The years at NASA passed quickly. By the 1980s I had learned Fortran, the language used to program the early generation of computers, and I was using the computer regularly in my work. After all this time, I still loved my job. More of my peers, though, had begun winding up their careers at Langley. When my close friend Eunice Smith decided in 1984 that she was ready to move to the next chapter in her life, I began contemplating it, too. Jim and I wanted to travel, spend more time with our families, and have more control over our time. The next year, Mary Jackson, my former West Computer colleague who broke barriers in 1958 by becoming NASA’s first black engineer, also decided to retire. After rising as high as she figured she would be allowed to go in 1979, she had made the tough decision to become the federal women’s program manager in the Human Resources Department, where she helped to steer the careers of talented young women of the future. Mary spent her last years at Langley as an equal opportunity specialist, pushing others through the glass ceiling that had trapped her.
My longtime coworker and friend Al Hamer and I were planning to retire in 1985 as well, and we had even started working on our retirement papers. But one day our division chief stopped by and asked our friend engineer John Young to chair a committee that was studying the use of solar panels in the planned space station. The space shuttle had been completed, and President Ronald Reagan announced plans in 1984 finally to build the space station as the next logical progression in space. John told him that he didn’t want to chair the committee, but the chief assigned him to serve as a member. John then asked the chief if I could be assigned to work with him. The chief then turned to me and asked, “Do you want to work for John?”
“Sure,” I responded. “Any day of the week.”
I had been there from the agency’s first venture into space, and staying to work on the space station seemed a good place to end my career. I put my retirement papers aside for the moment, and so did Al. The three of us—John, Al, and I—would work together at Langley for fifteen years, and we had quite a wonderful time. Our lunchtime bridge games were so competitive that we sometimes drew onlookers. Al even trusted me enough to let me cut his hair. In the 1970s, many men began wearing longer hair styles. But when Al’s hair got a bit too long for a professional, polished look, I offered one day to give him a good trim. He agreed, brought a pair of barber scissors to work one day, and we ripped off a large piece of paper from the ream that fed through the old computer and spread it on the floor around his desk. I cut his hair right there. Al was happy with my handiwork, so I became his unofficial barber. And he wasn’t my only “client” in the office. A contractor named Daniel Giesy, who had been added to our unit in 1977 to assist me in running a computer program, showed up at the office one day with his hair looking a bit too scraggly. I offered to give him a trim as well. Daniel, then the new guy in our office, probably was a bit surprised by my offer, but he agreed, was satisfied, and became another regular. I was happy to assist those guys in maintaining a professional look, and they got free haircuts out of the deal.
I genuinely liked my coworkers, and I cannot recall a single day when I did not want to go to work. But January 28, 1986, was one of our toughest days at the office. Like the rest of the world, my colleagues and I gathered around a television screen to watch the launch of the Challenger space shuttle. But our excitement quickly turned to horror when just seventy-three seconds into the launch a thick plume of white smoke and then an orange flame indicated that something terrible had gone wrong. We gasped and stood silently in shock when we learned shortly afterward that the space shuttle had exploded and killed all seven crew members. The news was even more heartbreaking because we knew children around the world had tuned in to the live broadcast to see Christa McAuliffe, a social studies teacher, travel into space for the first time. She had been selected from thousands of applicants for a special NASA program, the “Teacher in Space Project,” aimed at inspiring students to explore the science, math, and technology fields that had made the voyage possible. Christa was scheduled to teach lessons live from space to millions of schoolchildren and even give them a tour of the space shuttle. At NASA we knew the risks every time an astronaut climbed aboard a spacecraft. But the children didn’t know. The general public didn’t know. What would this catastrophic end say to them about our space program? It was a quiet, somber day at the office.
I thought about Christa’s nine-year-old son and six-year-old daughter, who were watching at the Cape Canaveral launch site. I thought about all of the other crew members who had died and their family members, many of whom also were spectators at the Florida launch. My own heart had filled with such pride as I watched Ronald McNair, one of the first black astronauts, and Judith Resnik, one of the first women on the job, climb aboard the spacecraft. Astronaut Sally Ride had become the first woman to journey into space on a previous June 1983 Challenger mission, and astronaut Guion Bluford followed her two months later and became the first black astronaut on another Challenger mission. But all four trailblazers had been selected together in Astronaut Group 8, which included thirty-five space travelers and was at the time NASA’s largest and most diverse group. In addition to McAuliffe, McNair, and Resnik, the others who died in the Challenger disaster were astronauts Francis R. Scobee, Michael J. Smith, and Ellison Onizuka, as well as Hughes Aircraft engineer Gregory Jarvis. I will never forget the men and women who died on that sad day.
