I’m the lone person on the causeway, standing on the narrow stretch of rock and road crossing the Banana River between the Kennedy Space Center and the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. It’s really just me here. Not another soul in sight. Not even headlights. White folding chairs are lined up in neat little rows in the grass and tents have been erected over empty tables awaiting crowds who will amass here in two days to view a display of fire and thunder and grandeur.

The Falcon 9 rocket, awaiting its maiden voyage and white like an alabaster statue, stares me down from afar.

I was on my way to work but I had to stop. They’ve got this rocket lit up with these massive spotlights for all the world to see. It’s impressive. Farther up the coast, the Space Shuttle Discovery sits on Launch Pad 39A, lit up by no spotlights. I don’t think the RSS has rolled back yet. That must be why there are no lights turned toward Discovery.

Right?

I try to take a picture of the white rocket with my phone, but it doesn’t come out. I get back in my car. Time for work.

I work in the Shuttle Crew Escape team. We’re responsible for Shuttle astronaut survival equipment and various other hardware, headlined mainly by the orange pressure (“pumpkin”) suits you’ve probably seen once or twice before adorned on spacefarers as they make their way over to and strap into the Space Shuttle orbiter. They’re called Advanced Crew Escape Suits, or ACES, for short.

My team and I flew over from Houston on Wednesday. We have 5 days of prep work to get ready for this Shuttle launch on Monday morning. We test personal cooling systems to make sure they work. We suit up the crew to make sure their suits fit right and provide survivable pressure in the event of a cabin depressurization. We count all the pencils, make sure batteries are charged, clean the boots, attach mission patches, make little bags for light sticks that go in pouches on the astronauts’ arm sleeves to help emergency rescue crews find them in the dark in case all hell breaks lose. We are some of the last people astronauts see before breaking the bounds of Earth’s gravity well to spin around the planet.

And if all hell does break lose, if that day ever comes, we’ll be some of the people responsible for the last line of defense in keeping those astronauts alive.

In this world, emergencies aren’t just unfortunate inevitabilities—they are meticulously planned for and diligently expected. Because we work in a business where strapping seven people astride six million pounds of explosives is not only sane but, dare I say, routine. And I mean that in the very rudimentary aspect of the word. They say there’s nothing routine about spaceflight. Perhaps a better word is accepted. We accept a certain amount of risk during each and every launch and we accept that nothing expected ever happens as expected. In that vein, Crew Survival is our life.

The first four Shuttle crews launched with ejection seats on the flight deck. But ejection seats proved infeasible beyond these flights as crews increased in size and the actual window of survivable situations wasn’t all that large with ejection seats in the first place. Following the Challenger accident, the roots of my job were planted, as NASA began flying astronauts with Launch and Entry Suits (LES) in 1989, replaced by the ACES in 1995, which provides a full pressure, self-contained environment around the crewmember that allows for him or her to bailout of the orbiter during controlled, glided descent in the event the vehicle doesn’t have enough energy to make it to a runway.

Our subsystem doesn’t protect the crew in all scenarios, but it’s the best that could be done at the time given what was available, constraints to the already-built Shuttle design, and the just plain old dangerous environment encountered in breaking through our Earth’s atmosphere.

The team stretches far beyond technical hardware oversight. We’re concerned with all aspects of crew survival, from emergency egress from the launch pad to in-the-air emergency breathing and bailout. Our efforts are a composite response to each of NASA’s three fatal accidents: Apollo 1, Challenger, and Columbia. In a perfect world, our team’s work is never needed. In a perfect world, Space Shuttles launch and land safely every time. But we can’t plan for that. We plan for the bad days. We plan for the unexpected.

I’m on my way to work after midnight because Monday’s launch happens to be at 6:21am, meaning our work starts just before midnight Easter Sunday. Now, we’re sleep shifting to prepare for it. Plus if the crew needs to change something—say they want to swap out a watch or grab an extra pen or they’ve got a problem with their glove—we’re the ones to make it happen. We’re up when the crew’s up. We sleep when they sleep.

I’m heading to the suit room at KSC, which is just down the hall from the astronauts’ personal living quarters. It’s the same room that Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Mike Collins got suited up in before entering the history books over 40 years ago. It’s the same room John Young and Bob Crippen left to fly a beautiful yet awkward, clunky-looking brick with wings strapped to the side of a rocket for the first time. It’s the same room the STS-133 crewmembers will leave from when they become the final crew to fly that same clunky-looking brick nearly 30 years later.

