TB-9839
The idea behind my Stranger in a Strange Land blogs is to entertain and empower you, my readers, by showing you how I have struggled my whole life to fit in. Even among the outcast nerds in middle and high school growing up I struggled for acceptance. It comes so natural to some of the most socially awkward people I have ever seen. People who would have gotten their asses kicked on the reg where I went to school have no problem joining a group, even in real life, and striking up a conversation about whatever geeky topic is being passed around. I’ve heard them talk with such self-confidence about whether Goku or Saitama would win in a fight, or whether the Enterpise could beam a proton torpedo onto the bridge of a Star Destroyer and blow it up. I envy them. These debates look like a lot of fun, but a part of me holds back because I know it’s all just fiction. I’m presenting you, dear readers, with a two-part story of one of my most ambitious attempts to give the old middle finger to adulthood, pull the stick out of my ass, and have fun. I’m not sure I succeeded. So let me start at the beginning.
There’s hardly a memory from my childhood that I cannot associate with Star Wars. I was five years old when I had my first paying job, harvesting blueberries in mid September in central Maine. I don’t remember much about being five, but I remember this because I lost my Han Solo action figure in the endless blue and brown ocean of berry shrubs. They paid me fifteen dollars for filling up two buckets; a fortune for a five year old in 1980. Because I had much better things to occupy my time, like playing with my Star Wars action figures, filling up those two buckets took me nearly the entire day to complete. I remember the exact amount of my modest restitution because I used the money to buy myself a toy x-wing fighter.
My first memory of going to the movies was a drive-in showing of The Return of the Jedi. It blew my 7 year-old mind that Luke’s lightsaber was green. I asked my mom why all that blue stuff swirled around after Vader chucked the Emperor down the bottomless pit (“that’s what happens when you kill the devil,” in case you were wondering). I fell in love with the Ewoks.
I lost my virginity on Star Wars bed sheets. I was 18. I was reprimanded in the Army because I had to see the midnight showing of The Phantom Menace, the first of the monumentally bad prequel movies, and I overslept the next morning. My divorce to my first wife was as amicable as a divorce can be, the only thing that I reserved for myself in writing was my collection of over four hundred Star Wars action figures. Star Wars taught me everything I needed to know about morality, honor, love, and redemption, and did it in a far more enjoyable framework than church or school.
As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog post, nerd culture was not as ubiquitous when I was a kid as it is today. In the 80’s, one did not simply admit to being a fan of Star Wars. That was an invitation to an after school beat-down. So when I drew B-Wing fighters in the margins of my notebook, I kept it hidden. This trend would continue even into early adulthood. Even when Star Wars fandom became mainstream, I had a hard time letting go of my secret. It had become intensely personal and I’ve always tried to blend in to the crowd, to remain unnoticed, a vestigial defense mechanism from my lamentable high school years. So it was not without a small degree of fear that I decided to “out” myself publicly and join the 501st Stormptrooper Legion, the premier adult Star Wars costuming organization.
The Legion was founded in 1997 by Albin Johnson, a Star Wars fan with enough talent and skill to create his own Stormtrooper costume in his garage. What started as a small group of friends is now a multinational charity organization with over 4000 members worldwide. And each of these members has a highly detailed and screen accurate fan made costume. I had seen them before, grown men and women dressed up as Stormtroopers and other bad guys from the Star Wars movies, and had secretly envied them. Even though I didn’t appear to be the kind of person who would dress up and attend conventions because I don’t fit the unjustified stereotype (I’m married, I don’t live in my parent’s basement, and I am only moderately socially awkward), I still wanted to join because nothing seemed cooler to me than dressing up as a Stormtrooper.
The costumes require a lot of work and skill to construct and are not cheap. It took me over six months to put my costume together. During that time I had to learn how to form plastic, wire cooling fans, rivet metal and nylon, use a glue gun, solder, sew, and make boots. Because of my love for Return of the Jedi, I decided that I would make a Biker Scout outfit. My Garrison Liaison Officer spent a week looking over high-res photos of my uniform from every conceivable angle to make sure I qualified. In the costuming world we are the elite, yet even within the Legion there’s an unspoken hierarchy. The do-it-yourselfers, like me, are looked down on by a handful of troopers who have the cash to blow on top-of-the-line pre-made gear. Costuming in the 501st is an expensive hobby – for all my penny pinching, my costume still cost me nearly a grand. But some of these guys have outfits that cost as much as a car.
Once completed and approved however, I got my official ID number – TB-9839 – and my first opportunity to showcase my new armored alter-ego at the All-Con science fiction convention in Plano, Texas. Unlike most conventions, this one is not dedicated to one particular obsession, like comic books or Star Trek, but it’s an aggregate of all types of nerd fetishes, a yearly Mecca for internet shut-ins who, rubbing their eyes from the intensity of the sun, brave the outdoors for their annual offline weekend of socialization with other human beings. I imagined a boys-on-one-side-of-the-gym-and-girls-on-the-other, middle school dance kind of awkward atmosphere when I arrive at the Expo Center. Those stereotypes don’t die easily.
It’s a cool morning, not cold enough to see my breath but the sun is low and the shadow I cast in the parking lot is long and blue. It seems to be laughing at me as I get out of my car and haul out the three 30 gallon plastic containers it takes to hold all my costume parts.
You don’t belong here! They’re all gonna laugh at you!
I put on my armor slowly, all three layers snapped, velcroed and strapped in place, compulsively checking myself in my car’s side mirror to make sure I’ve got it all on right. The last thing I want is to have a strap hanging out, or something on backwards, only to be put in my place by a spectacled acne-scarred know-it-all teenager who was raised on the Prequel Trilogy. The Expo Center is pretty small, compared to other sci-fi conventions I’ve been to. There’s not much of a crowd yet either, I got here early to avoid the added anxiety of finding my way around in a throng of con-goers.
I strap on my boots and give myself one final armor check. Ready. Deep breath.
There is only a small line at the receptionist desk. The guy in front of me is taller than I am and he’s wearing a brown sweater, a multi-colored knitted scarf, a red velvet coat and a fedora. He’s speaking to the receptionist in a terrible Cockney accent. I’ve never seen the show but I don’t doubt he’s supposed to be someone from Dr. Who. I’m joined in line by a group of three girls, two of whom are way too loud. The only quiet one, dressed as a black samurai, is a plain looking girl with a slouching posture. I can’t tell what the other two – the obnoxious ones – are supposed to be. The skinny one is definitely some anime character. She’s wearing a lime green bikini with a cartoonish skull on top of her head and enormous pink fuzzy boots. The other girl is a plump little thing with a red, sweaty face, dressed like a nineteenth century Midwestern housewife in a blue floral dress, a lace apron, and a white bonnet (think Mrs Olsen from Little House on the Prairie for those of you old enough to remember that show). She’s carrying a frying pan.
The line moves quickly and the receptionist calls me forward. I hand her the tickets I paid for online and she hands me my badge. It’s a weekend pass hanging from an orange lanyard. She puts a neon-green piece of tape around the barrel of my gun, after making sure it’s made of resin and not a functioning firearm, and reminds me that there’s a 501st meeting in an hour. Mandatory for all club members (what would they do if I didn’t show up?). I thank her and take the elevator up to the main floor.
Inside the elevator are two sheriffs in brown khakis and smokey bear hats. I wonder why they need law enforcement here. These seem like the most docile people to ever converge in one place. I look down and notice their pistols are tagged with the same green tape. Their unit patches on their shoulders say “EUREKA COUNTY SHERIFF.” I feel like an idiot when I realize that’s from a TV show on SyFy. These two are really just costumers but they look every bit like legitimate officers. They’re tall, well-muscled men who could no doubt slam me bodily to the ground if I were to step out of line.
Upstairs I see a lot of Star Wars costumes. Stormtroopers, Biker Scouts, Royal Guards, and more. I see the 501st official booth (no one manning it at the moment) with it’s banner advertising membership benefits (JOIN THE EMPIRE!) and informational brochures. I look around and start to silently panic. I don’t know anyone here. I don’t know what to do or where to go. What is my job here? I know the Legion hosts events and the members help set up and organize them, but I don’t know when or where they are. Not finding answers to my questions, I decide to walk the halls and just look around.
The main floor is starting to fill up with costumers. I see video game characters; pirates; anime girls in sailor outfits; girls with cat ears, tails, and claws; anime guys sporting brightly dyed, spiked hair with enormous cardboard swords (as I’ve stated in another blog post, anime isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse). There’s a giant blue phonebooth being set up in a corner that’s guarded by an entourage of bescarfed and sweatered men. Dr Who again. I roll my eyes underneath my helmet. Nerds!
About fifteen minutes before the 501st meeting is set to begin, I meet an older couple who call themselves Dr. and Mrs. Livingston Forrester. Their unique costumes immediately catch my eye so I stop to talk to them. Their style is “Steampunk,” a mix of Victorian Era clothing with steam powered retro-futuristic gadgetry, a kind of steroidic Jules Verne. Dr. Forrester is a short man, with long grey hair, an oily mustache, and a dark complexion. He’s decked out like a Victorian big-game safari hunter, with a pith helmet and giant blunderbuss rifle (he gives his occupation as Applied Paleontology) and his wife, a pale skinned but healthy looking blonde, whose hair is just frosted with grey, has on a corset and a top hat, complete with aviation goggles. She tells me she is a writer – “Dr. Forrester’s biographer, to be precise.”
After chatting with the Forresters about their Steampunk philosophy (it’s a way of life for them), I decide I’ll have to look into it more. I’m a voracious reader of Victorian literature, so this seems right up my alley. Mr Forrester (I learn that’s not his real name) tells me that they incorporate the Victorian ethics into their everyday life. I jokingly ask if those ethics include colonialism and social Darwinism. “Ethics is probably the wrong word,” says Mrs Forrester. “It’s more like Victorian ‘sensibilities,’ really. Their sense of propriety and aesthetics”
I listen to them talk about Steampunk with a moving passion. They call it “retro-futurism” – the future as envisioned by the past, filled with strange flying machines, fantastic steam-powered mechanical gadgets, and people who speak with eloquent faux-British accents. I look around and see a lot more Steampunk outfits. I see pirates, mechanics, and military officers, all with characteristic retro-futuristic flair. I find the booth for the local group, the Airship Nocturne. I take a flier and head for the 501st meeting room.
Read the rest of the story in my blog Stranger in a Strange Land: Tb-9839 Part Two.