The year 1986 would end on a happier note for me, though, as I followed up on my plans to retire from NASA during the summer after thirty-three years. I describe it as a happy time because I had accomplished more than I ever imagined was possible, and I was leaving in good health with the freedom to do whatever I desired. NASA held a retirement luncheon and presented me some awards, which I cherish, but I wouldn’t let the girls give me a big retirement celebration. I didn’t even tell Kathy and Joylette about the luncheon because I really didn’t want to make a big fuss. Jim was there, of course, and I also invited Connie, who by then had moved back to Hampton from New Jersey with her children. Once I had decided to retire, I moved on in my mind to what was next, so I didn’t need to spend any time looking back. I may not have known exactly what lay ahead, but I knew that my foundation—my faith, my family, and my friends—would remain solid the rest of the way. And that was enough.
As I was retiring, my oldest granddaughter, Laurie, was graduating from Hampton University with a degree in business, and her younger brother, Troy, was a student there. Our family is full of Hampton graduates, so the university’s annual Homecoming remains one of my family’s biggest celebrations of the year. All six of my grandchildren grew up attending Hampton University’s Homecoming festivities year after year because their parents, all Hampton graduates, rarely missed the big weekend. All Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) across the country have some version of this reunion weekend. When their graduates leave their alma maters and go out into the wider world, they appreciate more than ever what they got there. They not only got a good, cost-effective education, but also they became adults in a place that made them feel seen, heard, and valued. The best of them were given opportunities and the confidence to lead. It’s no wonder that many of this country’s greatest black leaders are products of HBCUs.
My youngest grandson, Michael, is a perfect example. He is an intelligent young man who grew up in Orange, New Jersey, and graduated in 1987 as number three in his high school class. He loves math and science, like me, and wanted to be an engineer. He accepted a scholarship to an overwhelmingly white institution, but he was one of just three black undergraduates in the entire engineering school. By his sophomore year, he was the only black student in the program. He felt isolated in an environment that did not feel welcoming, and he lost his confidence. His grades dropped, and he ultimately left the university. I had a conversation with him to encourage him not to give up. He had too much potential, and I let him know that he had other options. I didn’t push him to transfer to Hampton, but it s
eemed a natural transition for him to make. He likes to say that Hampton University was his place of restoration. He thrived there, graduating in 1995 with a degree in computer science. Now a married father of four, Michael is close to completing law school.
Hampton is at the center of so much of my family’s success. Laurie, independent like me, followed her own path and became an entrepreneur who established her own nail salon business that has flourished for more than thirty years. Troy, who graduated from Hampton with a degree in finance and math in 1988, worked as a teacher and math coach for fifteen years and as a night auditor at a hotel. This is why we celebrate Hampton University.
No matter where my girls were living throughout their adult lives, they usually made their way home with their families to Hampton for Homecoming. We cheered for the Pirates at the football game, attended the parade, scholarship dinners, and sorority and fraternity step shows on campus, and drove to get-togethers at the homes of alumni throughout the Hampton Roads area. When my grandchildren were kids and Homecoming weekend fell on Halloween, they would spend the day piecing together their costumes and then launch from my house to go trick-or-treating in the evenings without their parents. Though I am no longer able to participate, Homecoming is still a time for my family to connect with old friends, celebrate the place that has given us so much, and just have a good time.
I was happiest at our big, family get-togethers. Jim and I often hosted the family’s Fourth of July cookout. Our backyard on Mimosa Crescent would be packed with family members and friends gathered around card tables covered by newspaper and piled high with boiled crabs and corn on the cob. I wore my apron and made a steady trek to and from the kitchen to refill the bowl of potato salad, trays of deviled eggs, and pans of fried chicken. I’d pause when someone pulled out a deck of cards for a game of pinochle. My grandchildren ran around the yard, tagging one another, playing. And suddenly, it seemed, they were teenagers, and then college students and adults, gathered around their own tables. I relished all of their successes. My grandson Gregory served proudly in the US Air Force for twenty-five years; his brother, Douglas, attended culinary arts school in Baltimore and became a popular chef; and their sister, Michele, became a middle school math and science teacher in New Orleans.
When it was another family member’s time to host a family gathering, the scene looked the same, just in a different place. Those moments added consistency to the years. The old folks just kept getting older, and the kids grew up and produced another generation of children running around. But there was always our Homecoming, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and family members arguing over who made the best deviled eggs or potato salad.
I’ve never been the touchy, feely type, but my grandchildren always knew they could call me to help with a complicated word problem. Sometimes I’d even call and challenge them with one. When Laurie first learned how to add three-digit numbers, she loved to phone me and race me to finish. She would give me the numbers, and I’d add or subtract them quickly in my head, while she scrambled on paper to beat me to the answer. I didn’t believe in letting kids win, but she had fun trying.
I kept on the kitchen table in my house a deck of cards, crossword puzzles, and games that would keep all of our minds sharp. And whenever my children and grandchildren came to my house, they knew they would find a hot pot or pan on the stove, filled with homemade soup, or a casserole, or fried chicken and the fixings, rolls or cornbread, and of course their favorite homemade applesauce. I always used fresh Granny Smith apples and enough sugar to give my applesauce the perfect blend of sweet and tart. Friends and family members requested this specialty so often that I sometimes put it in jars and gave them away as Christmas gifts.
