September 17, 2018

Countdown Sequence Start

This is a parallel post linking to the Indiana Space Grant Consortium post at https://insgc-bc.blogspot.com/2018/09/countdown-sequence-start.html

I started seriously thinking about the countdown when we hit 600. (I even started a blog entry about it, but I didn’t manage to finish it until we were crossing 500.) At 400, it became obvious that regular meetings would be needed and important. At 350, I created a timer. Now, as we approach 300, I can start to hear the ticking in my head.

July 20, 2019.

The 50^th Anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission, and especially the moon landing, is a primary emphasis of my administrative and engagement work for this year. It touches many of my connections on the Purdue campus, as well as multiple existing partnerships and new conversations around the State of Indiana. In one sense, I am reminded of my preparations for race day when I was involved in competitive rowing as a coxswain, dozens of years (and pounds) ago. Race preparation obviously doesn’t start when you get in the boat a half hour before you hit the starting line. Often, the planning process works backwards: if we want to be ready to row that race on that day, what do we have to do today? What skills and drills do we emphasize? What specific contingencies do we practice? What can I learn about my boat (not just the physical craft, but the four or eight people who rely on me to steer straight, make the right decision, and earn their trust) right now, that will make the difference days or weeks hence?

I still find myself adopting that preparation model for events: lectures for class, public interview and presentation opportunities, project management for the lab or a research team or Space Grant activities. The process gets more intricate and the need to connect gets stronger as the scale gets larger. How do I channel that passion well? What is the elegant set of plans and preparations that allows me to use today to get us closer to excellent execution on that day that seems both far off and approaching way too fast. The more we discuss among our Mission Operations “consoles,” the more I recall how deeply I feel the importance and impact of December 1968 – July 1969, the first time we left Earth. I am also more acutely aware that not everyone feels this, and the purpose of this celebration is not just to get everyone to connect to Apollo 8 or Apollo 11 the way I do (“my favorite thing”). We must explore and connect how many different ways people to connect to the variety of inspirations and experiences of exploration – aviation, space, scientific discovery, engineering innovation, inspiration and engagement and education of various types for each unique individual and her or his special pattern of resonance.

This charge, more than any other, underscores the need I feel for a palette of events, rather than simply focusing on a single signature activity. Neil flew a variety of aircraft from his childhood through his return from the Moon; as a student, he played in the band and built and flew model airplanes. By the time Purdue was celebrating its centennial in 1969, Indiana had already played an outsized and varied role in aerospace history (which many people still do not fully appreciate). Balloons were employed to deliver airmail before the Civil War. The Wright family lived here, in Hagerstown; Wilbur was born there. Aircraft engines for World War I and II were built here, and critical training for aviators (including the famed Tuskegee Airmen) was led by those born, or living, or trained in Indiana. Amelia Earhart worked here, inspiring women to fly and get their technical training. All of that was in place before a youth from Wapakoneta, OH decided to enroll at Purdue, overlapping with a slightly older student from Mitchell, IN, who both had dreams to fly. Every one of these stories is about dedication and planning and preparation.

Why do I take this so seriously, and worry about the countdown so much? Unexpectedly, on the way back from the National Space Grant Directors meeting (this year, during a beautiful late summer oasis in Vermont), I got an answer – serendipitously, while writing this entry. New colleagues from another Space Grant consortium saw my pins and stickers, and asked about their effectiveness in stimulating interest and engagement and enthusiasm for Space Grant programs. Conversation drifted to strategies for engagement with FIRST Robotics… after a few minutes, another passenger comes over. She’s a scientist, and passionate about FIRST and STEM education, and we end up having a good conversation about our Space Grant mission. Since I still consider myself something of an introvert, this type of conversation is what preparation helps me do well.

But, over the next 306 days, there will be more people, and more opportunities, and more connections, all to get from imagining to planning to excellent execution. Each day has new opportunities for meeting challenges and enabling achievements, as well as the need to maintain wariness against

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August 25, 2018

Going Global

As has been said, it may take a trip to distant lands to understand one’s life at home. Whether home is a specific building, a postal code, or even a set of celestial coordinates, the lesson is that things that may be perceived in one way when you’re up close take on a different perspective when you get more… perspective. In an earlier entry, “Origin Story,” I mentioned the crew of Apollo 8 and their experience of the Earth from lunar orbit that was captured in the famous and iconic “Earthrise” photo. (It should not be underestimated how much that photo, and other NASA “whole disk” images of Earth contributed to the imagery and development of the Earth Day movement.) As a geek since childhood, I am a big fan of NASA—it is, of course, why I have felt so proud and honored to work in this area and represent STEM engagement for Indiana as Director of the NASA Indiana Space Grant Consortium. However, I’m used to NASA stuff and especially the “Meatball” logo, as a pretty distinctive alert:

WARNING: the wearer of this logo may be thinking mathematical thoughts and seeing pretty engineering and science formulae at any given moment.

Geek alert? OK. Nerd pride? I’m certainly good with that. But cutting edge alternative brand representation? I wasn’t ready for that, until I saw this display case in a store in our local mall. (Just for reference, this is not an anchor department store, or a clothing store with full-page ads in leading lifestyle magazines. Think more like adolescent and young adult subculture references.) And notice, this display case is at the front of the store: it’s what they hope will draw people into the place to pick up other items referencing 1970s music groups or 1990s movies or… in other words, a different kind of marketing than I’m used to.

Figure 1. NASA as mall candy?

However, I did file this away for future thought as we are ramping up the Purdue 150^th and Apollo 11 50^th Anniversary celebrations on campus. Hmmm… NASA might be trending? Or is that just where I happen to be right now?

How does one check on that? My general answer has always been, “Scan and Connect”. Get out of one’s local spot (either geographical or intellectual or social), and look around at what else is out there. Yep. we’re working on planning for the Apollo 11^th activities. Let’s get a team together, and tap into energy around the campus: an air show, special archives exhibits, pictures of astronauts and the Purdue Big Bass Drum. (No, that’s not a joke: being able to bang the drum is a VERY BIG DEAL, and when you’re both the first to walk on the moon and a Purdue band alumnus, you get to do it, with a big smile.)

Figure 2. Neil bangs the drum, Purdue Astronaut Reunion, 1999.

Yes, that would engage the campus. Let’s go bigger. Symphony Orchestra concerts? Sure. Exhibits at science and children’s museums across the State? Of course. Activities to engage K-12 students to understand the past and (more importantly) celebrate and engage in the future of space exploration? Every chance we get. All right, we’re going to make sure this “NASA in Indiana” effort is as broad and capable as we’re able to make it.

And then, earlier this month, I went to the airport for a trip. It was a research trip, but not for Space Grant or one of my NASA projects. The destination was someplace I like, but not a regular NASA spot: not Houston, or Florida, or California. It was Sweden. I’m not surprised to see a few NASA shirts on people in the Indianapolis airport. (Remember, we have Purdue and Indiana University and Ball State and Valpo and Southern Indiana students working on NASA projects all the time.) I get on the plane. It’s a comfortable and relaxing flight to Paris, and plenty of time for coffee and croissant during my layover. And there is another NASA shirt. Was this someone on my flight? I don’t think so. That’s curious. But I’m not that outgoing, so I don’t walk up to them to ask. (That was a mistake, but hey, I was tired.)

Another plane, and then a train, and arrival in the tech center of southern Sweden. I’ve got a day of readjustment and project planning and catching sunlight to forestall the effects of jet lag; nothing better than wandering around the city and exploring. As I walk in the historic heat (only about 88F, but this is Sweden), I see a variety of scaffolds and music loudspeakers and food booths being set up for their major multi-day, city-wide street festival. Oh, I think to myself. I must be some kind of work geek: I was so busy thinking about the project, I wasn’t really aware. But that’s okay.

The six-hour work meeting goes really well, and both sides seem to be looking forward to the project development effort. Time to find some dinner as a treat. I’m again wandering around the city, with an eclectic and growing mix of faces and languages and interests. And then it happens again. Another NASA shirt? And there’s the logo on a hat! In one case, I pass close enough to overhear the conversation the person is having. It does me no good, and I won’t learn about their choice of that article of clothing—they and their companions are not speaking English, or the other languages I ever learned. Saturday morning, and my last day in town begins with rain. That’s okay, as I have more Apollo 11 planning to think about. But remember, Barrett, go out to scan and connect. With more time in the festival, I get a better sense of my way around, and one more time, a shirt catches my attention. It’s the Meatball. Too far away for me to catch up, sadly. Now I do want to know, though. Who are these folks, and why do they connect to the U.S. space agency? Hope? Promise? Cool? Inspiration? Next time, I will ask. It teaches me so much to find the answers, no matter where I might be.

Figure 3. Hej! Hello! Do you speak NASA?

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June 12, 2018

500 Days, or Five Good Months

600 Days, or Six Good Months

Sundials and stelae. Stonehenge. Tulum. Humans use artifacts and architecture to help mark the passage of the seasons and celebrate calendar landmarks. Some are purpose-built; others, although not originally designed to reference a particular celestial passage, take on their own significance as reminders of the lengthening and shortening of days. (One of my favorites, of course, is the alignment of the sun along the Infinite Corridor: not just a geek-enriched celebration, but a bi-yearly marking of the darkest weeks at the bottom of the year in Cambridge.) I have now learned enough of the patterns of my home in Lafayette to note the seasons as the sun transits the windows and doors of the house from east to west, spring to fall. Near the Spring Equinox in March, the sunrise tracks down the hallways, and makes prisms through the windows that fall on the far walls. The return of longer days, late sunsets, and warm breezes seem to grant me additional energy and enthusiasm for projects and innovation: six good months are here, until the Fall semester and Equinox return in August and September. (Or so I thought, back in May, when I wrote the first draft of this entry. It’s mid-June now, so I’m down to five warm and good months. It’s also just a bit less than 500 days for total mission duration, as I will point out later.)

Figures 1,2. Springtime prisms on the walls.

Interestingly, the sunlight this spring felt especially auspicious, even though we still had snow well into April. (A lesson for me, that I respond to the quality of light, and not just the outdoor temperature. Snowfall on the still-bare trees, framing a brilliant blue of sky, was still a treat for me, and an encouragement to “get to it”.) So, what is compelling my energy and enthusiasm now? As I mentioned in “Origin Story,” I had the opportunity to see the crew of Apollo 8 in Chicago a few weeks ago, relating some of the story and observation of what it was like to be on that mission, and how much that experience changed—not just them, but the lives and thoughts and dreams of so many others during the bleak pains experienced in 1968. You mean, all of that was 50 years ago? Of course, it sounds like distant history when I say it, but it feels like near and precious memory.

Calendars and anniversaries seem to carry special significance, particularly with base ten multipliers. Fifty years. A half a century. A golden anniversary. That is the basis of special celebration. A century plus fifty? Longer than human lives, an announcement of longevity and recognition of legacy, although a bit more difficulty to say or spell: a sesquicentennial. Combined, there is a sense of serendipity and convergence, and I must admit, a celebration of purpose and precious acknowledgement of the prettiness of what can be achieved with an integration of purpose and imagination and fierce determination. Even the celebration becomes itself such an integration.

A few years ago, the campus put together a proposal to create a Center for Human Imagination; I was inspired by the effort, and wrote a series of vignettes centered on such a convergent celebration, being held as part of the Purdue 150^th Anniversary, on the 50^th Anniversary date of the Apollo 11 Moon Landing: July 20, 2019. The Center never came to be, but in some ways, I have it even better now: There’s no need to worry about the Center’s activities, and indeed, the celebration of “One Giant Leap” can expand to encompass multiple Giant Leaps, looking forward as well as to the past. I can think of no greater experience of my passions than to be “Flight Director” for such a mission of celebration and imagination. The world will celebrate July 20, 2019, and Purdue is a natural focus of that attention. By mid-October, Purdue’s celebration of its legacy and look to the next 50 – 150 years with a look to past and future in exploration and space. Yes, these are concepts Passionately Felt. But a successful mission requires more than passion.

Elegantly Crafted: It takes something special to walk into a room and present a plan to do what others might even fear to imagine. But, well-crafted, the pretty math and elegant design wins out. The fictional rescue plan in The Martian could only be the design of… (insert awe-struck whisper of appreciation and respect): “a steely-eyed missile man”. But we don’t have to rely on fiction. The Apollo 8 lunar insertion trajectory was no less a work of elegance, crafted only a few months before the mission. And don’t forget Kathryn Johnson, our quintessential “steely eyed rocket woman” who crafted the math to bring John Glenn back home.

Excellently Executed: Also in “Origin Story,” I described the challenge of the hero living their life forward, not knowing if this is the moment that creates the legend (what legend?) that the screenwriter will weave into our dreams. Preparation, talent, desire, opportunity… In sports, maybe you are remembered as the player who made that amazing shot to win that game… and then, two days later, you did it again. Or maybe you’re a test pilot, trusting an “extra gallon or two” in the tank in the face of “1201 alarm” and “30 seconds”.

Figure 3: Flight Director’s Notes: Passionately Felt, Elegantly Crafted, Excellently Executed.

Why do I want to be Flight Director? I love making connections. I thrive on bringing the pieces together. They’re not all my pieces, and none of this is just one person’s story. It’s certainly not just about the one moment of peak experience. There are many moments, and several hundred days, available between now and late October, 2019. (Just a little short of 500 days, you might not be surprised to know: just enough time for some beautiful orbital mechanics and gravity assist to get all the pieces in place.) They don’t happen all at once, and I mustn’t ignore their beauty when I find them. Perhaps a piece of crafting becomes visible in the shower, steam and water vapor glistening as the sunset shines through my bathroom window. No, that won’t happen every day. It requires alignment, and notice. And a few good days, weeks, and months.

Figure 4: Alignment of the light.

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May 4, 2018

Origin Story

(This took a couple extra weeks to write and post. Hey, it’s a busy time of year.)

When I was young I thought of growing old,

And what my life would mean to me…

Would I have travelled down my chosen road,

Or only wished what I could be…

— “Kyrie,” Mr. Mister

This spring has been an interesting time of innovation and re-imagination, both locally and more broadly. Although I will not be taking a flight to Wakanda in the near future, I was obviously very intrigued by the Black Panther “origin story.” Living out one’s origin story is hard, in part, for one simple reason: no matter how seriously or strongly one feels one’s passion, the subject of the story has to live their lives forward in time. The movie scriptwriter and director can work backwards based on the story they want to tell (and the events they already know will be important for the story arc).

ATL_wakanda

Figure 1: Flight to Wakanda sign, Atlanta airport (credit: CNN)

Unexpectedly, I have had the chance to consider my own origin story over the past few weeks—not just because of the opportunity to reconnect with history, but the ability to see in the present how pieces of the story fit together to tie present and past (and maybe, to tie past and present to future).

Bring to mind, if you will, a moment from your childhood where many things were possible, and you felt that a hero or heroine was speaking directly to you and your imagination of what you “want to be when you grow up”. I remember begging my parents to let me stay up late on Christmas Eve when I was six years old-not to wait for Santa Claus, or listen for reindeer, but to listen to astronauts speak for the first time from the orbit of the moon. The following Christmas, one shouldn’t be surprised that I had an Apollo Saturn V model (like this one, shown below) waiting for me on Christmas morning.

REVELL SATURN V ORIGINAL BOX ART

Figure 2: Saturn rocket model, 1969: photo from http://fantastic-plastic.com/REVELL%20SATURN%20V%20PAGE.htm

It’s critical to recognize that things rarely work out this clearly or directly; I meet people my age and older who still ask the question of what they want to be. (Sometimes, that’s about the awareness that life takes us on different paths; sometimes, it’s an admission that even as our bodies get older, we don’t always feel like we’ve “grown up”. Wasn’t “grown up” supposed to mean that things made sense, or were more clear, or had resolved all the youthful uncertainty? Apparently not.) But, nonetheless, imagine such a moment. And now imagine that a chance to see and hear that hero appears in your email inbox, in the form of an invitation: come see a panel discussion by the crew of Apollo 8 for a book launch about their mission to the Moon. The opportunity sells out, as would be expected… but not before I have my tickets. I’m off to Chicago, to hear about the Earthrise photo and the Christmas Eve message and, and, and…

This is the event that made me, and gave me the life I live today. This is primary inspiration.

I arrive at the Museum of Science and Industry in time to work through the line, and find a seat, before the lights go down.

Figure 3: Barrett at the MSI, with NASA SG Jacket

The movie director and screenwriter in my head can create a scene for the event, but that’s not really how it works out. I’m not called out, or accidentally run into Frank Borman in the hallway, or finding myself shaking Bill Anders’ hand. (As it turns out, I’d already seen and Jim Lovell before, so what does that say about leading a fairly special existence?) However, is this really something that I can mark as a failure or disappointment? I am learning more of what it was to them to be an inspiration to the world, as well as the inspiration and impact they felt to see all of human existence out their window in a single frame, knowing that they were the first to do so. They are telling the story so that the director and screenwriter are stunned into silence. The crew describes the surprises, and serendipity, and nearly sacred experience, as they experienced it and as they remembered it: living their lives forward, rather than worrying about the director’s intention.

Figure 4: Apollo 8 crew

And what about me? Well, I am wearing my NASA Space Grant jacket, with the iconic “meatball” logo. Not surprisingly, that gets some attention: a few people ask if I work for NASA; I’m much better now at saying “yes”. After taking a look (and some picture) at the Apollo 8 Command Module (and a framed and signed version of Earthrise), I am approached by a woman with a clipboard. Would I mind being videotaped for the Museum about the Apollo 8 event? Of course. I’m excited: perhaps too excited to answer the questions smoothly or calmly, I try to express the excitement of being able to be reminded of my origin story…

If the director in my head were managing this story, I would probably have finished here. But surprisingly, there is more. The very next day, there was an awards dinner for Engineering faculty, and I was awarded the Engagement and Service Award. I did not expect or anticipate video testimonials describing my effect and impact, through Indiana Space Grant and the senior capstone projects. I am unable to refute the messages or their meaning; I see no reason to reject the story anymore. And a week later, I am back at the Indiana FIRST Robotics State Championships, watching the excitement and tension of the competition in one of Indiana’s historic high school gymnasiums. This is new history being made, of course: the students are vying for the chance to represent Indiana at the World Championships in Detroit, where the NFL draft has taken a backseat in an NFL city to the prior commitment of K-12 students and their robots. A total of 15 teams earn their opportunities that day, including brand new teams and teams of underdogs who have overcome negative assumptions and lowered expectations to win awards of excellence. It feels like a small thing, for INSGC to offer financial support to help them on their journey. Who knows which of them will remember this month as part of their origin story, and the events that set them on the path for a life beyond their imagination, and successes not yet dreamed.

