At the reunion, we had our customary talent show with the kids, along with lots of eating and dancing, all of us clad in white linen, clapping and whirling in rhythm. My dad even got on the dance floor, leaning on his walker and grooving to the beat of Michael Jackson’s “Rock with You.” As I look back on it now, a Luther Vandross song comes to mind. In “Dance with my Father” he says he’d play a song that never ends if “he could get another chance, another walk, another dance” with the man who guided him to maturity.
That song easily conjures up all the charm and comfort of home but returning to one’s roots isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s also about responsibility, the desire to do something meaningful for those who have given you so much. Those impulses were among the many thoughts consuming me when I returned to Virginia for Thanksgiving. In between trips, I had been to San Francisco, China, the University of Maryland, and elsewhere, promoting science and the value of scientific discovery. In Lynchburg I saw an opportunity to reflect on the value of family ties. I ran into my old friend, Ralph “Chopper” Wilson, who was a barber and now real estate developer building luxury condos in downtown Lynchburg. He’s a kid from the hood done good. His grit and determination had paid off, big. I ended up negotiating with him and renting a new condo to spend more time at home.
Back in DC, Jake, my running partner of fifteen years, was in rapid decline, his mind and body worn out. Before Jake died, we spent the day at the Arboretum, listening to the sounds of the city. The next morning he was gone. Soon after, I began to pack my things. Although I hadn’t worked out the details, Jake’s passing had confirmed an impulse that had been growing in my consciousness. It was time to go home.
• • •
“I am sorry to inform the NASA family that my good friend and our associate administrator for education, Leland Melvin, has decided to retire next month after more than twenty-four years of NASA service,” Charlie Bolden wrote in a January memo to my colleagues. Twenty-four years working with a single organization is almost unheard of in this day and time. There were so many jobs I had done within NASA. I had worked as a research scientist at Langley, writing papers and presenting my fiber optics and optical NDE (Nondestructive Evaluation) work at conferences around the country. I had been a student when I went back to school to work on a PhD at University of Maryland in mechanical engineering. I had been a project manager that helped lead a team to create the first ever in-line optical fiber sensor manufacturing system. I had been an astronaut; I had been an educator; I had been a senior executive service member working for Administrator Charlie Bolden. NASA provided an incredible journey that allowed me to learn so many different things, meet people from all over the world, and leave the planet twice. As I prepared to leave, I remembered Rosa Webster, who saw something special in me and recruited me to join the agency. I thought of Katherine Johnson, Woodrow Whitlow, Bob Lee, Bill Prosser, Robert Rogowski, Tom Kashangaki, and all the other people who made sure I understood the possibilities and never talked about limitations. I left with the same impressions I had when I began: NASA is a combination of many things but most of all it’s a family.
I returned home on February 16 and had a wonderful conversation with my dad. As we talked about his basic needs, I understood that our roles had all but completely reversed. He also talked about his beautiful wife taking care of him and how he felt bad about being unable to take care of her. After a fruitful discussion, I helped my parents to bed and headed downtown. The next day, my sister, Cathy, drove him to rehabilitation therapy and I joined them there. After the session, I was following them in my car when I noticed that Cathy had pulled over. My dad was slumped down in the passenger seat, unmoving. We rushed him to the emergency room, which was not far away. The doctors tried to revive him to no avail. As our friends started to hear the news of my father’s passing, the hospital room started to fill with familiar faces. It quickly turned from being a place of sadness to a place of gratitude for the impact that he had made to society. People started telling stories about him and we prayed and sang in his name. It became a very spirit-filled place, full of joy. I had very mixed emotions because I had moved home to be there for him. I had hoped to somehow bring things back to the way they were, with me being his son and he being my guide, my mentor, my dad.
• • •
It was once hard for me to wrap my head around intercontinental travel because as a kid I had never flown in an airplane. All of our family travel was either in an RV or by Greyhound bus, and sometimes the train. But to think about getting to the places that I had only looked at in my encyclopedias and maps was something I could hardly fathom. I slowly developed an understanding of the larger world through my father’s patient tutelage. He had introduced me to the principles of engineering when we converted a bread truck to a camper, little knowing that our labors would someday lead to my work in perfecting optical sensors for space vehicles. Just as the view from space illuminates connections on Earth that are seldom seen at ground level, my perspective as an adult helped me see the links between my father’s teaching and NASA’s mission. The NASA Space Act of 1958 required the agency to provide “the widest practicable and appropriate dissemination of information concerning its activities and the results thereof.” To me this meant education and inspiration, in the same way that my father had educated and inspired me. At NASA we worked to let kids, parents, and teachers know what we were doing and why. We attempted to show how everything was connected as one huge planetary ecosystem, solar system ecosystem, and universal ecosystem. Charlie Bolden’s memo about my retirement had also said of my work: “Using NASA’s unique missions, programs, and other agency assets, he has helped cultivate the next generation of explorers—one that is truly inclusive and properly reflects the diverse makeup and talent of this nation’s youth and our agency’s future.” I knew that wherever my own future led me, my efforts would similarly involve spreading the word about possibilities and associations, lighting the path for journeys humanity has yet to take.
11
The Next Mission
The ache for home lives in all of us,” Maya Angelou once wrote, “the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Back in Lynchburg, I reconnected with places and people whose presence fulfilled that ache in me. Being home gave me a feeling of acceptance that other places can seldom equal.
I reconnected with Ernest “Fufu” Penn, one of my old friends and charter member of the Big Blue Crew. Our dads had coached our baseball team when we were in middle school. One year, when we were both selected to compete in the All-Star game, we all drove to the championship in Winchester, Virginia, in my father’s bread-truck camper. Now an ordained minister at Mount Sinai Baptist Church, Fufu came by my parents’ home after Dad’s funeral. He wanted to share with me something he had been praying about. Fufu told me that I thought I had come home for my father, but I had really returned to release him by being available to help take care of my mother. My dad, knowing that his queen was going to be taken care of, did not have to worry about leaving this planet for a more peaceful place, heaven. I needed to hear Fufu’s compassionate words. They really helped me through the grieving process.
I was also able to get together with Stan Hull, another old friend who had played a pivotal role in my life. Now an assistant principal at Brookville Elementary School, he had been the quarterback who threw me the winning touchdown pass. I visited him at his school and met some of the science teachers there. I told them if it hadn’t been for Stan, I wouldn’t have been there to talk with them. Although I was joking, there was some truth to that statement. His perfectly thrown pass into the end zone had unleashed an incredible series of events that placed me on my current path.
In March that path took an unanticipated turn when Creative Artists Agency (CAA) asked if I would be interested in joining their roster of public speakers. I had met two CAA agents, Darnell Strom and Michelle Kydd Lee, about six months before at a STEAM program at the CAA headquarters in Los An
geles. At the time, I had been working with Connie Yowell, the director of education at the MacArthur Foundation, traveling with her team around the country to promote opportunities for kids to learn outside of school. We both believed it extremely important to go where kids are and use their experiences to create STEAM teaching moments. During our tag-team appearances, I told my story and Connie shared the gospel of connected learning. After I retired from NASA, CAA called me and soon I found myself among the ranks of such luminaries as Will Smith, Bishop T. D. Jakes, and Mike Ditka, to name a few. Imagine the most dominating talent agency selecting me to do pretty much what I enjoyed doing at NASA?
I was now a motivational speaker and really did not know what that would mean or how successful I would be. I had my NASA pension to support me if things went sideways, and the cost of living in Lynchburg had become manageable. I had given hundreds of talks for NASA but now I was pitching my own story without the NASA marketing machine and one of the most trusted and well-known brands, the NASA logo. Seventeen years after adopting a minimalist design that spelled out the agency’s name in serpentine letters (earning the nickname “the worm”), NASA reinstated a logo known as “the meatball.” The latter features a blue planet speckled with stars, adorned with a red chevron (representing wings), and the circular flourish of an orbiting spacecraft. Even in the midst of shifting insignias, NASA’s brand continued to suggest innovation, vision, and exploration. Could I transform myself with similar success? Only time would tell.
May was very busy.
Lynchburg is roughly 180 miles from Washington, DC, but in some respects it could be on a different planet, especially when it comes to the corridors of power. I got to see the differences firsthand when I visited the White House. Just six years before, I had watched proudly as Barack Obama took the oath of office. Now I was in the Obamas’ house, at their invitation. As a guest participant at the annual Easter Egg Roll, I read The Little Engine That Could to a diverse group of children on the White House lawn. Afterward I took a photo with the First Couple, who couldn’t have been more gracious. Almost immediately afterward, I received a kind letter from Michelle thanking me for my participation. It wasn’t the first time I got a letter from the Obama White House. In April the president had written to congratulate me on my twenty-four years of federal service. “Public service is an honorable calling,” he wrote, “and it is my privilege to join in celebrating your career.”
It was also my honor to receive recognition from Congress. Virginia’s Senator Tim Kaine, best known as Hillary Clinton’s running mate in the 2016 presidential election, read a proclamation on the Senate floor. “I commend Leland for his commitment to science and education, as well as public service,” he read. “At a time when STEM education is becoming a priority for the United States, Leland’s work has been beneficial to developing the skilled workforce necessary to drive our nation’s world-class innovations.”
In May 2010, Bobby Satcher and I had been awarded honorary doctorates at St. Paul’s College, a historically black college in Lawrenceville, Virginia. That moment came to mind as I thought about my future work. The school had special significance for both of us. My father had graduated from St. Paul’s, and Bobby’s father, Dr. Robert Satcher Sr., was president of the college. Bobby’s uncle David was another notable Satcher. He served as U.S. surgeon general under President Bill Clinton. The college also honored Tom Joyner, the radio host with whom I had last talked while circling the planet. Tom had made his reputation as “The Fly Jock” in the late 1980s, when he hosted daily shows in Chicago and Dallas. He broadcast in Dallas from 5:30 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. Once finished, he hopped on a plane to Chicago where he hosted another radio show from 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. Both broadcasts were the top-rated radio shows in their respective time slots. His tireless approach and determined work ethic provided a valuable example to young people everywhere. Over time, he became as recognized for his philanthropy as his skills in the radio booth. At St. Paul, he gave five dollars to every graduate and we took pictures with each of them. It was a special moment for us all, and as we watched the graduates stroll off into the future, we reveled in the certainty that some among them would save lives, develop cures, change the world. Now I was retiring from NASA but not retiring from my work.
My friends and colleagues hosted my official NASA going-away party on May 17. At the Doubletree Hilton in Crystal City, Virginia, about two hundred people gathered in a spacious ballroom. Elaborate assemblies of plates and flatware adorned each table. The centerpieces, clear vases about three feet tall, held glorious sprays of light blue, dark blue, and yellow flowers. A small candle flickered at the base of each vase. A large sheet cake featured my NASA photo with Jake and Scout. Another cake featured a portrait of me in suit and tie.
Alan Ladwig, the former deputy associate administrator for public outreach at NASA, served as the master of ceremonies. Quick-witted and comfortable with a microphone, he gave the party a festive, irreverent air, half tribute, half roast. Before his retirement, he had been instrumental in the space program in a number of ways. He had started the Teacher-in-Space program and had been on the selection committee that chose me to be associate administrator for education. At the party, he presided over a succession of featured speakers who had known me at various stages in my life. People like my high school buddy “Silky Blue” and my college coach Morgan Hout. Along with Allyn Griffin, who had played with me on the Detroit Lions, they covered the early, pre-NASA years. Dr. Myers, who had declined the honor council’s request and helped me back on track at Richmond, recalled my time on campus. Woodrow Whitlow, who had been a colleague for so long, addressed my early career at NASA. Listening to him, I fondly recalled the time he threw a party for me when I got accepted into the Astronaut Corps.
