We Choose the Moon
Forty years ago today, Apollo 11 Neil Armstrong stepped off the footpad of the Eagle and out onto the surface of the moon. I wasn’t born yet, and wouldn’t be born until just a few days after Apollo 17 left the moon, our final mission of the Apollo program.
A few years ago, I got to stand inside the original Mission Control room for a re-enactment of the flight. When I walked into the room, I experienced something new to me: the weight of history. I could feel it in the building: a mix excitement, tension, and the accomplishment of something huge, that left an echo in the room, even 38 years later. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and goosebumps dotted my arms. And when they replayed the audio and footage of Neil stepping off the ladder, I couldn’t help but cry a little.
Why the tears? I guess it’s a mixed bag. Part of it was knowing that we, as a species, can accomplish miraculous things. Part of it was knowing that we’re so short-sighted that we hadn’t been back since 1972, that people are more concerned with the “problems at home” than anything else. It’s that somewhere we lost the ability to dream.
I’m not going to go on my usual tirade about the importance of the space program, the social benefits, the necessity of it. I’m just going to say that I hope that in ten years we’re actually there, and not just marking another anniversary without accomplishing anything.
We chose to go to the Moon once. We should choose again. And once we’ve chosen to make that giant leap again, we should make the next leap on to Mars.