Figure 5: Detroit FIRST Championships, Einstein Round Robin. There is an origin story being written out here.

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September 22, 2017

Crossing Paths

(Yes, this took a while to write and post… in part because of the path of transition from Washington, DC back to Lafayette, IN. That’s part of the story. Happy Equinox! –BSC)

As I return from the National Space Grant Directors meeting, I am reminded strongly of the total solar eclipse on August 21, as well as how unique events can change one’s perspective in ways that cannot be fully undone. I have gotten to explore this a great deal myself, but one of the insights of this week’s meeting was watching and talking to one of my colleagues who was the emotional and operational leader of the national Space Grant Eclipse effort. More about this after a bit of a dream sequence retrospective.

Four weeks ago, I wrote the below comments, not quite knowing how to finish the entry or find the right pictures.

What a transition this is turning out to be. On Friday, I was still in Washington, meeting with colleagues at the State Department, and the Embassy of Japan, on science and technology innovation topics and global health strategy. Some packing, some sleep, and then by Saturday evening, I was off. Driving at night, sleeping for a couple of hours in West Virginia, and then arriving at the Evansville Museum about 2:00 (Central time) Sunday afternoon. Very quickly, I could tell the shift in my interactions and response, talking with the student research balloon team from the University of Southern Indiana, or USI. (I continue to have great appreciation for Glen Kissel, who has become a fantastic advocate for NASA and student education in his role as Affiliate Director at USI.) After an early bedtime, I was up and at the Museum again this morning at 6:20, to get on the bus for the tour to the path of the total solar eclipse in Hopkinsville, KY. We could not have asked for a better day so far: light breezes, and only the highest and wispiest of clouds an hour before the start of the eclipse. I have some extra time to start this entry this morning before the eclipse start; more will come later, after it’s all done. In the meantime, a scientific, spiritual, transforming experience.

636389864341377597-KyEclipseMSC1

Figure 1. Image of totality from Hopkinsville, from local media.

I noticed that, whether it is about science, or about statecraft, my role as translator and ambassador continues. Wearing NASA-themed clothing is pretty much a guarantee of such interactions at an event like this, with the expectation that I will be able and willing to answer questions. This is what happened, with a media interview for a Nashville metro radio group, brief interactions with a variety of visitors and even members of the NASA family (children of William Wagner, a former NASA solar physics director, who used to chase total eclipses for work).

Figure 2. This is the experience I came for.

A truly unexpected surprise involved a conversation with another MIT Humanities alumnus, who asked me about Japan’s policies for energy generation. (No, I was unable to explain Japanese domestic political positions on this issue.) I was asked for career advice for an 11 year old who wants to be an astrophysicist. A particular major? Which subjects / courses to take? No, my answer, in a setting like this, is much easier – and yet, much more challenging:

“Don’t let anyone talk you out of curiosity and passion.”

As we drive back, just a census of the license plates points to what that means. Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, of course. Maryland, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania? Check. But at the event, the census was much broader: California; Czech Republic; Hong Kong; Switzerland. What would drive someone to travel the world to experience totality in a small Midwestern town? I met someone at the hotel last night, who started planning his family trip over five years ago; he made his hotel reservation well before the hotel was finished construction. If those are not the expressions of people transforming their passion into experience, I don’t know what is.

What was it to be in the path of totality? The need for sunglasses dissipates; the air cools, and then the breeze picks up. A couple of planets, bright lights in the nighttime sky, appear in their courses. Within a few seconds of the alignment, one begins to notice a “360 degree sunset” of red and purple, combined with the downward illumination of the clouds in the distance. (We were extremely fortunate, that the sun was not obscured by clouds during the entire eclipse.) I will not even try to describe my internal experience of totality. I can only say that I feel it a tremendous gift to actually be able to experience it, in the context of my life of research and education and engagement.

Figure 3. Being in the umbra: “sunset” everywhere

Tomorrow, I go to work again… back on campus, with lectures on defining and scoping systems for engineering solutions. New students, new project efforts, new experiences to consider and curiosity to pursue: what new paths are out there?

Back to September…

Not surprisingly, a lot of the Space Grant discussion highlighted the Eclipse event, and for good reason. It was a “Really Big Deal.” By several estimates, this was one of the most experienced digital events over this decade: the largest government and NASA digital event ever, and a total audience in the range of that for a Super Bowl… for a STEM activity. That is literally a national and international experience of space science in your life. The person who put Space Grant in the middle of this path was another Space Grant Director, Angela Des Jardins, a self-proclaimed introvert who became a primary face of the Great American Eclipse. The Space Grant meeting was really her moment, the culmination of five years of dreaming and doing, now done. I found my response to her moment enlightening as well. I could see how others demonstrated their appreciation, and their expression of being affected and influenced by her actions. I remember how she started on this event planning, never imagining what outcomes would result from a dream expressed and passion pursued. Do I really need my own eclipse? Well, one can make the point that this eclipse was not of Angela’s making, and by the time the film crews appeared, she was as much a product of the experience as a cause. There is nothing wrong with that, and even if the outcomes of my experience or presence is not always as tremendous or profound, there are outcomes that I do not see, and those outcomes can be important for any number of people. We all cross a number of paths, and I don’t always integrate the number of paths that I do traverse and tangent. These are great reminders.

