Oh Myyy! (2 page)

Facebook and Twitter started out like poorly funded cable access reality shows, running 24/7 with limited but ever-increasing commercial interruption. But instead of seeing the daily drama of strangers, we reveled in the streaming peeks into the lives of those we actually knew, one finger pressed firmly on the pulses of their existence. It became easier than ever to compare our own lives to theirs, and to see if the grass really was greener.

But things morphed quickly on Facebook due to a little button called “like.” The only real way we could tell whether anyone cared about what we did was if friends hit that button. Our Facebook experience became, as they say, “game-ified.” Rather quickly, the savvier “producers” among us began to edit and present their lives to achieve more “likes”. Instead of a moment-to-moment transparent view, we began to receive the edited docudrama. Popularity in the Facebook schoolyard could be measured in thumbs-ups — or more recently, the more difficult-to-value number of “subscribers.” For many hapless users, their own lives began to appear dull, or worse still, not like-worthy, when stacked against the smart, glamorous and Instagram-filtered vacations of friends and colleagues. All of life’s insecurities, long ago tucked safely away after years of wisdom or expensive therapy, welled right back up again with each page refresh.

In short, social media soon became more about being media savvy, and less about being social. Hollywood caught on quickly. Celebrities and their handlers began to use social media to open carefully constructed windows into their lives — enough to titillate but not really enlighten. Fans followed, hoping for bits of insight and, if lucky, the occasional hastily tweeted, then suddenly retracted, outburst.

But this was just a commercial reflection of a growing social phenomenon. Indeed, when you think about it, on a broader level each of us now makes the decisions of a celebrity. With each post or tweet, we choose what to keep private and what to make public, what face to show the world and what to keep buried. It is a kind of deception, and we have become reality stars, every one of us.

Speaking from personal experience, having
any
social media presence followed by thousands or even millions of people is not for the faint of heart; one drunken tweet or post, and the gig is up. I’ve unintentionally shared pictures meant for a select group of friends that, to my horror, went out to tens of thousands of fans before I could delete them. Oh myyy, indeed.

Facebook wised up and started permitting “filters” — privacy settings that one had to master like a second language. Friends and family were divided into those who could know everything, some things, or almost nothing. Each post thereafter carried with it a critical decision: Make public (and get the most attention), or limit severely (and save your dignity). There are many who have simply refused to apply such filters and are living their lives out publicly and unabashedly — what I call the “Lindsay Lohan Effect.” We love these people. We really do.

Apart from the privacy concerns, I decided a while back that my life simply wasn’t interesting enough on a day-to-day level to update others in real time. No one would really care to know what I ate for breakfast or which movie I went to see — and if they did, I really didn’t want them commenting about it. Instead, I set out simply to share with my fans many of the funny or inspiring things I came across. What I didn’t realize at the time was that, by sharing these posts, I could grow a whole community that didn’t exist before.

It started, of course, with science fiction fans, especially long-time Trekkies who were happy to experience some kind of regular contact with Mr. Sulu. I owe my career to these fans, and I have never understood actors who don’t take the time to acknowledge and thank them. On Twitter and Facebook, I soon learned I could go one step further and actually interact with fans everyday. One of my earliest posts on Twitter garnered much attention and basically launched my online journey:

Fans seemed genuinely surprised and delighted that a man of my, let’s say, “maturity” would get himself a Twitter account and start putting it out there. I recall gaining thousands of fans in a single day and being at the top of the Twitter homepage for a few short but glorious hours. And I must say, for the first month it was all pretty much fun and games, with humorous posts about current events and my own odd take on them. That all changed one fateful day in March of 2011, when I was awakened by a friend who alerted me to the tragedy of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami. That was the first time I learned the true value and power of the social network: an open channel of communication that can not only entertain but also unite us in a common cause, from responding to a disaster to — as the Arab Spring showed us — toppling a government.

That morning, as I witnessed the extent of the devastation in Japan, I put out the following tweet, in the hopes of raising money for disaster relief:

That simple plea, sent out to my modest fan-base of some 30,000 mostly
Star Trek
followers, echoed and reverberated beyond all expectation. Celebrities took up the call, retweeting it to their fans and thus around the world in a matter of minutes. I don’t know how many people actually texted to donate, but I did hear that individual donations topped over $7 million in the first few days. And even more unexpectedly, my own Twitter account became a type of Ground Zero for information, where I could retweet information about missing persons, the nuclear crisis at the Fukushima reactor, and the grim casualty counts from outlying areas.

