My passion for Star Trek in my mid-teens, was a fire that went through me like a fever. It was kindled by Stephen Whitfield and Gene Rodenberry’s nonfiction book The Making of Star Trek. While I had always been interested in the show, this paperback turned it into the typical teenage obsession. The book included a handy list of the show’s original seventy-nine episodes. I would watch a rerun after high school and then check it off the list. Some episodes were rare, while others repeated endlessly. They seemed to be shown in no particular order. My fixation on the series was extinguished some two years later at the very moment that I crossed off my last episode—number 67, “The Empath.”

While the passion might have ended, those two years had a profound impact on the rest of my life. I devoured James Blish’s short story adaptations of the episodes and wrote and lavishly illustrated my own Star Trek comic book (hopefully long since lost to time). It was because of the show that I attended my first science fiction convention—a Star Trek con at the old Commodore Hotel in New York City—and picked up flyers for the World Science Fiction convention. I also persuaded my parents to drive clear across our home state on a hot summer night to see Leonard Nimoy in an outdoor production of Camelot. Later that night, they waited patiently while I stood on line outside the tent that doubled as the actor’s dressing room to get his autograph. The signature has long since fluttered away, but I still appreciate my parents’ indulgence.

Once this fire was doused, I hardly ever talked about it. I bristled when my dear friend Isaac Asimov insisted that the program in general, and Spock’s ears in particular, had attracted a large number of women to all aspects of science fiction. While that might have been true for some, it was my love of print science fiction that had awoken my interest in the TV show. In my twenties, I was mortified to think that anyone would assume it was the other way around. Besides, I insisted, and still believe to some extent, my favorite character was the fatherly Dr. McCoy, and not the charismatic Captain Kirk or the mysterious and woefully misunderstood Mr. Spock.

My reticence was also due to the scorn that was piled upon the “Trekkies” (a term I never applied to myself) both within the field of SF and in the world at large. The mainstream press snidely heaped even more ridicule upon the show’s aficionados than they did on the typical SF fan. And SF convention goers were rightly affronted when the only note that same mocking press took of a Worldcon was to run a photo of the guy in a red starfleet uniform. For some reason, anyone who had ever expressed an interest in the show had to loudly proclaim that they were gainfully employed and capable of forming relationships with people other than their parents.

While I saw most of the movies and many episodes of the first three television sequels, motherhood and a demanding job did make it difficult to keep up with the various permutations of Star Trek and most other television as well. Like many Star Trek viewers, I enjoyed the parodies when I got the chance to watch them. I thought Galaxy Quest was wonderful. One of the film’s screenwriters, Robert Gordon, and its director, Dean Parisot, picked up the movie’s Hugo Award at Chicon 2000. I told the two men that I thought the film was the kindest treatment I’d ever seen of the Star Trek phenomenon. After all, the fans were handled gently and it is a fan who ultimately saves the cast of the imaginary television show.

Until recently, First Contact was the last Star Trek movie I’d seen. I found I’d lost interest in Star Trek films that didn’t feature any of the original cast. Although the buzz made the new movie sound interesting, I was at first ambivalent about seeing a film that featured new actors in the series’ traditional roles. Yet, when a friend who I’ve known since our teenagers were babies called to invite me to the movie over the opening weekend, I decided to abandon my husband and children for the reduced price showing on Saturday morning. Yes, there were enormous holes in the plot and I was disturbed by some of the storyline, but when the film ended, I felt like the surrounding air pressure had been lightened. I had truly enjoyed myself, and so had my friend, and so, apparently, had nearly everyone else. I told my husband I’d be happy to see the movie again with him and the kids.

A couple of weeks after catching the film, I found myself at a playground with other parents of first graders. They’d all loved the movie and they all seemed pretty familiar with the original show. One of the fathers, a landscape artist, appeared to be a walking compendium of all the early episodes. When he discovered that I could keep up with him pretty well, he grinned and announced loudly that I was a Trekkie. Well, I replied for the first time in my life, maybe I am.

I recently asked a group of teenagers why they had enjoyed the movie so much. They attributed it to the twist that made the unfolding story their own, not their parents. They also liked the excitement and the special effects. Finally, they admitted that what they really liked was that Spock was hot, and Kirk was hot, and Uhura was hot. And they were. They always were. But the hottest aspect of the show for me, has always been the strange new worlds and new civilizations. I hope the next movie will continue looking for them. In the meantime, though I still love Dr. McCoy, maybe Mr. Spock’s ears aren’t so resistible after all.