Circa age 10-16, I loved to organize my little sisters’ birthday parties. My sister Angela often got just as obsessed with series fiction (whether books or TV) as I did. This meant I loved to organize themed birthday parties for her. There was a Harry Potter one once with lots of invented games and props. Before that, we had our Star Trek Voyager phase. I think this poem is pretty self-explanatory:

How eager and proud a big sister I was

When beloved little sister said, “Jenny, I need.”

I took it to the high command,

Craned my neck to meet high eyes:

“Mommy and Daddy, not Bubba Baloos. This year let’s give Angie her favourite Star Ship.”

I wrote invitations with crayons on paper. “Really they’re pads. You have to look harder.”

“Welcome aboard. Put on your com badge.” Sticky, white labels cut roughly triangular.

“Choose who to be,” I told the cadets. “Whatever you want, only Angie’s the captain.”

“To the Mess Hall for cake!” Dairy Queen ice cream.

An audio cassette to play “music on the Holodeck!”

“Tag, you’re it!” And “it” means Borg.

I made stickers and ribbons and wrote down the rules.

Parents picked up their Drones, Klingons and Vulcans;

The Borg Queen’s mother much amused,

“What a strange way to celebrate a little girl’s birthday.

Don’t encourage her, Jenny. Really, she’s crazy.”

Star Trek Voyager assimilated my sister. It got to me too.

Yes, red alert!

But resistance is futile.