I was new to Twitter, so it came as a surprise that news outlets were following my tweets. CNN called that next day, asking for an interview. As the most prominent Japanese American actor and activist out there on the social media — not a hard spot to occupy, admittedly — it suddenly fell to me to spearhead the social media campaign. I followed up the Twitter work with a YouTube video, hastily assembled by my team of producers at my show
Allegiance
(who were kind enough to lend their logistical support — you’ll hear a lot about them in this book, for without them I don’t know how I’d have put much of my media together). The video took some of the most compelling pictures of the disaster, including amazing rescue and recovery efforts and examples of the selfless and stoic response of the Japanese people, and coupled them with another plea for assistance. Over 100,000 people watched that video within the first day of its release.

The disaster relief campaign taught me an early lesson in the power of social media, one that I have carried with me since. With just a few thousand fans, amplified by the power of Twitter, I was able to make a real difference in the lives of millions, as well as alert traditional media to our efforts. I soon thought to myself, “If I can make such an impact with just a few thousand fans, why not reach out and build a larger platform?” There was much work to be done, and causes near and dear to my heart that I wanted to speak out on. The question of same-sex marriage, for example, was reaching a critical crossroads. I also wanted to fulfill what I consider one of my life’s missions: to ensure that the history and lessons of the Japanese American internment never be forgotten.

Fundamentally, I wanted to build a community that could laugh, share and discuss the pressing matters of society. Already on my Facebook page, fans were beginning to post very funny science- and science fiction-related images, called “memes” by the digerati. In the early days of my Facebook page, I would receive a dozen or so wall posts a day and sift through them, downloading the images I found particularly funny or inspiring. I never really knew at the time whether I would ever use them; I just enjoyed keeping them and laughing over them with Brad later (I’ve included many examples of these memes in this book, some of which I’ve had to revise or recreate because of a little thing called copyright).

But like my experience with the tsunami and Twitter, I soon found myself acting as a central gathering spot — a “node” if you will — for sharing some of the Internet’s funniest memes. I say that knowing full well that I did not create any of these images; they were all sent to me by others. But there is real value in sharing — and real rewards. The number of fans on my Facebook page leapt from 25,000 to over 100,000 in a matter of days as word spread that Sulu had started a page and had “some pretty funny shit” on it, as many a fan wrote on my wall.

I must admit, at first I was quite taken aback by the number of shares and likes on each post, and I had to limit myself to just a few a day so as not to get too sucked in. It also took me months to understand what all the fuss and appeal was about. Fans had to explain it to me: Having Sulu as a Facebook “friend” was like “having a favorite gay uncle” — one with a somewhat naughty sense of humor.

“Okay, I get that,” I said. And with that, my Internet career was born.

Twitter Sniping

When I first began sharing online, I spent a great deal of time on Twitter. I had no idea what I was doing, let alone whether anyone would want to read anything I tweeted. I hoped to say something that might rise above the fray, and do it in 140 characters or less. And I was delighted when fans responded, welcoming me to the Twitterverse. I even made sure each new follower received a thank you from me (eventually I had to discontinue this). I made a conscious decision, however, not to “follow” each fan who gave me a follow, as I knew it would quickly become impossible to read through my Twitter stream each day. I hoped fans would understand.

Truth be told, I wasn’t even quite sure what Twitter was for, or what good it would do anyone other than to read breaking news. But as the Tsunami relief efforts taught me, social media can be a powerful force for change. And so, with my daily tweet, I not only hoped to share funny advice or anecdotes, but to effect some kind of change.

One opportunity arose unexpectedly, when I suddenly found myself in a unique position to respond to the world’s homophobes with my own brand of humor. Victoria Jackson, a comedienne who had a stint on
Saturday Night Live
many years ago, was the first I felt compelled to answer. She had gone on a very public rant about how the show
Glee
was supposedly turning boys gay, presumably because it is filled with musical theater moments. At first, I thought she must be joking or had lost her marbles. Anyone these days knows that you don’t “turn” someone gay, nor can you “convert” them through “therapy”, bringing them squealing back from the Great Pink Path. Indeed, I’m pleased that a recent California law expressly rejects and outlaws such practices. Even more ludicrous is the idea that a few song and dance numbers on a FOX television show might spread The Gay. But Ms. Jackson continued her shrill tirade, and so out of “exasperation,” I tweeted this: