Star Wars' group on active duty for charity

[iron ram]

Hit the link

http://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/ct-ent-0811-501st-legion-20110810,0,7890617.story

By Christopher Borrelli, Tribune reporter

4:53 p.m. CDT, August 10, 2011

The Midwest Garrison of the 501st Legion — known throughout the galaxy as "Vader's Fist," "The Fighting 501st" or, more mundanely, the Illinois chapter of the largest "Star Wars" costuming club in the world — has never seen combat.

Its members have never fired their guns, captured a stronghold or lost a member to the Rebel insurgency. Their guns don't actually fire. They wear the sculpted plastic armor of the Stormtrooper — the signature white plating of the Empire's disposable foot soldiers. They also wear every variation of the suit they can muster: Snowtrooper, Sandtrooper, Clone Trooper, Clone Pilot, TIE Pilot, Biker Scout, etc.

Like the United States armed forces, they are a volunteer army; as militaries go, however, they share more in common with the Kiss Army, and in winter often ring bells for the Salvation Army. They also appear at weddings, sporting events, movie premieres and benefit car washes. "Some of our guys won't do birthdays," said Aimee Jorgensen, the garrison's commanding officer. "I think they're starting to feel like party clowns."

The 501st are not party clowns.

If you attend the Wizard World Chicago Comic Con in Rosemont this weekend, you will witness a traditional show of 501st might and aggression — which generally means a couple of dozen Stormtroopers standing around, posing for pictures, brandishing very large plastic weapons. Admittedly, this looks badass. Some of their suits bear scrapes and blast marks, the self-inflicted slings and arrows of famous battles that never occurred. Typical 501st armor, though, is spotless — Javier Esqueda, for instance, a Midwest Garrison founder (and Joliet police sergeant), built his trooper suit in 1998 and keeps it obsessively, blindingly white.

If the Midwest Garrison fought as well as it looked, it would be the Navy SEALs. Because many of the troopers have intercom systems in their helmets, they even sound impressive, their tinny bursts of speech followed by a harsh ssssht of static. They often greet each other with their serial number, which, upon joining the 501st, is assigned for life. For example, Adriane Bean, a 27-year-old Chicago data analyst with long, blond hair and prom queen features — pretty much the last person you would expect to find in a Stormtrooper suit — is TK-4541.

After the last of the major "Star Wars" movies was released in 2005, the 501st expected to fade away, "to be sitting around bored to tears," said Phyllis Schulte, the Midwest Garrison's "charity liaison officer." But just the opposite happened. As space-based armed forces go, membership has exploded worldwide. Founded in 1997, the group has more than 5,000 members now. The Midwest Garrison alone has 124 members. African-American membership is up worldwide, and despite the fanboy stereotype, the 501st has become 20 percent female.

The group chalks up its growth to a curious reason: By definition, the 501st may consist of the bad guys, the jerks of the galaxy, and yet, by pounding their rayguns into plowshares, they became a bona fide volunteer force.

As one Stormtrooper put it, the 501st Legion often seems less like a costuming club and more like an ingenious way to justify a hobby by encouraging widespread charity work: You're guaranteed to spend a lot of time with people as entranced with "Star Wars" as you are, you get addicted to the happy shock of surprise your armor causes in public (which encourages you to do more charity events) and, because you're wearing a helmet, when you walk into the hospital room of a dying child, no one can see that you're crying.

Shriners in armor

On a Sunday morning, at St. Paul Woods in Morton Grove, Bean could be found with Esqueda (TK-265), Brian Troyan (TK-8968), the Midwest Garrison's public relations guy, and a dozen other members of the 501st, preparing for deployment. Bean pulled a plastic tub from the back of her Subaru and began poking through the pieces of her suit (which cost about $1,000 to assemble). Her tub contained everything she needed for the day: Velcro, hot-glue gun, riveting gun, trail mix, water, extra batteries for the fans in her helmet. The tub, however, had none of the dents or 501st stickers that other members' cases have acquired over the years. Bean joined last September. She moved to Chicago from Detroit and was looking for friends.

She found several dozen in the 501st.

Bean dropped her car keys into her holster and began suiting up. "You know, we're getting bowling shirts," Troyan said, making small talk while pulling a chest plate around himself. He looked over at Bean. "I do," she said. Esqueda placed his police badge inside his tub. "I got to get some Under Armour," he said, referring to the skintight athletic wear favored by the 501st, worn beneath the four or more layers that constitute a 501st-approved Stormtrooper suit primarily to prevent "trooper tracks," those welts and pinches that form on skin after wearing plastic armor for six hours.

"Walmart," Bean said, running a hand along her black sleeves.

Just then, Darth Vader, the dark lord himself, lumbered past, resplendent in his black cape and black helmet. The intercom inside his suit was buzzing with feedback. Troyan glanced up. "Hey, Steve," he said.

They were appearing at an Advocate Lutheran General Hospital picnic for children with cancer — remarkably enough, precisely the sort of weekend deployment that has become commonplace for the 501st, particularly since the group began to evolve during the past few years into a kind of pop-culture Shriners. It's a next-gen service organization for "Star Wars" fans who like fraternity and charity but can't see themselves wearing a fez.

"They're not that different anymore from the Lions," said Ted Lewis, a Lions Clubs International member and chairman of Bartlett's Fourth of July parade, which has included the 501st every year since 2002. "They have a different point of view, of course. They're kind of like Civil War re-enactors for a war that never existed. But they have their act together. They bring purpose to what I bet a lot of people think of as frivolous. But they are no joke."

No less than "Star Wars" creator George Lucas, known for zealously guarding his franchise, agrees.

There's no formal relationship between Lucas, or Lucasfilm, and the 501st, said Mary Franklin, who, as events manager for Lucasfilm, often requests the 501st to appear at Lucasfilm conventions, parties and product launches. "But they're great about respecting intellectual property. Personally, I have endless admiration for these guys," she said, "though what makes them special is the charity work they do — it's really incredible the amount they do."

Breast cancer marches, autism awareness events, Red Cross drives, Toys for Tots fundraisers, children's hospital appearances, library promotions, school supply drives — last year alone, the 501st raised more than $3 million for charities (with the Midwest chapter giving $23,000). They also helped grant two Make-A-Wish Foundation requests in Illinois. One boy wanted to fight Darth Vader; the 501st made this happen. Another child, Max Lacewell, of Naperville, wanted to battle Darth Maul. He did this, and three months later, after he died, the Midwest Garrison showed up at Max's memorial service, unannounced, in full costume.

"It gets me choked up thinking about it," said Leanne Lacewell, Max's mother. "They were so over the top. A member from Japan flew in. They made a lightsaber for Max, a little Jedi robe. They made it so personal. It was like I was watching Max 30 years from now — he would have been one of them. We joked about them being geeky, though deep down, these are seriously good people, philanthropists in their own way, for sure."

An army rises

The 501st began in 1994, the result of a freak accident. On a rainy night in a nowhere stretch of South Carolina, Albin Johnson, a 25-year-old "Star Wars" nut, had stopped on the side of the road. He was opening the trunk of his car when a passing vehicle skidded in the rain, fishtailed and slammed into him. Johnson lost his right leg, then "spent a year feeling sorry for myself," playing around on this still-fledgling Internet thing. He stumbled across a small group that was building movie-quality Stormtrooper armor from scratch.

In 1997, after Johnson and friend Tom Crews (yes, Tom Crews) bought some armor, they headed out to the theatrical reissues of the original "Star Wars" trilogy. They stalked up and down the lines of patrons; they were a huge hit. "The first time, I felt like a museum exhibit," Johnson said. "People invade your space. But something kind of dawned on me — one or two (Stormtroopers) was cool, several hundred would look wild."

Albin and Crews founded the 501st, inventing the army's monikers, logos and all of its nicknames. Within a few years, using message boards and a discreet network of people who owned original Stormtrooper costume molds to make their armor, they recruited a nationwide army of more than 100. The Midwest Garrison was born around this time, at the 1999 Wizard World convention in Rosemont. Luis Boileve, now 43, landed some of that Stormtrooper armor. He was wearing it when he met Esqueda, "who came up and said, 'Ssssht. How's it going? Ssssht.'" Esqueda had recently started trooping, turning out for the just-released "Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace." As more prequels were released, and museums, amusement parks and movie premieres needed troopers, the garrison grew along with the 501st as a whole.

By happy coincidence, this all dovetailed with a gradual loosening of Lucasfilm's attitude toward how fans used its characters. Johnson met with Franklin in 2002, and soon after Lucasfilm began unofficially officially tolerating the group's use of Stormtrooper armor — on the insistence that the 501st not sell it, only circulate and build it within the Legion, and continue charity work, never accepting payment or tips.

All of which was fine with Johnson, who was "feeling like walking scenery and wanted something more to do, because after a few minutes in the armor, you stop being a spectacle." By 2005, the 501st was adding hundreds of members a month, recruiting online, at conventions. In a sad irony, as charity work was redefining the group, Johnson's 8-year-old daughter was diagnosed with brain cancer, and soon died.

The amount of charity work the Midwest Garrison does these days, however, has not been easy on the group. The 501st is not a 501c3 tax-exempt charitable organization (though Franklin said that Lucasfilm would likely have no problem with the 501st applying for c3 status); they don't have a formal clubhouse or even a budget.

Members tend to be in their 30s and 40s, said Jorgensen. They have jobs. The weight of requests — more than 150 a year — led to the Midwest Garrison branching off Indiana, Ohio, Wisconsin and Michigan garrisons, to handle the flood more efficiently. Nevertheless, the 501st says with pride that it has been repaid in the finest way possible: Though the 501st had never existed in Lucas' official mythology, he included a brief reference to the group in the final installment of the series, "Star Wars: Episode III — Revenge of the Sith." Which led to 501st references in "Star Wars" novels, video games and TV series. In honor of Johnson's daughter, Hasbro issued a 501st Stormtrooper action figure (with proceeds going to Make-a-Wish); next month, when the "Star Wars" films are released on Blu-ray disc, a documentary tribute to the 501st will be among the extras.

Johnson said the watershed moment, however, came four years ago, at the 2007 Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, Calif. Lucas was the grand marshal, and the filmmaker requested a 501st Legion military escort.

"(Lucas) could have had just garrisons in California come out. It would have cost him nothing. Instead he flew 200 of us in, from garrisons all over the world, to walk alongside him. Man, that was like Woodstock for us," Johnson said. "We had heard that Lucas wanted 501 troopers, but that would have been too big and probably knocked out a marching band. But 200 troopers — I spent that weekend talking to members, thinking this costuming group thing was finally becoming something meaningful. George even looked me in the eye and said, 'I'm proud of what you have accomplished here.' Which made no sense to me. I said, 'George, this is your thing.' He said, 'Yes, but you did this.' Know what? I'll take it. Even George Lucas is a fan of something sometimes."

The Empire strikes up

Esqueda walked as quickly as he could in plastic armor. A forest ranger had parked across from the Midwest Garrison, which was clasping and clicking and zipping itself into place, just out of sight of the charity picnic. The ranger watched with the wary expression of a man unfamiliar with armored military and big, scary guns in St. Paul Woods. Esqueda, Stormtrooper from the neck down, leaned toward the officer's window, laughed, nodded. The car drove off. Esqueda returned to the group and said everything was fine.

"These aren't the droids you're looking for," someone quipped, getting a laugh, a subtle riff on that scene in "Star Wars" when Obi-Wan uses the Force to hypnotize a Stormtrooper patrol into leaving the heroes alone.

The group gathered around Esqueda. "I just want to thank everyone for coming," he said. "This is going to be hard. These kids, some don't have hair. Some look a little pale. Please remember that it's worth it."

And with that Troyan lifted his Biker Scout helmet above his head and shouted, "Buckets on!"

Helmets clasped down, faces erased. An Imperial army stared back, each with the same black eye sockets and frowning grill of a mouth. Vader took his place at the ceremonial center, troopers lined up alongside, bounty hunters holding the margins. Then they marched a few hundred yards to the picnic, their armor clacking with each step. One of the helmets crackled to life: "DUM DUM DUM, DUM DE DUM, DUM DE DUM," the soldier hummed, a note-for-note rendition of the ominous score that traditionally accompanies the entrance of a bad guy in the "Star Wars" films. Then came the ssssht of the intercom, and the music ended.

They reached the park.

Jaws dropped. Cameras appeared. Children wandered over, saying nothing. Finally, a young girl spoke. "May the Force be with you," she said. A faux pas. The good guys say that. "Uh," a trooper replied, straining to show allegiance to the Empire, "May the Force be with you, too."

[RETNUHHA]

not sure if im suppose to respond on this but thats pretty cool.

[iron ram]

I thought it was cool too that's why I posted it

[iron ram]

This pic just made me LMAO

speeder bike troopers do the crazest things

501st Legion member Brian Troyan raises his arms as he runs through the water with kids the Peds in the Weeds charity event.

[f0xtrooper]

Reading this today really lifted my spirits. I have a lot of personal stuff going on at the moment and couldnt seem to get motivated on my build. Reading this reminded me why I am building in the first place and why average "Joe's" strap on £1000 of costume!

[squadleader]

Great story,brought tears to my eyes.

[iron ram]

Must admit I got a little blurry eyed about the boy

Who passed

[DirtyBoy]

Great post! It really drives home the reasons we join in the first place. I love being a part of something that truly reaches the hearts of millions.

[Zon]

Makes me proud to be a part of it...