As I drove on down the causeway towards the suit room, still the lone car for miles, it occurred to me that the causeway was a metaphor (this occurrence may or may not have been brought about by a semi-loopy-sleep-shifted-mind-state): NASA’s on a causeway too. We’re in the in-between space where we’re still connected to the mainland, but also well on our way out to an island on the other side.

I imagine many others in the business have felt a similar sensation, staring out at the waters of change like they’re alone at midnight on a causeway, too. Stuck between two worlds, maybe. Stuck between changing paradigms. Wondering why spotlights are shining in one place and not the other. Feeling the insight and stillness of a star-filled sky while the lights keep flickering and the ground keeps spinning at full speed below.

On that causeway, I thought of the history of the suit room I was heading to, the collective legacy of a space agency still very much in its infancy, carrying a rich, proud heritage earned through fifty years of diligent attention to detail and passion to lift humanity beyond our known world, beyond our known selves, to that other side of the river.

Maybe the nature of our business means we’ll always be on a causeway. Maybe being on the causeway is a necessary step—one that we accept as the nature of our dangerous business where the expected never happens as expected, and planning for the unexpected serves as the creed by which we strive.

Maybe traveling down the causeway—the journey between two places amidst a sea of uncertainty—maybe that’s what its all about in the first place.

The four are in search of cheese in a maze. Don’t ask why these “Littlepeople” don’t have access to alternative means of sustenance like water, tacos, or Snickers bars. Or why they’re the size of mice. They’re stuck in a maze and they just want cheese. (You wouldn’t crave a block of meuster if you were 5 inches tall and confined to a labyrinth of hallways with only mice as company?).

Anyway, the two mice and two Littlepeople find a supply of cheese in the maze and get fat and happy and then the cheese supply vanishes and they are forced to deal with the changed access-to-cheese situation. I won’t spoil the story (it’ll take you 45 minutes to read), but the gist is that there are four types of people when it comes to change: 1) people who “scurry” to get things done no matter what the situation and adapt quickly and aggressively to change; 2) people who “sniff” out change and are perceptive to warning signs to see it coming, thereby positioning themselves to adapt; 3) people who “haw” and fear any change to their comfortable routines but ultimately learn to laugh at their fears and adapt; and 4) people who “hem” themselves into stubborn routines, resisting any change to their habits or behaviors, even when it is clear the only way to survive is to change.

The paradigm in space is clearly changing. Our cheese has been moved. Even if a strong resistance from Congress saves the Constellation Program, the writing on the wall is clear: change or cease to exist.

The cheese is moving, but what cheese are we talking about here?

Is the administration saying that the “cheese” is the ability to put people into space and that NASA, with its 50 years of spaceflight heritage and founding principles built around ensuring safe access to space for human space explorers, is hemmed into a stubborn routine incapable of change?

Is the message that the values and technical competency of our workforce are no match for the new, nimble players in the completely unproven commercial spaceflight sector—or the minds of competing nations like Russia, China and soon to be India?

While I consider myself a “sniff”, at least occasionally perceptive to change and willing to adapt to search for new cheese if that’s what’s needed, something doesn’t sit right with me here. Maybe I’m actually a “haw” who fears change because it threatens my routine of assumptions about NASA’s purpose, competence and value to the nation…

But isn’t looking for new cheese what NASA’s all about?! It’s in our very charter! Our existence is a bold statement by this country and humanity itself that we are not content to sit back, get fat, and accept the world as it is in spite of overwhelming bureaucratic and technical hurdles, or the cynics who label such endeavors as “impossible”. We will not rest on our laurels, nor stand on the edge of a frontier and shy away from the unknown.

The very thought of complacency should strike deep, bone-chilling fear into the hearts and minds of those whose passion is Exploration. NASA stands for the highest standards of integrity, discipline, responsibility and technical excellence and our existence is an example of the best of what our species is capable of.

So while the space access swiss may be moving, don’t tell me the exploration Monterey Jack is moving too and that our values—those same bedrock principles that formed this nation and still represent the enduring nature of the human spirit—don’t tell me those are all of a sudden obsolete or worse, irrelevant.

Don’t tell me that NASA is dead, that our role is to play second fiddle to other nations and companies whose ambitions are greater, whose resolve stronger, whose leadership better adapted to change.

Don’t tell me its acceptable to stand on a new frontier and choose to back away.

No, NASA represents something rare and very much relevant for us now and in the future. We represent change itself. We represent that bold proclamation to the universe that we cannot stand on the edge of a frontier and not act. We will seek new horizons and in doing so, we will lift up the human race.

If we lose that, we’re doing future generations a grave injustice.

If we can build on that unrelenting resolve that Exploration is itself an act of searching for new cheese, we just might stand on the shoulders of giants, and see new light.

And so, I don’t like giving up our commitment to create what was billed as the ‘exploration infrastructure’ of the future. But I’m behind this new search for new cheese ONLY if it truly frees us up to do more of what we were created to do—explore, explore, explore. I think it will and I’m going to help make it happen.

Because the cheese that’s moving isn’t just a destination, like that pie in the sky we once visited many, many years ago. The real cheese that’s moving is our reliance on “old, moldly cheese”. It’s the inability to change that put us in this situation. And if this change brings about a renewed culture which takes along with it the best of what made us great and creates a new atmosphere of innovation and discovery, built around the ability to never stop looking for that new cheese, what could be more in line with the spirit of exploration than that?

So if we’re really going to abandon this stinky limburger for a fancy gold palate assortment of bries, cheddars, provolones, and colbys, we’d better remember that it’s the act of finding new cheese that we’re all about in the first place.

The best laid schemes
O’ mice and men
Often go astray.

Robert Burns

A few months ago, Amanda Stiles and I were invited to speak to a group of NASA interns, young professionals, and post-docs at the STS-127 Pre-Launch Education Forum at the Kennedy Space Center on the subject of “the State of the STEM Workforce”. We were thrilled but- why us? What did we know about the State of the STEM Workforce?

Well, not a whole lot, thought I.

Aside from our involvement in several cross-generational activities at NASA and in the commercial aerospace sector (and our employment as young professionals in the STEM industry), we definitely weren’t experts in STEM education, or its relation to the American technical workforce for that matter.

Ok, more like nothing at all, I thought, upon further reflection.

But we had the invite and we both had been feeling the mounting unease within NASA and the U.S. technical workforce at the declining status of American technological capability. Visions of national greatness slipping away and a general anxious urgency at missed opportunities tugged at my patriotic strings. We wanted to do something about it. Oh, and we’d be getting a trip to Florida out of the deal.

Oh well, we said, let’s give this a shot!

So we digged into any research we could find, put these slides together and presented at the Education Forum at KSC on June 12, 2009. Its purpose was to describe, on a very high-level, the state of the STEM workforce in the United States and how that relates to NASA, but we also wanted to motivate space people, both young and old, to be a part of strengthening American STEM capabilities by heightening awareness of the issue. It was definitely not intended to describe specific programs, projects, or solutions to NASA or the United States’ education system.

What do you think about the “state of the STEM workforce” in the U.S.? More importantly- what can we do about it?

(Our apologies on the not-so-timely posting of this presentation. Feel free to use this for other education events or send us feedback and ideas to improve it for future use.)

The first time I ever thought of culture, I did so kicking and screaming. It was World Cultures class in ninth grade. Everyone had to take it. I didn’t know why I needed to take any kind of culture or history class at the time. My eyes were on the future, my head in the stars. Thinking back, I have no idea what I was thinking. 

Culture is cool. I get that now. And it’s important, too. It’s a unifying force and the unseen hand of progress and failure, tolerance and pride, beauty and injustice. It’s always there and might be the most important factor in our success as an agency and nation.

What is NASA culture to you?

Maybe you’re a student, imagining an exciting career working on cutting edge space technology. Maybe you’re a NASA employee, passionate about exploration yet frustrated about the progress and leadership of the agency. Maybe you’re an informed outsider, captured by the allure and romanticism of space exploration yet not professionally involved in the endeavor.

Or maybe you’re one of the many once-starry-eyed space camp kids who dreamed of floating adrift (tethered, of course) against the backdrop of space or feeling the firm lightness of lunar dust scattered at your boot step, now for whatever reason disillusioned by the reality of space travel and the structure of the organization charged with the task of realizing those dreams, at least from the public sector perspective.

Disillusionment is a powerful word. My MS Word thesaurus says disillusionment is “disappointment caused by a frustrated ideal or belief”. The key there is the ideal or belief part. You can’t be disillusioned without an ideal or belief to become frustrated over. Forever the optimist, to me that means there’s hope- because if there are still ideals and beliefs to become frustrated over, at least we don’t have to worry so much about generating them. When there’s a frontier to explore there will be ideals and beliefs about its exploration. So let’s work on the frustration.

NASA culture to me is like a tale of two cities. On the one hand, you have a foundation built on the highest standards of technical excellence driven by a bold spirit to challenge humanity’s collective concept of what is impossible. It is a culture of determined men and women, who dedicate their lives in public service to the passionate pursuit of exploration. It is the side of integrity, selflessness, toughness, and willingness to adapt to overcome any obstacle.

On the other hand, you’ve got the degenerating side of NASA culture—the dark side that is almost never openly discussed. The side of complaint, frustration, finger pointing, selfishness, and anger. It’s the 800-lb requirement-gorilla in the room. It’s the contractor-civil servant cockroach crawling out of the AC vent. It’s the pesky gnat of the leadership void buzzing in your ear.

Ok, I’ll stop before diving too far into the metaphorical zoo of NASA shortcomings. You get the idea though—it’s the side of cynicism and our good friend, disillusionment. 

I recently read one person’s opinion that people waste their entire lives at NASA, slaves to the burgeoning bureaucratic behemoth of false dreams and misplaced idealism. “NASA will never change,” this opinion seemed to suggest. “You should save your breath.”

Well, if everyone thought that, of course nothing would ever change.

Forgive the high-minded political fluff rhetoric for a moment and consider that the greatest aspect of NASA culture, of American culture, is that it CAN change.

Admittedly, I’m a victim to the wave of idealism and change sweeping across the nation and the world, a product of the times, a testament to the sometimes brash naïveté of youth and innocence and the generation that’s supposed to lack the attention spans to stick with it for the long haul and all that jazz, but I don’t care. I’d rather live in this city than the one across town.

I still get goose bumps when I watch Apollo 13. I’m still honored every day to walk the same halls as the great men and women before me. And I still think NASA can be a model for the world as a leader in exploring frontiers, whether they come in the form of the physical frontiers of space or the idealistic frontiers that drive men and women to challenge themselves to reconsider what they think of as impossible.

Sure, I’ve seen some disillusionment, but mostly I’ve seen quite the opposite in this agency. I’ve seen high-level managers opening discussions about how to tear down organizational barriers. I’ve seen young engineers seeking out and finding outstanding mentors in uncommon places. I’ve seen mentors go to extraordinary lengths to instill not only a sense of technical excellence, but a genuine sense of honesty and integrity that is arguably even more important to sustainable engineering projects—and life for that matter—than data analysis or raw technical knowledge alone.

So, in short, I’ve figured out that culture is, in fact, cool. And important. And I’m inspired by its potential to drive change at NASA, despite the uphill battle it may seem at times. (If my World Cultures teacher is reading this, I humbly apologize for falling asleep in your class.)

What do you think about NASA culture? 

Culture.

What does that word do for you? I hear it thrown around a lot when talking about change.  And change, unless maybe you’ve been living in a Thai jungle for the last 2 years or so, seems to at least be a hot topic on many people’s minds lately. 

(No offense intended if you have in fact been living in a Thai jungle and feel this image unfitting.)

How important is culture to a country’s ability to change? Is change an inherent characteristic of our nation’s culture?

President-elect Obama, in his acceptance speech on election night, said, “For that is the true genius of America- that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.”

I bring this up first as a topic on a national level because I think it’s important to understand change in the context of our nation’s character, regardless of political stance, before getting down to how NASA fits in. Given the potential for some big changes happening in the country and the space program in the near future, it may help to better understand yesterday’s and today’s cultures as we strive to create the changes of tomorrow. 

(Feel free to comment on NASA culture here if you want, but part 2 will be “Our NASA: Culture and Change”.)

One full year on the job.

(NASA, I’m writing you this blog entry as a combined present for our anniversary and your 50^th birthday. Even though I’m technically late on both and you might have been hoping for a more substantial present like a bouquet of tulips or a nice dinner at that fancy French restaurant in town or a pearl necklace-yeah right on my salary!-I hope you won’t use that in future arguments over which TV show we’ll watch on Tuesday nights. I’m still voting for House, for the record).

I started full-time at NASA back in August 2007, having graduated the previous May after spending five co-op tours at JSC over the previous four years. They say you usually don’t start talking to yourself or addressing the agency as your significant other for at least 10 years, so I’m thrilled to be ahead of the curve on this one.

A year might not sound like all that significant to most, but to me, it’s a huge milestone. An-all-too-welcoming stroll down memory lane brings me back the image of a college junior, tying a tie eight times before getting it right the morning of his first day as a co-op, then staring wide-eyed at the monster Saturn V rocket lying on its side in the grass at the main gate of the center, an ominous sentry to the unsuspecting kid who still couldn’t believe he had landed an interview with the agency, let alone to be actually sitting in his car outside its gates. 

But apparently I tied that tie well enough to get hired on as a full-timer, joining the ranks of men and women whose ingenuity had inspired me to crack open the differential equations textbooks (ugh) and survive the all-night college library exam studying (read: cramming) to get to where I am now, celebrating a year of ups and downs, triumphs and failures, exploring questions and trying to make the agency a little better place than when I got here.

Wednesday I drove through the gates at JSC and I thought of that first day on the job. I glanced at the (relatively) recently-built giant building enclosing the massive Saturn V; the beast of a rocket built to billow colossal plumes of fire and smoke and taught to reach constantly upward into the heavens as the height of our audaciousness, fueled by a defiant dream and the lure of the unknown, now asked to bathe in shadow, awaiting a lifetime of staring at a wall of corrugated aluminum siding while tourists gawk at the grandeur of man’s creations and NASA employees drive past, largely oblivious to its tormented suffering in their rush to meet the next impossible schedule.

A rocket that took astronauts to the moon all those years ago…

What if I had just finished up my first year in 1968, instead of 2008? Would I have this same excitement? Would I be so driven? Or, more importantly, would I be talking to myself like this?

I wonder what it was like to drive through that same gate on the way to a day on the job, working towards a goal of lifting humans to heights never before reached, to our knowledge, in the history of the universe. To live in a world where man had not yet walked on the surface of another heavenly body. What was that world like when those preconceptions of man’s limitations were shattered?

I can’t imagine such a world because the people who drove past that gate and many others like it for so long have given me the gift of seeing the world through different eyes.

In our rush to figure out how to improve the openness of the agency and either anoint or discredit the past, current, or future generations of engineers and rocket scientists, leaders and dreamers, heroes and soldiers of exploration, let’s not forget to take a step back and smile at that gift.

Even if some of us weren’t around when it was given. 

I told her how I was trying to learn the ropes of blogging (though I’m terribly infrequent about it, I know) and that I try to put at least some conscious thought into the words I use in any communication, including emails and even my post-it notes, which are carefully edited, often crumpled up and re-written to cram all the details I’m trying to convey on that tiny neon green sheet of paper before being applied to a coworker’s monitor in an attention-grabbing location. But, at the end of the day, I’m ok with my words running free, even through the abyss of the Internet. 

Yes. These words, too. 

I then went on to say, “then again, maybe I just don’t know any better.” 

Well, that one’s almost certainly true. Maybe if I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t leave such an electronic fingerprint on the Internet for all to see 30 or 40 years from now when I’m accepting the Nobel Peace Prize for bringing all nations of the world together to agree on an international ban on paperclips or something. But it doesn’t change the feeling I have that the principle of standing behind your words and taking ownership of them is an important one, and I think one that also resonates closely with the foundations of engineering judgment we depend on so much here at NASA. 

To me, learning how to not be afraid of words offers a parallel lesson to learning how to stick behind a technical engineering position on an issue. When it comes down to making any engineering decision, from one that could affect the lives of astronauts and potentially the fate of our nation’s space exploration program to a decision on changing a routine hardware inspection, the bottom line is simple: you’d better know your stuff and have confidence in knowing your stuff, too. Because the alternative is living with the knowledge that you could have done something different, something more. The tough line to find (though probably the most important I’ve seen in my brief career as an engineer) is the one drawn in the sand between being excessively cautious in the name of safety and mission success and knowing when to stand confidently behind a technical position and then move on, because space exploration is inherently risky and we wouldn’t go anywhere if we didn’t know when and where to make that stand. 

I don’t mean to say that being excessively cautious is a bad thing. But there has to be a point where you press forward and accept a certain amount of risk in this business. 

