On Perfection
Good takeout, Star Trek & a mirror
Hey loves,
Question: is Juneteenth blacker than the whole of Black History Month? Combining good weather and grilled food just lands differently than the coldest (re: ashiest) and shortest month of the year. How are you celebrating? Keep me in the loop.
With today’s writing, I’m celebrating a side of me that means well but gets a bad wrap. Let me know if you can relate.
Love always,
R.
Once rested on the coffee table, outlines of condensation formed around the bag of food. The plastic bag survived the several blocks walk from the pickup, which was good because the inner brown bag layer was already shredding from rogue sauce, moisture, or both.
It was a familiar evening to all those who've been twenty-something in New York City. Excellent takeout shared with questionable prospects while navigating the dynamics and *cough* minefield *cough* of the dating world.
"Have you ever watched Star Trek Voyager?" my host for the evening asked.
I said no, and Netflix's familiar two-beat resonance joined the hiss of can openings and plastic flatware escaping their casings.
Things didn't last long with homeboy, but that evening was my introduction to the world of Captain Katherine Janeway, her crew, and a mirror I'll never forget.
For the unfamiliar, Star Trek Voyager follows the journey of the Federation starship USS Voyager as it travels back to Earth after being transported across the galaxy to the Delta Quadrant. A 75-year journey, approximately 70,000 light years away.
As explorers and researchers, the crew notes, investigates, and documents novel phenomena along their route, including first contact with sentient species, discovering new elements, and evading dangers.
One of those dangers is the Borg collective.
Of which Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, or Seven, is a drone.
Stay with me.
All members of the Borg operate as drones aside from the Queen. They communicate as a hive mind, providing constant surveillance and sharing information across an interlink. Their sole purpose is the achievement of perfection. Through the forcible assimilation of diverse species, the collective adapts and becomes stronger.
However, Seven joins the Starfleet after an electrical shock onboard overpowers her neural link, knocking her unconscious, severing all connections to the collective, and no longer making her a threat.
Although Seven retained a small amount of cybernetic technology, with the support of the ship's doctor, her time as a Borg drone ended. She'd begin a new life as something she only had vague memories of being, an individual human.
The resulting actions left me exposed.
With Seven, everything had to be perfect.
Accustomed to strict programs, Seven schedules "fun and recreation" for crewmates reducing the time to a performance rather than leisure.
She becomes defensive when proven to have misaligned a mechanical circuit, even when assured the error wasn't substantial.
It doesn't help her cybernetic implants force her to recharge in a Borg station in the cargo bay. Although she wouldn't enjoy the dining hall, she finds the human need to be social over meals an inefficient use of time.
The ridged appearance. The robotic intentions. The need for super specific purpose and designation. All coupled with emotional suppression.
It was me.
I was astounded and, to be completely honest, a little embarrassed.
Aside from being a middle-aged white woman, I felt like I was watching myself in an out-of-body experience.
She was the definition of order and control.
I couldn't stop watching.
When viewing, I saw perfection as the prerequisite for being worthy of what life gives freely. Joy, friendship, love, and support, to name a few. It was a bridge. The only route connecting where I am with where I wanted to be - accepted. Held.
As an audience, of course, we laugh at Seven. Even with human features, the retention of Borg knowledge and her ridged demeanor make her precise and controlling in direct opposition to what it means to be human – flawed. By definition, she was unnatural.
I know control well.
I once shared in therapy my frustration that a situation wasn't going how I had hoped. As usual, I was gathered ever so neatly by my therapist's response, and it is something I still hold on to until this day.
"You're trying to be all the actors in the play," she began.
"You're reading your lines, and then you want to run over and read the other person's script, then run back and read yours." I stared at her with a slight nod knowing what was coming next.
"You can't," she finished.
There it was, the burst of my control bubble.
As a more recent example, Phil laughed at how my ill-placed plastic toothbrush holder compressed the bristles of the headpiece. Even with something quite literally that small, I didn't enjoy being the butt of the joke. I didn't want to be perceived as off-mark, even for something innocuous.
Control is rigid and predictable. In the search for perfection, I become unnatural, robotic and depart from individuality to assimilate others into my vision.
We can celebrate and honor the uniqueness that befalls all of us because of our humanity and imperfections, not in spite of them. I am so much more than what I get "right" I know that now. When I don't seek to conform relationships, moments, and events to "shoulds" and "supposed to," I am free to play my role alone. I have the opportunity to accept.
It was my acceptance that was lacking. I've always been within the clutches of joy, friendship, love, and support. I didn't have eyes for it. Instead of a bridge, perfection is now a ridiculous imaginary wall distancing me from peace and everything I already had dominion over.
What an interesting read. Acceptance, vulnerability, and fandom all wrapped in one. 🖖🖖🖖
I love your analysis and personal connection you’re exploring here 🔥🙌