I’ve had a crush on Worf for decades, yet it only recently occurred to me that we have very little in common. I figured it out this winter when I rewatched the sci-fi TV series Star Trek: The Next Generation. In the two-part episode “Birthright,” our favorite Klingon security officer for the Starship Enterprise catches a rumor that his father did not actually die in battle with Romulans, but had been taken to a faraway planet. When he sneaks onto the planet’s surface, he doesn’t find his father, but rather discovers two generations of Klingons who’ve been fully assimilated by their Romulan captors. The young people do not crave battle and in fact use their ancestors’ weapons as garden tools. Horrified, Worf seeds a revolution by taking one of these Klingon kids on a hunt. This awakens a latent bloodthirst in the young man that’s just part of the Klingon genetic makeup. His warrior spirit quickly spreads among the youths, who demand to be liberated from the only home they’ve ever known. It’s a great story about incarceration and breaking the chains of internalized oppression. It also made me fully understand that Worf’s very Klingon inclination to fight is an impulse some people have and some people don’t. And I really don’t.

You see, I’m more of a Deanna Troi. She’s the ship’s counselor for the Enterprise and half-Betazoid, which gives her the ability to read other people’s emotions. She’s what’s known as an “empath.” Empathy is pretty much my whole schtick. It’s part of why I’m so introverted. I need recovery time from picking up other people’s energies, especially after they confide their struggles in me (which many are inclined to do, because I’m an attentive and kind listener). I like possessing these skills, which served me very well when I did lots of political canvassing. Grassroots organizing campaigns require all kinds of people with different abilities, and my knack for listening and connecting with other frustrated working class people definitely helped. But if I’m being completely honest, it’s the natural fighters – the Worfs of the world – who really get the movement fired up.

My husband Dan is one of these warrior types – not in a physically violent way, but in a “yells at the mayor on camera” way. He loves to pick a good political fight, and he inspires other fighters to show up for battle. Together they stop landlords from evicting tenants, they prevent our local government from selling what little affordable housing remains in this town, and they push electoral candidates to support mandatory legal services for those facing eviction. And there’s no namby-pamby, liberal, “let’s reach across the aisle and play nice with each other” spirit about this. These people are pissed off, militant, and they’re ready to yell, rally, and do direct action to win. 

I love them so much. But I am not one of them. I really tried to be that way, maybe because I took my wedding vows too literally. I so admire Dan’s fighting spirit and unquenchable thirst for justice that when I got married I said I wanted to be more like him. But I am not a Worf. I’m a Troi. And that’s okay! Worf and Troi become great friends and even engage in a brief romance. The fighters are brave with external action. People like me are brave with emotions. It takes all kinds, and life is more than a battlefield. I’m here mainly to attend to mine and other’s feelings, not to fight. But wow do I appreciate the people who are always ready to throw down. We won’t get anywhere in this class war without them.