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August 1, 2017

The Last Weekend, Part 2: Bumping into Bits of History

Now that the calendar has actually turned over to August, reality is starting to set in: last weekend’s relaxed enjoyment and exploration really is the final full weekend in Washington, DC of my tenure as a Jefferson Science Fellow. In some ways, it feels like the time at the end of a party: people are starting to say their good-byes, but no one has actually left yet. There is also the question of leaving early and maybe missing something, or staying until the very end with the hosts wondering, “When will this guy ever leave?” In the social media era, people seem to talk about this as FOMO, but there is another concern in play here.

One of the local public / community radio stations here in Washington is WPFW; they are one of my options for jazz music. (As I just mentioned in the blog a couple of days ago, I have a long personal history with jazz.) An interesting piece of spoken jazz was in fact a parable: imagine an insect (ant or beetle) navigating on one of the most beautifully designed, luxuriously tufted, exquisitely crafted Oriental rugs ever created. However, this insect has lived its entire life with the tufts and weaves of the rug, and only sees the tufts and knots as problems confronting it and degrading its existence. The insect has never had the chance, or thought, to raise up its perspective to look down on the beauty and wonder of the pattern of the rug, and so it laments as burden what we would see as splendor. Poor, foolish insect. However…

Things have been very hectic at work over the past few weeks. Offices at the State Department are used to turnover during the summer, where people head off to embassies and consulates across the world, and others return back from those locations to take up work here in Washington. Those rearrangements don’t always mesh smoothly; right now, we’re down a few folks. Combined with travel, it meant that there were only two of us around in my particular unit for a while, and one was tied up with logistics for a very high profile event. Last Thursday, that event came to fruition, with lots of last minute frenzy and scheduling nightmares and trying to navigate 100 people through a maze of hallways and elevators into a room that holds 80. What could possibly be worth all of this?

Figure 1. William F. Hagerty IV sworn in as US Ambassador to Japan by VPOTUS Pence.

Not surprisingly, the official naming of an Ambassador is a pretty significant historical event, especially when the Vice President of the United States (VPOTUS) does the swearing in ceremony. It takes a few moments of someone not yet jaded by the process (a foreign affairs intern) to put it in perspective: even with the challenges, “you’re experiencing history”. In the Old Executive Office Building (the Indian Treaty Room). With dignitaries.

Situations like this can be trivialized with the goal of trying to diminish their historic significance or my involvement in them, but over time, I have come to realize that this actually doesn’t have the effect that I had originally intended. Sometimes a moment ends up with more impact than is intended, such as a young boy from Arkansas meeting a US President. They can even be played up to fictional excess, such as Forrest Gump’s unintentional influence on history. But let’s dial that back a bit. The event was what it was. There were other people who felt this particular ceremony very important to attend, which of course makes it more special for those who were there…

Figure 2. L-R: Sen. Corker, Amb. Hagerty, VPOTUS Pence, Mrs. Hagerty, Sen. Alexander

Particularly, if you happen to be from Tennessee, as the Hagertys are (although the Ambassador’s mother still prefers U. Kentucky basketball, but thinks Gallatin is a better place to witness the Great American Eclipse than Hopkinsville), this is a pretty significant bit of history to experience.

On Sunday, I saw a person on the National Mall wearing a t-shirt, “I am Black History”. I can become easily overloaded by such a statement, even though I do actually have a t-shirt that says, “I am kind of a big deal” (thanks, Keena!). No, I could never wear such a shirt! I didn’t do this, or that, or whatever else… I’m not these people:

Katherine+G+Johnson+President+Obama+Presents+6K4sUCOPe3ll

Figure 3. NASA Legend Kathrine Johnson receives Medal of Freedom from POTUS Obama.

But, as Kathrine Johnson said, history is what each of us does, every day. I am reminded of this quote from meeting her daughters earlier this year:

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Figure 4. NASA Program Manager Allen, Kathrine Johnson’s Daughters Katherine and Joylette, BSC

Yes, there have been a number of such experiences—not just during this fellowship, but in my own past. Apparently, I keep bumping into bits of history in the rug. I should not minimize the value of getting a sense of perspective on them, or lament my interactions with them. From a different vantage, the beauty and value of the pattern is hard to ignore.

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December 10, 2016

Icons and Orbits

Yesterday became a reminder of the special experience that this year has become. I didn’t really plan on it, but as they say, I was in the neighborhood. In the nature of adventures, that’s what made the exploration even more memorable and valuable.

