This past weekend I got to meet a celebrity. (Originally written October 24th, 2022)
You all know I am unashamedly a self-admitted geek. There is something unique about my generation in how a lot of us relate to and think about the pop culture of our childhoods. At the surface it is only about the commercialism, money, and the psychology of advertisers creating addictions. Beneath that surface, I strongly believe there is a manifestation of our human nature to tell stories and create reflections of humanity and our collective unconscious in the vein of Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell and the Monomyth. Serious stuff. These pop culture characters are the Greek Gods of our time. Morality and the foibles of humans told through larger-than-life characters so we bloody well remember the lessons.
One of the modern Titans who means a lot to me is Optimus Prime. The Kenworth, cab-over-engine semi truck who changes into the humanoid, robotic leader of the heroic Autobots. Key to that character is the voice actor’s portrayal. Peter Cullen has been voicing the character from 1984 to the most recent cartoons and the live action movies. His warm, bassy, grandfatherly gravitas was a compassionate, patient voice in my childhood. Even as a kid I somehow filled in gaps left within the awful, ham-fisted kid-show dialog. He was a reluctant fighter; powerful, but would rather use his words. His anger was tempered by his patience and compassion. He would not give up on anyone–even the worst of villains. There was hope in that voice.
Peter Cullen based that voice on his brother, Larry. He left the farm a kid and came back from Vietnam as a captain in the Marines. Cullen tells a great story about going in for the audition to play Optimus. Long story made short, he channels his brother into the voice. My pal who went along got to chat with him longer than I did, and he says it is obvious that Peter Cullen is not Optimus Prime. Peter is quiet-spoken. Lighter. Softer. Optimus Prime is his brother Larry speaking through him. The military-man. Decorated with the Bronze Star, two Purple Hearts, and the Combat Action Ribbon. The leader of men with a commanding presence who had witnessed the worst things humans are capable of doing to each other. Larry, who told Peter as he left for his audition, “be a real hero. Not one of those fake, Hollywood heroes. Be strong enough to be gentle.” Larry Cullen died in 2011 and Peter gets choked up when he tells this story at fan conventions.
The line to see him was long. The whole week before I was piecing together what I was going to say to this guy. He was the voice of my childhood. He greeted me when I came home from a long, arduous day of Kindergarten and my Uncle Mark had to catch me up on the parts I missed. The voice reminded me–and still reminds me–of the gentleness and kindness of my Grandpa Ray. I wanted to tell him how much a silly kids cartoon meant to me and how it affected my life, and how happy I was he’s kept going with the voice. I wanted to tell him how he was also the voice of Optimus for *my* kids having reprised the role for the 2012, preschool-aimed, Transformers: RescueBots cartoon. There were at least 300 people in line for the hour-long autograph window. Do the math.
As we were ushered through zig-zagging lines formed by invisible stanchions and out into a long hallway, it became clear they were behind schedule. He had a panel immediately afterward where people were upstairs already cued up to get seats. Volunteers twice walked the line saying, “have your item ready, get in and keep moving.” So I began to cut down what I wanted to say–editing it in my head. Instead of just babbling stream of consciousness style, I preened and pruned what I felt like I had to say to him. The guy hears the same stuff all the time. When meeting celebrities, I try to be as authentic as I can be despite the blood pumping audibly in my ears. I try to be original. I try to show them I understand they are humans too. The actors aren’t these characters–they were punching a paycheck reading the lines written for them by others who were also cashing checks. This time I was trying to convey all of those things while getting across, directly or by inference, the most important parts of what I needed to say.
The line entered his little conference room. It was empty apart from a single table, his personal assistants handing the items and markers to him, and the ten or so people from the line they were letting in at a time. He was a small man made to look smaller as he was hunched over rows of various sharpies and paint markers. But there was this man whose voice I had heard all my life, but who had no idea who I was. The teenage kid and his family who were in ahead of me (we had talked together a lot in line; they were super nice people) was in front of him. The 15 year old handed him his beat-up RescueBots Optimus Prime toy. He said, “that is my first Optimus Prime.”
I couldn’t hear or don’t remember what Peter said to him as he awkwardly scrawled his autograph across both tiny, plastic windshields of the toy. All I remember was that his voice seemed tired and soft. He was quiet. Small. Not frail. This was just the real him. Maybe he was saving his voice for the panel where he would undoubtedly be doing his many characters for a huge audience. The kid was ushered off and it was my turn. All together, I was in and out of that room in less than 30 seconds.
His assistant passed him my gray semi trailer. The same semi trailer I received on the Christmas of 1984 while sitting on Santa’s Lap at my Uncle Dave and Aunt Marie’s house. The same one that survived my childhood, 6 moves, and almost 40 years.
“This was my first Optimus Prime, too.” I said, voice cracking.
I didn't hear his response for the blood coursing anxiously through my face and ears dulling my senses, but I started the message of appreciation I had prepared and rehearsed in my head while in line and managed to get it out without messing it up:
“The spirit and honor that your brother inspired in the voice of that character lives on through me in how I teach my students and raise my children.”
By the time I was finishing my words, I was already being guided away by a convention volunteer. Walking backwards, I saw Mr Cullen look up and lock eyes with me. Maybe it was an old man's tired, watery eyes, or maybe I had actually caused him to tear up. He reached out toward me with his right hand and whispered, “thank you” as he closed it and squeezed–as if to give me a hug that seemed more for him than me.
And I was gone, walking back past the still-long line of people with a fresh, still-wet paint marker scribble across my childhood toy. I met Optimus Prime and I got to say thanks.