I draw the parallel to blogging because there are stories and lessons and insights at NASA that need to be told, yet I see an underlying fear that expressing them will somehow overly expose people to labeling, criticism, blame, and liability. While today’s age brings more ways to make a fool of yourself everyday, should that mean that we shy away from sharing anything, out of fear that our words, ideas, and stories might do more harm than good? Doesn’t NASA stand for pushing the limits of exploration? Don’t we bother with exploring in the first place because we believe at some level in that spirit of taking risks?

Maybe there’s a similar fear that handcuffs the technical development of engineers here. While I never want to explain a mistake in engineering judgment with “maybe I just didn’t know any better,” I think it’s important to constantly and actively seek out that line of acceptable risk and learn from mistakes along the way so that when it comes down to a decision of ultimate consequences, you may stand confidently behind your words, whether they come in the form of a speech, hallway conversation, email, blog post, or a tiny, neon green post-it note.

Eloquent words recalled from my days prowling the defensive backfield as a free safety on the high school football practice fields. My coach would make it a point to yell from the complete opposite side of the field, making everyone stop in their tracks to watch his 260-pound frame barrel down on me to inform me that:

A) I was out of position

and

B) I didn’t have a clue why I should have been in the right position.

“Do you know WHY you should have been filling the C gap in cover 2?! Why?! Tell me WHY you should’ve been in the C gap, Fitzpatrick!”

“Well…uhh…” I’d say, still thinking of the image of a blind dog running on a rampage through a meat house. Would it run around all crazy, eating everything it ran into? Or would its senses overload, scaring it into a dull, mindless stupor?

“Because the end’s blocking DOWN and the fullback’s picking up the linebacker!” He’d explain to me as if scolding a 4-year old for grabbing a hot frying pan.

I’d get it, eventually. But through the heat of the Chicago summer, enduring three-a-day practices and the yelling and the sweating and the bleeding across the sun-dried fields under the slowly creeping shadow of the town water tower, it was nearly impossible to avoid the question—why was I even doing it all?

And then the season would begin. Game days brought packed stadiums, crisp uniforms and hungry looks in the eyes of those who had been through it all right alongside me. I’d feel the energy building up before an opening kickoff and the highs and lows of all that comes with fierce competition. I’d actually be in the right place at the right time; another piece of the puzzle that had to fall in place to ensure the success of the team. And I’d eventually come to understand the reasoning behind the madness my coach would put us through for all those months.

Today, I even miss running around on those practice fields.

I’m not about to sign up for another stint on the gridiron, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe the practice fields just have a different form today.

That thought occurred to me the other day when I got to thinking about why people do what they do. And, more specifically, why do I do what I do? Why work for NASA? Why explore? Why push the limits? Why try to change public opinion about space? Why bother?

Why?

It might be the most important question anyone can ask. And a close second in my book is a cousin of the first: why not?

Personally, I believe in exploration and I think the fundamental asking of the question “why” goes hand-in-hand with what exploration is in the first place. To me, we explore because we aren’t content with the way the world is and we are compelled by a desire to find out more. It isn’t good enough for us to sit back and accept that what we see is what we get. Exploration, science, innovation, personal discovery and enlightenment—they all share the same basic underlying drive and it is a drive that you might say has had some history of success in the world so far.

I would venture to guess that Mr. Columbus might have shared a similar stance in that regard. Lewis and Clark, too. The founding fathers of the American democracy. Einstein, Bohr, Magellan, Aristotle, Lindbergh, Polo, Newton, Galileo, Edison. Abraham Lincoln. Kennedy. King. (I’ll stop there only in the interest of keeping this brief).

They all saw something in the world and wanted to make it better.

Workers in any career should ask themselves the tough questions. As a nation and as a world, we should also ask ourselves the tough questions. And in the end, regardless of generation, occupation, background or motivation, maybe everyone could use a minute to take a step back, see the entire playing field in all its sometimes tortuous, incessant grind and really—and I mean really, not just in passing or jotted down as an item in a bulleted list to be lost or checked off as blueberry yogurt on a grocery list—ask him/herself the tough questions:

A) Why?

and

B) Why not?

It is the purpose of it all that gets lost in the midst of all the noise, whether that noise be in the form of large sweating teenagers in pads running at full speed with eyes like daggers pointed through your chest or the constant barrage of technology creating an entire generation formed in the highly generalized mold of short attention spans and instant gratification.

“You think its HOT?!? Boy, you ain’t seen hot yet! HOT?!? Hell is hot! This??? This is ILLINOIS! You go to hell then come back and complain to me about HOT!”

Maybe my football coach wasn’t exactly what you would call “politically correct”.

But in some way I would not have considered in a thousand years if you had asked me after getting chewed out by my football coach all those years ago that I’d be glad for it, but I am. And I’m glad for asking myself the tough questions, too.

Today, we have the opportunity and the means (and with that, the responsibility) to engage so many more people around the world to ask themselves the tough questions. And I’m not just talking about those questions about space or NASA here. So, here’s one of them (and I promise I won’t come running after you with a giant fist of hard, burly knuckles), regardless of what it is you do:

Why do you do what you do?

While the majority of responses have been largely very positive (as Nick’s “Small Steps” post can attest) some of the more interesting responses we’ve seen have actually been the negative ones. The picture we painted in the presentation did not necessarily place our generation in a completely positive light. Some have questioned who Gen Y thinks they are to want things to change for them. Some have pointed to the spoiled nature of a generation who has grown up expecting instant gratification and importance.  

Where do these perspectives/characteristics come from? Well, among others, part of it is the idealism and passion of youth seen in any generation and part of it is a product of the environment we’ve been raised in. While some of these attributes are undoubtedly parts of our generation’s character, I would pose the question: how do we work WITH these and other characteristics to encourage new ideas, work together to blend all generations’ inputs, and challenge people to lead the way in creating a better future for everyone?

The purpose of the presentation was to spark a conversation. We wanted to get people talking about how to make NASA a better, more open, innovative, empowering agency that could appeal not only to our generation, but to all generations. These powerpoint slides were merely a reflection of that desire through perspectives and conversations we’ve had with literally hundreds of people from all walks of life, inside and outside the space industry. But it isn’t just a series of slides that will get this conversation going. It will take PEOPLE and it will take homage to the generations who have gotten us here and it will take an open-mindedness in encouraging new ideas to develop across the whole spectrum of different backgrounds- age, race, gender, experience- all of it.  

Above everything, I think we would not be honoring the legacy of those who came before us in space exploration if we DIDN’T think we could make a difference by trying to get people talking.

So what to make of this new Gen Y? Yes, we have been dubbed the “me” generation. Is that a terrible thing? What if we could take our generation’s “self-importance” and use it to make a difference? Can it be that we are also an empowered generation who will not be afraid to challenge accepted norms when needed? Are we passionate? Yes. Anxious? Of course. Connected? Absolutely. These are the types of things all organizations can use to better understand how to start working together- with all generations- towards improving things, regardless of how the conversation is brought up or who does the bringing up.

In your comment, you wrote: “we and the powers-to-be need to call NASA into action”… I couldn’t agree more that what NASA needs is the ability to empower its people to take some ownership of the agency, to challenge the accepted norms and the traditions of a big bureaucracy- not because we or any one person necessarily has a better way of doing it- but merely for the sake of stirring things up, asking the tough questions, and connecting people together under a common purpose. 

Because, otherwise- what’s the alternative? Give in to the complacency and accept things as the way they are because someone else decided so? If everyone did that, then how would anything ever change?

NASA has a rich, storied, awe-inspiring past, but if we as a generation did NOT think that the greatest moments in space exploration were ahead of, and not behind us, then how could we possibly do justice to the great traditions we are inheriting? 

Right now, the perception is that NASA is driven by the wardens of politics and regulations; to form a new image of the agency, a new NASA, PEOPLE need to feel like they are a part of the process. They need to feel like their opinions and ideas actually mean something. And in the noble traditions of democracy that this country was founded upon, they need to have a VOICE. That’s what a government entity of the most advanced and proficient democracy the world has ever seen should be about. 

So here’s the question: can NASA be a model for an open, transparent, participatory, modern democracy and, in so-doing, set an example for the rest of the government- and the world- of what can be achieved by the human spirit? 

Or is that something “too hard to do” or “beyond the scope of requirements outlined by the federal government in a stack of papers locked in a titanium box in some secret storage vault deep under the Rocky Mountains, guarded by a man named Burt who’s been locked down there for the last 40 years as the sole protector of The Requirements”?