, I went on my pilgrimage to "Ground Zero," the place of the devastated remains of the World Trade Center. There was a long line to the viewing platform that had been built just east of the site. It snaked past the wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery of old St Paul's Chapel dating back to 1780. The fence had become a grieving wall covered with photos, letters, Christmas wreaths, and other offerings posted in memory of the deceased and missing. They were bright, young people with ascendant careers. They were seniors ready to enjoy retirement. They were janitors and restaurant workers. They were people with names of every ethnicity in the world. When I read a letter addressed to "My little brother, our dearest son," my emotions wouldn't be contained. Tears ran cold down my cheeks. Snowflakes were falling softly. They reminded me of the ashes that fell from the sky that horrible September morning.
When I reached the platform, I was stunned by the sheer enormity of the site. Sixteen acres of barrenness where once there had been structures teeming with the energy of global commerce and the two tallest office towers in the United States -- all only memories now. In their place was a vast emptiness. Only a great hole in the ground with a tangled mess remained. Tractors moved somberly among the rubble, clearing the wreckage. Only the day before, the remains of another person had been found. Surrounding this huge void were scarred, soot covered, vacant buildings, some covered with black netting like shrouds of mourning. That snowy January morning, I relived in my mind and bore witness to the horror and pain of the morning of September 11, 2001.
I bore witness to the results of that dreadful day, but I know New Yorkers who actually lived through the terrors of the atrocity. Through friends with the Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund, I arranged to have lunch with one of the heroes of September 11th, Officer David Lim of the Port Authority Police Department. A native New Yorker, he told his story in the punchy accent distinctive of Queens. Officer Lim is with the Canine Patrol in the World Trade Center. He was in the basement of the South Tower with his dog named Sirius inspecting the incoming cars when his walkie-talkie crackled that there was an explosion in the North Tower. His first thought was that someone had gotten a bomb past them up into the building.
He left his dog in the basement kennel and ran to the North Tower. On pure adrenaline, he rushed up 44 floors past fleeing people in roughly 20 minutes. There were office workers still sitting at their desks too stunned to react. Officer Lim went from floor to floor making sure everybody got out. He was in the stair well at around the 27th floor, when the whole building started to vibrate and rumble. It was the South Tower, which had been hit second but collapsed first, coming down. The North Tower was still upright. He urgently needed to get everyone out quickly. Officer Lim continued bellowing at the top of his voice, "Down is good. Down is good." When he reached the fifth floor, suddenly the entire building began to shudder with an indescribable sound combining an approaching train with an avalanche. He heard the snapping of pipes and cracking of concrete together with the deafening roar as they began to fall. He remembered thinking, "If I'm gonna die, please God, make it fast." Then there was silence. Miraculously, he and two other officers found themselves together and alive, trapped in a pocket. They were imprisoned in that cranny for about five hours before they were able to claw their way out. He ended his story by telling us, "My dog died in the collapse of the South Tower. I know exactly where Sirius is. They still haven't gotten to him yet."
I had dinner with Stan Honda, a photojournalist friend, who took photographs of the attack on the World Trade Center that have now become iconic. His picture of an African American woman completely covered in ash, looking shell-shocked and almost ghost-like, staggering away from the wreckage was published in virtually every newspaper and magazine in the world. Fortune Magazine used his photo of the ash-coated businessman, still in full suit and tie, still carrying his briefcase, on its cover. As I reminisced with Stan about my trips to New York in the early 70's, noting on each flight the progress of the steel skeletons of the World Trade Center as it worked its way 110 stories up into the sky, he shared with me his panic working frenetically as the great structures came roaring down.
A photo exhibit titled "Faces of Ground Zero" opened at Grand Central Station while I was in New York. I made a date to get together with my actress friend, Pat Suzuki, for lunch and a viewing of the exhibit. The display was made up of bigger than life-size photos of the heroes of the tragedy taken with a giant camera the size of a small room. The oversized images of people that we would ordinarily call "common guys" -- firefighters, police officers, medical workers, spouses of those that didn't survive, and others -- were profoundly moving. They were "common guys" caught in an extraordinarily uncommon situation who rose to the full challenge of the occasion with uncommon valor. They were the faces of the muscles and energy of working New York. They were the faces of the diversity of New York -- Hispanic, white, black, Asian and, yes, Middle Eastern. They were indeed, the faces of American resolve and American unity. Those faces and the quotes accompanying them were, at once, deeply touching and so uplifting. Over lunch, Pat revealed to me that for a couple of months, she had gotten up at 4 a.m. in the morning to volunteer as a breakfast cook for the rescue workers at ground zero. It seems all New Yorkers were involved in one way or another. They are all kindred.
After New York, I flew to Park City, Utah, for the Sundance Film Festival. I had worked on a small, independent film titled, "Noon Blue Apples" last year and it was to be premiered as part of the festival. I had been to the Venice Film Festival in Italy twice but this was my first visit to Sundance. What a contrast! It was as dramatic a difference as snow and water, as distinct as skis and gondolas.
