America, and the Klingon Way

Klingon warriors, as depicted since the 1980s

“You look for the battles in the wrong place,” Lt. Commander Worf admonishes a fellow Klingon, in the episode “Heart of Glory.” “The true test of a warrior is not without—it is within.” Worf has been quarreling with Korris about the nature of Klingon valor, a recurring theme in Star Trek: the Next Generation. His ongoing efforts to define himself as Klingon, while serving in Starfleet, are his greatest character arc.

In another recent Trek essay, I wrote: “America has become darker, more violent, more brutal—dare I say, more Klingon-ish.” I meant to describe how Trek responds to developments in wilder culture. An outside respondent replied: “I don’t know that America is any darker or more brutal now than it was, especially for persons of color, women, and members of the LGBTQ community.” Which is, in fairness, pretty accurate.

Science fiction, probably more than any other mainstream genre, is innately tied to the years in which it’s created. First, and most obviously, because science fiction always reflects its authors’ relationship with science and technology, which evolves rapidly. But in visual media, continuing improvements in visual effects make more complex depictions of non-human worlds increasingly possible. Sometimes that’s bad; after all, Jar-Jar Binks exists.

However, the development of visual effects also made Klingons possible. Though the conflict between the Federation and the Klingon Empire is a background story throughout original Trek, the Klingons appear in only six episodes. Their culture is vaguely “oriental,” reflected in their original makeup design, with bronze-colored skin, thick eyebrows, and slightly slanted eyes. They look less like aliens, than like White actors in Charlie Chan makeup.

Only with the big-screen movies did Klingons develop any real identity. In 1977, they had distinct physical features; by 1984, they had a language. And with TNG, they began developing a culture. We saw images of their religion, their government, even what Klingons did during their off hours—which apparently consists of getting drunk and brawling. We especially saw Worf’s efforts to maintain his warrior ethic and proclaim his honor.

So, to refine my previous statement, I’d say America is more Klingon-ish today, not because it’s necessarily more brutal, but because it’s more brutal in a specific, highly organized way. Klingons don’t fight because they’re genetically predisposed toward violence; that’s why puppies and grade-school boys fight, and it’s something they hopefully outgrow. These Klingons fight because they have organized philosophies of individual and collective might.

Klingon Warriors, as depicted in the original Star Trek

Even more important, Worf repeatedly protests the importance of honor. I have many friends who believe American culture today suffers because we’ve lost the importance of “honor”; these friends are all current or former military, or children of military. But “honor” means something specific in scholarly circles, a cultural standard based on performance of important rituals which establish one’s standing and protect one’s name.

Honor culture arises from peoples who have, or think they have, nothing to lose but their names. Military personnel, who are rootless and must often possess only what they can carry, are natural honor societies. So are poor people living on marginal land, as among Scottish clans or Appalachian farmers. When you have nothing to lose but your reputation, you must defend your reputation at any cost. So honor cultures are violent.

Recent years have seen rises of mostly White, right-wing honor organizations. The Proud Boys are the most famous. Their initiation ritual, a cringe-worthy satire of street gang culture, reflects that the Proud Boys’ mostly working-class membership, conscious that our economy no longer rewards hard work or loyalty, must seek advancement elsewhere. Their members think they’ve lost everything else, so they strive to establish a name.

Yes, America has historically been violent toward women, POC, and LGBTQIA+. I dare take nothing away from that. But the ritual aspect of this violence, formerly embodied in organizations like the Klan, and highly programmatic lynchings, was pushed underground for nearly two generations. In 1966, when Trek debuted, ritual violence maybe seemed like a dying relic of a prior civilization. Gene Roddenberry believed humanity was constantly progressing, and his universe reflected that.

Worf’s Klingon brethren engage in ritual violence and war to enhance their reputations and build social standing. So do many right-wing organizations like the Proud Boys, Boogaloo Movement, and Christian Identity. Once concealed, America’s highly ceremonial violence has become visible again during our lifetimes. Our Klingon-ish declension comes, not from violence, but from the rituals of honor attached to it. To some Americans, today is a good day to die.