On Friday morning, I had the opportunity to watch the launch of the Japanese H-II HTV-6 cargo transfer vehicle to the International Space Station from JAXA’s Washington DC Headquarters. Of course, this was a special privilege to be able to share the excitement with the U.S. office of JAXA; I was also honored that the staff was able to find a place for me to attend. I’m not sure they initially understood my enthusiasm for the launch as a rocket scientist, and not just a representative of the State Department, but after some discussions of orbital approach velocities and the functions of the GC, PAO, and PHALCON consoles in the ISS, I think my excitement was clearly interpreted as longstanding and real. Having completed that activity, and then walking over to my office at the State Dept., it was time for some research.

I’m supposed to finish a book chapter on aerospace human factors, and most of my references are back in Indiana. So, the thinking went, where’s the next best place? Although NASA Headquarters is also nearby, it was easy to pick up the bus to take me to the National Air & Space Museum (NASM), where I knew I could take some pictures and take some notes from one of the books in the museum shop. Upon entering the main hall, though, I was frozen in place. Even now, trying to write up this entry, my emotions threaten to get the best of me. The voices whispered to me from the ages and the vehicles:

Godspeed, John Glenn.

The children playing at the interactive wall couldn’t hear the voices. Maybe not yet.

Figure 1: Children at the Air and Space Museum interactive video wall

Of course, I couldn’t hear the voices either, the first time the words were spoken into the radio and broadcast. (I existed on February 20, 1962, but just barely. I wasn’t born until that September.) I remember learning them later, as part of the lesson of where bravery and commitment and ingenuity and perseverance could take us. One of the images on the wall was an iconic photo of Glenn with his Mercury capsule, where he would hear the voice and become the first American to orbit the earth. The New York Times had that iconic photo on its front page yesterday:

glenn-obit-1-blog427

Figure 2: John Glenn with Friendship 7, from New York Times story

https://static01.nyt.com/images/2016/12/08/us/glenn-obit-1/glenn-obit-1-blog427.jpg

But the power of the moment came a few minutes later, as I realized: it’s here. Friendship 7, just a few paces away. Surprisingly, there were only a few people there, providing me more than enough time to feel the prick of tears, appreciate the bouquet of memorial flowers, and recognize the sacred touch to my core.

Figure 3: Friendship 7 at NASM, with bouquets.

For years, I had thought that I was supposed to be like John Glenn. I wanted to be an astronaut, no? And there he was, not a fictional creation, but a real person. That’s achievable, right? That’s the model of what an astronaut can and should be? Well, not quite. Even the other Mercury astronauts didn’t live up to the image of John Glenn, a story of love and good behavior as an icon that only pushes down further on the scales of history. That’s not what or who I am, though I deeply honor someone who could be so completely that person: even meeting him years later, well after being Senator Glenn and the crew member responsible for the Space Shuttle moniker “Discovery 7”, I had a sense that he was just being himself. And yet there is a lesson in there for me, even if I cannot be that person.

In lab meeting this past week, GROUPERs and I discussed the future of the lab, and what would best achieve the goals I have for myself and the remainder of my career. In essence, my query and fear was over a lack of effect or impact. And yet, I can recognize that my best work is done when I am most devoted to doing what I am built to do, what lives at the depths of my core. There is a lot I “can” do, in the sense that I have a range of skills and aptitudes. But just because I can do it, that doesn’t mean that is what I must do. For some tasks, not only are there others better suited for it, but I am not ideally suited to do it; it would take away from what I am best designed to do. I wasn’t really ready for what I heard next (but I want to let you know that I am learning to hear these voices, too).

GROUPER doesn’t recruit in a standard way. It’s not about ranking applicants on the basis of grade point and GRE scores. It’s about detecting “signs of life,” as I describe it. But, from the other side, that of the students who thrive best, there seems to be something else. It’s about someone who listens, and cares, and is passionately able and willing to alter the trajectory of one’s life. That is something I love to do, burn to do. It’s not the most lucrative choice, or the one with the most fame or adoration associated. How many people have I affected in this way? All of my estimates are too low. I undercount my effect in the lab now. I undercount it among the lab alumni (but maybe I should start coming to visit you, just for a day or two, and have another conversation with you and those who you think might be good for me to talk to), and among the students in class who go about their lives in some different way because of something they saw, or heard, or felt. In more mature consideration, I realize that the real reward is to be doing what I need to be doing for its own sake, not because of the external acknowledgements or rewards.

Doing what one was built to do, out of a sense of duty to a broader purpose… a passionate life. Defining one’s work, and one’s job, differently than just being based on an income, but by being able to touch others and having left the world better. That’s perhaps not a common framing of holding, or doing, one’s job… but common or not, this sense of purpose was part of Glenn’s holding a job. Doing what Glenn did, because he did it, isn’t the point. Doing what I do, because it is what I should be doing, is.