However, there are also similarities. Both are storybook cities. Both places look like movie sets - one a floating Italian Renaissance capital turned popular tourist destination, the other an old western mining town turned ski resort. The energy, excitement, tensions, and partying are exactly the same. The overwhelming choices of film screenings are dizzyingly alike. Deal making seemed to be going on everywhere at Sundance, in restaurants, bars and even street corners. "Noon Blue Apples" is a psychological thriller by independent filmmaker Jay Lee with a fine performance by young actress, Lauren Fox. A member of the cast, actor Montel Williams, has a chalet in Park City and threw a lavish party for the cast, crew, press, and distributors. Jay and his producer sister, Angela Lee, were energetically wooing potential distributors.
During my four days at Sundance, I gorged myself on movies - from midnight screenings to early morning shows. But, like gorging on food, constant movie going can cause cinematic indigestion. I ingested some discomforting movies. Among them, however, were gems that I enjoyed greatly. "Love in the Time of Money" and "The Laramie Project" were impressive films with wonderful performances. But the very last movie I saw at Sundance before I left for the airport was the best. It was a 9 a.m. screening of an independent film starring Robin Williams titled "One Hour Photo." It was the highlight of my Sundance movie-going experience. First time feature director Mark Romanek had given Robin Williams his most challenging opportunity to stretch his creative muscles. And he rose fully to the challenge with a brilliant characterization of a sad and chilling loner. I predict that both Mark Romanek and Robin Williams will be Academy Award contenders next year.
June, 2002
(The June installment of George Takei's monthly column has been canceled
because of his mother's passing. George's column is scheduled to return in July.)
Obituary
Fumiko Emily Takei passed away in Los Angeles on May 25, 2002, after a long illness. She was 89.
She was born in Florin, California, on September 29, 1912. She was the daughter of Benkichi and Shigeno Nakamura.
In 1922, her parents sent Fumiko to Japan to be educated. She returned to California, and, in 1935, she married Takekuma Takei in Los Angeles.
With the outbreak of World War II, Fumiko and her family together with 120,000 other Japanese Americans were placed behind the barbed-wire enclosures of United States internment camps. They were evacuated from their Los Angeles home in 1942, first to the Santa Anita Race Track assembly center, then to the internment camp at Rohwer, Arkansas, and then to the internment camp at Tule Lake, California. They returned to Los Angeles after the war.
Widowed in 1979, she was active in the Hompa Hongwanji Buddhist Temple and the Pioneer Center. She was a dedicated volunteer at the Koreisha Chushoku Kai senior citizens hot meal program.
Fumiko and her husband were avid travelers, having covered almost all the continents of the globe. They had been to the African countries of Kenya and Tanzania, Iran, Egypt, India, Singapore, Tahiti, Bora Bora, the Russian cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, South America, Europe, and Asia. In recent years, she joined her son George on cruises to Alaska, Bermuda, Mexico, and the Caribbean.
She is survived by her children George Takei, Henry Takei, and Nancy Reiko Takei, all of Los Angeles; her grandchildren, Scott Takei of Los Angeles and Akemi Louchheim of Seattle; two great-grandchildren, Hana and Markus Takei of Los Angeles; and her sisters Yukiko Tamura of Hiroshima, Japan, and Setsuko Thurlow of Toronto, Canada. Fumiko's and Takekuma's first-born child, Furuto, died in infancy.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the Japanese American National Museum, 369 East First Street, Los Angeles, CA 90012.
July, 2002, LOS ANGELES - The loss of a parent is an inevitable part of the journey of life. Thousands experience it every day. I, too, experienced it over two decades ago with the passing of my father. Yet, the pain of the death of my mother, Fumiko Emily Takei, on May 25th was unbearably sharp. It was singular, so personal. She was my final parental link with my past, my memory of a love and determination that carried our family through the turbulence of war and its aftermath. She was bull-headed strength combined with unqualified devotion to family. In her final years, she met the challenges of the many assaults on her health with the same defiant will to overcome. She left me a legacy of love combined with strength. Now, her ashes have joined my father's in the family crypt. I take comfort in the fact that she has, at last, found peace. The expressions of sympathy and generosity from good people far and near have been a great consolation. I feel blessed and grateful for the kind support of so many friends.
About a year ago, I had enthusiastically signed a contract to star in a concert production of Stephen Sondheim's musical "Pacific Overtures" for the Human Race Theatre Company of Dayton, Ohio. The play is an infrequently produced but brilliant musical about U.S. Navy Commodore Matthew C. Perry's effort to "open up" the closed island empire of Japan in 1853. I have been a passionate Sondheim fan who thinks "Pacific Overtures" is his best work. This was a wonderful invitation from the Human Race Theatre and a great opportunity for me to stretch as an actor. But now, the calendar showed that rehearsals were to begin in Dayton just five days after my mother's final memorial service. Can I even begin to think about performing so soon?