My apron was probably the most well-worn garment in my house. I loved cooking for my family and friends and watching them enjoy my food. But I can be a real stickler, too, when it comes to manners. My four grandsons can attest that one of my biggest pet peeves is a man wearing a hat indoors, especially at the dinner table. I taught my grandsons that a gentleman always removes his hat before entering a building. And no man, young or old, would be allowed to enter the door of my home without that respectful gesture. On the rare occasion when one of my grandsons momentarily forgot and came dashing inside with his head covered, I’d raise my eyebrow and give him “the look,” my silent way of asking, “Have you lost your mind?” And it was usually enough to get the desired compliance right away.
Retirement gave me the opportunity to create more of those memories and to spend more time speaking to schoolchildren. So many students are intimidated by math and science, but I reminded them that math and science are everywhere, from the most basic recipes of their favorite foods to designing a video game or a spaceship. My grandson Troy, the math coach, came up with an idea to invite me to speak at his school in Camden, New Jersey. This was in 2003, long before the Hidden Figures book and movie. He was concerned that his students seemed obsessed with fame and careers such as sports and modeling. He played into their fascination with fame and told them to look me up on Google (imagine that!). By then, a few stories had been written about my contributions to NASA, and the students got all excited, asking him, “Mr. Hylick, is that really your grandmother?” They had no idea how excited I was to meet them. I talked to them about the importance of getting an education and how education and a lifelong fascination with learning new things had helped me to achieve my dream of becoming a research mathematician. I told them that we use math in everyday life and that it’s easy. I’m not sure they believed that part, but they seemed engaged. And just maybe I sparked an interest in at least one of them. That’s really all it takes sometimes to ignite a dream.
One of the first times that I went into the classroom to talk about my career was in the early 1970s. I was still working at Langley, and one of my former teachers, Mrs. Leftwich, invited me back to my hometown, White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, to talk to students. At the time, NASA had recently launched its first space station, and to make my presentation fun for the students, I did some calculations before I got there and pinpointed the precise moment when everyone would be able to see the space station in White Sulphur Springs. Many people didn’t even know there was an actual space station up there. They may have thought it was a flying star or just didn’t see it. But I told them what time they could see it and how far up it was, and they were in awe. Later that evening I went outside and looked up at the time I’d told the students to look for it, and there it was, glinting in the sky.
Decades later, I was speaking at a college in North Carolina, and it occurred to me that it would be really interesting for the students to hear from an actual astronaut. I had appeared on a couple of programs with a gifted young astronaut named Leland Melvin and we’d become friends, so I called him. There was no answer, but I was just about to go onstage in the first classroom when my phone rang. It was Leland, and I told him what I wanted. “Well, put them on,” he said. We put him on speaker, used a microphone, and he talked to the students. They were so excited that they got to talk to a real astronaut. I think they were really impressed that I could call an astronaut and he would answer. I hit the jackpot on that one.
That has been one of the most beautiful things about my post-NASA years, seeing the increasing diversity among the younger astronauts. I met Dr. Mae Jemison, who became the first black woman to travel into space, in 1992, when she spoke at an Alpha Kappa Alpha event many years later. I was delighted when President Obama named Major General Charles F. Bolden Jr. as NASA administrator in 2009. And I’ve even gotten to know a couple of the black astronauts personally. Leland and I appeared on several programs together and talk regularly. He is an extraordinary young man and terrific role model, particularly for youths focused on sports. Leland was a star wide receiver at the University of Richmond and was drafted into the NFL by the Detroit Lions in 1986. A hamstring injury sidelined his professional football career before he got to play in the league, but with a bachelor’s
degree in chemistry, he instead pursued a career in science. He got a job in the Nondestructive Evaluation Sciences Branch at NASA Langley in 1989, earned a master’s degree in materials science engineering from the University of Virginia in 1991, rose through the ranks at Langley, applied to become an astronaut, and was selected in 1998. He flew on space shuttle flights in 2008 and 2009 to the international space station. My conversations with him have been fascinating.
During one of our talks, we discussed a research paper that Al Hamer and I had done in the 1960s about how to use the pattern of the stars as a guide to navigate from space back to Earth if a spacecraft lost power. Some media reports have incorrectly credited that study with helping the troubled Apollo 13 flight to the moon find its way back home after an explosion and power outage in space. But quick thinking, ingenuity, and another scientific method actually helped the astronauts survive that cold, perilous journey back to Earth—a journey that was dramatized in an Academy Award–winning movie starring Tom Hanks. In our research paper, Al and I had laid out the patterns of the constellations, which we believed could be used as navigation points if ever needed. But Leland explained that the view of the stars from Earth is different from the eye level view in space. The stars are indistinguishable when you’re flying among them, he told me. Thus the information in the study was not useful to them. Leland’s perspective was so informative. It would have been great to have had that kind of connection to the astronauts while I was still researching and writing.
My Remarkable Journey Page 20