Charlie Bolden couldn’t attend but his family came in his stead. His granddaughters bestowed me with commemorative NASA pins after he delivered a special message via video, saluting my “incredible career” and calling me the most unique individual he’d ever had a chance to meet. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” he concluded, “for all that you have done not just for NASA but for the nation and for young people with whom you’ve come in contact and whose lives you’ve touched in your own very special way.”
We also heard video testimonies from people I’d known in recent years, entertainers and artists like Arsenio Hall and Quincy Jones. “I will never forget the time we spent together with Pharrell that afternoon at the space museum in Washington,” Quincy recalled. “I wish you everything that you wish for yourself.” Pharrell, whose parents were on hand, was unable to join us. He also sent videotaped greetings from out of town.
Of all these wonderful testimonies, two of the most unique came from Christian McBride and Laura Rochon. A Grammy-winning virtuoso, Christian played “Fly Me to the Moon” on the acoustic bass in his inimitable style, taking me totally by surprise. Laura, a public affairs specialist at NASA, also does an excellent Sarah Palin imitation. For her video, she dressed up as the former vice presidential candidate and offered a farewell in the form of a campaign commercial. While pretending to be unable to tell the difference between stem-cell research and STEM education, she shared details from our friendship and my career. “I think I can speak for many here tonight by saying we celebrate not just Leland’s achievements but his character,” she declared, sounding remarkably like Palin. At the end, she unveiled an election placard revealing the “real” reason for my retirement: a Palin/Melvin presidential ticket.
The most poignant moment belonged to Ed Dwight, an Air Force employee in the early days of the space program. Ed wanted to become an astronaut but faced hostilities and hurdles because of his race. He didn’t get that far, thanks to a brutal system of racial discrimination. People in the audience gasped audibly as he described the barriers. If circumstances had been different—indeed, if the country had been ready for him—Ed most certainly would have become the first black astronaut in space.
My frie
nd Simon Sinek, the inspirational speaker and NASA consultant, offered a champagne toast. His words described the agency’s mission from the days of Ed Dwight to the recent shuttle voyages to the International Space Station: “Reach for new heights and reveal the unknown so that what we do and learn will benefit all humankind.” They were my aspirations as well.
The party was an incredible way to close out my career with friends and my NASA family. That so many people—from my childhood throughout my entire career—thought enough to come and honor me in such a beautiful way really touched my heart.
I tried to capture all the emotions I was feeling. When I finally did speak, it was one of those occasions where language falls short despite our best efforts. “I am so honored to have been able to work with so many incredible people throughout my journey,” I said. “Unfortunately my father couldn’t be here to see the culmination of what he and my mom produced on Pierce Street and later on Hilltop Drive. I know he’s up there looking down and smiling. It’s all kind of full circle. Through all of your efforts, having my back and believing in me, he’s proud.”
• • •
By that point in time I had spoken to audiences all over the globe, testified before Congressional committees, conferred with world leaders, and answered interviewers’ questions while working in space. But I had never quizzed brilliant youngsters competing for a lucrative prize. As it happens, that’s what I wound up doing next.
Darnell called me from CAA and said a producer, Laurie Girion of Shed Media, wanted to talk to me about being the host of a television show called Child Genius. It had originated in the United Kingdom and was being adapted for a U.S. audience. Laurie and I Skyped that afternoon and I shared my story with her. She seemed impressed. We Skyped again the next day so they could record the session for the head of the Lifetime Movie Network to approve. The interview went well and a few months later I was in LA at the Skirball Cultural Center meeting incredibly bright eight- to twelve-year-olds. The kids were funny and precocious. They were also serious because they all had a desire to win the trophy and the prize, $100,000 in college scholarships.
Chasing Space Page 19