Then, I thought of my mother's approach to the challenges in her life. She always thought of the wellbeing of her family. She may have been torn up inside, but she never let on to her children. From being forced out of our home at gun point by the U.S. Army, through incarceration behind barbed wire fences during World War II, to the struggle to rebuild our lives from skid row in downtown Los Angeles, she was always Mama, there for us, strong and loving. Through thick and thin, she was always our Mama. Whatever she may have been feeling inside, she never allowed it to impose itself on her responsibility to her family. Now, I had a responsibility to a professional family waiting for me in Dayton. At this late date, the wellbeing of that family was at stake. I resolved to myself that I would do the best that I could as an actor - and I determined that I would work with my professional family without allowing my personal situation to intrude. I had to be my mother's son.
I arrived at the Dayton airport to be welcomed by Kevin Moore, the executive director of the Human Race Theatre Company and the director of "Pacific Overtures." We immediately hit it off. I found him to be a passionate theater person, a savvy leader of the regional theater community, and an energetic artist/administrator. On the drive in from the airport, we enthusiastically discussed the production.
On the first day of rehearsals, I met the company of singer/actors that Kevin had assembled. What an extraordinary collection of talent!
Two were from New York City with impressive New York credits, Alan Muraoka and Rich Ceraulo. Three were from Cincinnati: Michael Pincelli, Ryan Heinrich, and Juan Carlos Diaz. Actually, Juan Carlos told me he was really a San Franciscan studying at Cincinnati's College Conservatory of Music. Another member of the ensemble, Jamie Cordes, had worked with a variety of musical theater and opera companies throughout the country and had performed in such Sondheim productions as "Sweeney Todd" and "A Little Night Music." A cast member from New Jersey, Jose Solivan, had performed extensively in musical theater throughout the Northeast. Three were veteran resident artists with the Human Race Theatre: Jay Pierce, Scott Stoney and Kay Bosse. All were magnificently gifted performers and superb singers. An indispensable member of the company was our accompanist on piano, Brendan Kinsella.
There I was - a singer who does his best work in the shower - surrounded by singers who perform in operas! I knew I needed help. Neal Gittelman, the music director of the production, is also the conductor of the Dayton Philharmonic Orchestra. It was my singular privilege to work with him daily as my personal vocal coach. Neal was wonderful. He was patient, creative, spontaneous and relaxed. I knew I was going to like working with him, when, from the very first day, he kicked off his shoes before we began work. He is the inspiration for my decision to continue with voice lessons back here in Los Angeles.
Kay Bosse, the only woman in this company of actors, was the anachronism of the cast. "Pacific Overtures" is always performed in classic Kabuki style, where all roles, both male and female, are played by men. In Kabuki, women performers do not exist. The art of depicting females is a specifically male domain in Kabuki, where an actor devotes his entire career to perfecting the portrayal of women through the changing stages of their life. Kay was the token female in this revolutionary Kabuki production. But in terms of talent, she was a full member of the company. She stopped the show with her number, "Chrysanthemum Tea," as the sweetly murderous mother of the Shogun. I got to play her victim - and it was histrionic good fun being poisoned by her chrysanthemum tea.
My principal role was that of the Reciter. In Kabuki, the Reciter is not only the narrator and bridge for scene transitions, but participates in the scenes as well playing many different roles. Thus I got to be Kay Bosse's poisoned Shogun. Another unique Kabuki convention is the role that the Reciter has in giving voice to the inner thoughts and emotions of other characters. There is a scene in the drama where a samurai returns home to find that his beloved wife had committed suicide. A samurai must never show his emotions - even under this tormented circumstance. He stoically swallows his pain. In Kabuki, the Reciter is the one who gives voice to his emotions. It was only in this sequence that I allowed my own pent-up grief over my mother's death full release in the anguished cry I emitted for the tormented samurai.
The production was a smashing success. Opening night was a sellout with a gala party following and the subsequent performances were near full houses.
A surprise treat was seeing my good friend and colleague from the Star Trek movies, Robin Curtis, who played Lt. Savik. She is now living in Cincinnati and drove all the way up to Dayton with her husband for the second night performance. She came backstage to see me after the show, as sparkling as she always has been. She told me how moved she was by my cry of anguish for the grief-stricken samurai. Then she conveyed her condolences on the passing of my mother. I wonder if she had sensed her presence in that tortured wail.
All the time that I was in Dayton, I thought of my mother. I missed her terribly. But, as she did in her life, I never let my personal sorrow intrude on my work with my professional family. When she did make her presence known, it was to help me make my stage emotion that much truer.
I had a rich and engaging experience with "Pacific Overtures" working with a company of talented artists. I appreciate the many new friends that I made in Dayton. The experience I had with the Human Race Theatre was profoundly fulfilling. All this and more are gifts that my mother's love continues to give me. I dedicate my performance in this "Pacific Overtures" to the woman whose loving strength never stops guiding my life - to my Mama.