Mission: control = system failure

I watched NASA’s livestream of Artemis II from an uncomfortable plastic recliner at my father’s bedside. He is a 26 year Air Force veteran who brought me to countless air shows and Air & Space museums, and now suffers from Parkinson’s as a result of exposure to chemicals during his time in the Vietnam War. He witnessed the Apollo missions as a young man from Alabama, in the midst of racial violence, unjust wars, and social restructuring. Then, as now, the “space race” was framed by movements pushing for change, meeting oppressive violence with imaginative collective work toward improving life on this planet. It was also fueled by fears escalated by nuclear power, the Red Scare, and threats to US political dominance. The specifics may be different, but the tensions are not new.

In the moments before launch, I was caught off guard by the excitement and trepidation tumbling in my gut (like many genXers, I witnessed the Challenger tragedy), and just how much I wanted this mission to achieve its goals even though I know the enterprise is tainted. I needed to witness a collective effort to do something improbable, to confirm that group efforts to support a few tenacious humans can be celebrated, not feared, and we can do so in inhospitable environments. 

As I sat next to my father in his assisted living facility, it struck me that my family, with healthcare workers, government funding, and numerous medical devices were doing something similar. Faced with his vulnerability, his proximity to death, caused in part by participation (willing or no) in war, all amidst cuts to funding, low wages for care workers, and skyrocketing medical costs, we work together to support and care for his dignity and humanity. This time with him, alongside my own harrowing experiences in hospital beds, has gifted me deep tenderness, patience, and love amidst exhaustion and grief. His, my, our thriving depends upon the support and coordination of so many people; we cannot exist alone. Our grief and exhaustion, both acute and pervasive, is a valid response to living within structural systems that willfully direct unfathomable amounts of resources toward achievements like space travel (and, well, “winning” wars), yet deny the interdependence, vulnerability, and mortality that life requires of us at all times and in all places.

In her memoir, Year of the Tiger, our fierce disabled oracle Alice Wong states, “vulnerable ‘high-risk’ people are some of the strongest, most interdependent, and most resilient people around.” [1] She was describing persons living with disabilities, though we tend to refer to astronauts in similar ways. Astronauts, however, get to choose to adapt to high-risk, inhospitable environments, and receive vast amounts of support to make it happen. Living in space requires comprehensive assistive systems: a high-tech vehicle, complex life support devices [2], and near constant surveillance to prevent failure (re: zero privacy). Without any of these, they, well, die. The astronauts must be highly sensitive to changing circumstances (presence), utterly dependent on machines and people who are literally sustaining their lives (trust), and undergo years of physical, mental, and psychological training (experiential knowledge). We consider these sacrifices “worth it” for space exploration. What about folks living with disabilities? We have made space more accessible to humans than our native planet.

Most disabled persons’ experiential knowledge of living with disability on earth requires trust in caregivers for daily needs, reliance upon (barely functional) healthcare systems and expensive medical devices or prescriptions, and acute presence to a constantly changing body, environment, and community in order to not merely survive, but thrive. Wong was a fierce fighter for her right to participate in and shape the world, and fought for and alongside people experiencing all kinds of oppression, marginalization, and exploitation. She knew that “we have the creativity, moral courage, and collective power to shape a world that has space for all” [1],  and worked hard to make it happen.

The Artemis II mission was a much needed sharp counterpoint to the near constant alarm bells shrieking for our attention in this media saturated time. This moon journey is one of many that will entail the cooperation of many nations, not just the efforts of the US. We have learned some things these past 50 years, though we have a ways to go. The example of camaraderie and care set by these four astronauts, their tenderness publicly displayed, the images of never seen faces of the moon [3] are an awe-full reminder of our place in the wider context of the universe. We are fragile yet resilient, an ecosystem of interdependent beings with agency and capability to enact wonderful and frightful events. We inhabit the only speck in space that we know sustains lives (that we recognize as such), a sobering reality check that ought shock us awake: it is OUR job to care for each other, and this place. We need to allow wonder to exist amidst the fear—it is necessary not merely for survival, but for us to thrive.

So, as we celebrate the astronauts’ safe return to earth, let us also be reminded that humans are working against the odds right here on the earth, and that earth itself is vulnerable, too. We must adapt, and do so in ways that expand the man-made boundaries of who we think the world is for. “Adaptation is care work. Adaptation is survival. Adaptation is a negotiation between the past and the present. Adaptation is a science and art. Adaptation pushes boundaries and creates new futures.” [1] We must choose to make accessibility a priority here on earth as it is in the heavens. Just as space exploration brings knowledge, international cooperation, and wonder to us all, the wisdom, interdependence, and attentiveness of the disability community are gifts that benefit us all. If change is the only constant in life, adaptation is essential.