Much of this diary is to be filled with excerpts from the first diary I wrote here on DK, as Armstrong's first steps on the moon continue to be among the firmest memories of my life. I'm a long time space geek -- my favorite toy growing up was a commemorative edition GI Joe of John Glenn and his Friendship 7 capsule to scale, complete with an authentic spacesuit (with a helmet visor, tinted to block the glare of the sun) and a 45 of some of the communications between him and ground control during his flight (with one note of inauthenticity: A tether for a spacewalk, which Glenn did not undertake). I also eagerly and carefully put together the plastic models of the Apollo rockets and moon lander. Fun times -- and the moon landing and walk were more than just mere icing on the cake. So, 'neath the orange fillagree, I present you with a bit of reprise and a personal observation.
In 1968, I was 11.
In 1968 Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot dead on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee for dreaming of and fighting for such a moment as November 4, 2008 -- 40 years later. (Jesse Jackson, Sr., was with him at the time. I'm sure that was a large part of the reason behind his tears in Grant Park last Tuesday; it was a large part of mine here at home.) All across the country, urban centers (the "inner city", the "ghetto" -- all euphemisms for the virtual free range prison the vast majority of black folk were confined, and still are to a depressing degree) exploded in riots of frustration, helplessness, and the return of hopelessness. I, being the priveleged son of a well-to-do upper-middle class upbringing could only read about it in the papers and watch it on the television -- a.k.a. the idiot box, the boob tube....
On that night, in my town Bobby Kennedy was campaigning for the Democratic Party's nomination for President of the United States. He took his campaign to a small urban park and delivered this speech:
Indianapolis, alone among major cities, remained calm, in mourning.
Two months later, Bobby Kennedy was shot dead while campaigning in California.
In 1968, much as now, an unpopular and unnecessary war was raging overseas -- in Southeast Asia, a little country called Vietnam. A massive protest movement of mass demonstrations was the main response to the war, and was the central hope of ending it. A large segment of this movement, however, were taking another route to end the war: They backed Minnesota senator Eugene McCarthy for the nomination of the Democratic Party against then-President Lyndon Johnson, using a grass roots organizing effort -- much like that of [President] Obama's.
McCarthy won a plurality of votes in New Hampshire, finishing ahead of President Johnson. Johnson announced days later that he would no longer be seeking a second term of office.
The Democratic convention was held in Chicago. McCarthy's campaign had not been able to secure the delegates necessary to carry the Party's nomination; with the assasination of Bobby Kennedy, that appeared to have gone to Vice President Hubert Humphrey, likely to carry on the war. Demonstrators made plans to protest the convention. When they began, Mayor Richard J. Daly's police force became a goon squad, beating, gassing and arresting demonstrators at will on the streets of Chicago. Things were not much better inside the convention as reporters were intimidated -- Dan Rather was even ejected from the hall -- for even daring to ask about the chaos in Chicago's streets.
In 1968, I was 11. Richard Nixon was elected President. America had a psychotic break.
In 1969, I was 12.
Late one night in July, my parents woke me up and got me out of bed to watch TV. The picture was in black and white, blurry and grainy, with ghostly after-images like some double exposure of a photograph. The audio quality wasn't the best and -- well, see for yourself:
In 1969, I was 12. And this was hope.
And I wasn't the only one who felt that way: All over the world, people took time out -- from work, shopping, sleep, whatever -- to witness this and stand and stare at what we could all accomplish if we just stuck together and made it our mission to do it, whatever "it" might be.
We can do it, yes we can.....
Armstrong's words have become iconic for me, a symbol of achievement and of striving, and of the best of what we are.
And deservedly so.
I like to think they are the words of a man aware of the moment -- not that it was part and parcel of the cold war, not merely a hubristic act of some sort of "manifest destiny," but that it was of a moment for the world, where everyone everywhere had slipped the bonds that not only gravity but concerns like tribalism, nationalism, and the petty gamesmanship of partisan politics engender.
So it feels now, decades later.
I like to think that because of his slight hesitation before "man" and the long exhale at the end, that he knew and felt the import of the moment.
That it was a small step: In the right direction, looking forward.
And Neil Armstrong was the one who took it.