All the flags are at half staff today. But I don’t feel like I’ve lost someone. I feel like I’ve gained. I welcome the reminders, the tears and the passion, and most of all, the voices.

Godspeed, John Glenn.

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November 26, 2013

They Got Game

You’ve probably seen the highlight film. If you happened to see the play live, you cheered (if they were on your team), or groaned—even then, you might have to admit it was a memorable play. The game winning grand slam. (Yes, I’ve got Red Sox gear, and Phillies gear, at home.) The clutch goal in the 85^th or 90^th minute. (Extra style points for headers or bicycle kicks.) Or maybe the 90+ yard touchdown run. (Just to show that I root for Purdue, as well as for Wisconsin.)

I’ve got to witness several of these plays this past Fall, either in the stadium or on live TV. Even the thought of the play brings a smile to my face. These are peak experiences for athletes, and sometimes even for their fans. Big plays on big stages, they say. “Big-time Players make big-time plays.” But, how do you compare those peak experiences to those of others in other domains? Do academics have the equivalent of a highlight reel? Especially those who are in academia, there is a sense of life in the research university as a different tier of performance and competition. Getting promoted in a US News top-10 ranked program is seen as a major highlight. Being selected as a Principal Investigator (PI) for a new grant from a major government agency can be a hallmark of one’s career. Academics even use the metaphors of sports to describe such events. Home run. Slam dunk. Major League.

For a few days this month, that’s how I felt regarding my own research activity right now. After weeks, or months, or in some cases years of effort, some ideas have been coming to fruition. At Space Grant, we submitted a proposal to the NSF to provide research experiences for teachers to use the Purdue’s HUB technology infrastructure to develop software models to teach STEM concepts to K-12 students in Evansville, Ft. Wayne, and Indianapolis—and highlight some of these software models in the local science museums there. I was asked to lead a FAA project to help with improving the quality and safety of weather information provided to pilots during severe weather conditions. And best of all… A NASA research project that I have dreamed about for months, to help with information flow and task coordination for human-robotic collaboration to do planetary science for lunar and martian moon surfaces—how cool is that? And my team was selected for such a project, within the Solar System Exploration Research Virtual Institute! Time to practice my fist pumping, shoulder brushing, touchdown dance?

Not so fast. It is, of course, November. This year, “Surviving November” (one of the GROUPER “song titles”) for me has included doctoral prelim exams, grading statistics exams, and evaluating team project summaries in both the statistics course and the capstone design course. The task lists, and the email inbox, both grow—sometimes faster than I can recognize that I have more tasks to do over the next day, or week. This is when it’s tough. Why did I sign up for this? Why do I put myself under this pressure? And, in a question that I have asked several of my colleagues… Why am I still trying to get tenure?

The answer to that question is both viciously insidious, and beautifully clear. I’ve been working like this for the past 30 years. I have lots of ideas, and am rarely satisfied with the standard way of doing things (or having people tell me there’s only one proper or correct way to do it). In 1983, it was becoming convinced that it was easier to get two undergraduate degrees rather than one. In 1993, I had to learn that I couldn’t put every cool idea into a single paper that could get me tenure immediately. But I did like the idea of studying the effects of time delay on tolerance for group interactions using this new technology called the web browser, or examining how to evaluate different options for that new digital voice mail technology being considered for state government. In 2003, it was believing that I could do more with Indiana Space Grant, and maybe we should try to write a proposal for an upgrade, less than 12 months after doing a complete overhaul of the program and award structure. So really, what’s been happening is that I have been rewarded and reinforced for being this way. Intermittent reinforcement works the best, as the operant conditioning psychologists have long known. If you want to make sure a behavior sticks around for a very long time, reinforce it. But only do so a fraction of the time—maybe 15% or so. On a semi-random basis. (That sounds like grant proposal writing.) In baseball or in funded research, what do you call a person who has an overall success rate of 40%? A member of the Hall of Fame.

It’s a tough world, and it’s a devastating level of competition that can emotionally and physically hurt. There’s no need to make it harder than it is, or to be erratic and cruel just to show the students how hard it can be. Can it be sufficient to just say, “We’re not going to tolerate less than excellence today”? That attitude doesn’t start with the award, and it doesn’t end with the award either. Every day is a struggle, but not necessarily against a competitor. Maybe it’s against one’s own doubt or insecurity. Perhaps it is just the need to push back the veil and curtain of ignorance. And sometimes, it’s just the desire to do just a little bit better than last time, or see if one can do just as well as last time.

I don’t want to be on the sidelines. I want to participate. Even if I’m tired tonight, I want to be able to function tomorrow. And tomorrow, the game starts anew.

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Tag: NASA

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