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The Planetary Society WeblogGuest Blogger: Neil DeGrasse TysonJuly 31 - August 6, 2006
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Neil DeGrasse Tyson, an astrophysicist with the American Museum of Natural History, is Chairman of The Planetary Society's Board of Directors and the Frederick P. Rose Director of the Hayden Planetarium. He has written numerous books on the universe and humanity's place within it and hosted the PBS television series Origins. His professional research interests include star formation, exploding stars, dwarf galaxies, and the structure of our Milky Way. |
Appetite for the Cosmos: The Fan
Over the past seven years, ever since the news media and documentary producers began to notice our newly built Rose Center for Earth and Space, I have monitored how often a complete stranger stops me in the street, having recognized me from television interviews or elsewhere.
I first took notice when the frequency reached about once per month, passing the average rate that I might bump into an old friend or acquaintance on the street. By 2002, the rate had grown to about once per week. Two years later: once per day. And now, the rate hovers around ten times per day -- a factor of 300 larger than in the year 2000.
At what frequency do these encounters become an invasion of privacy? The answer is surely dependent on a celebrity's character and temperament. But another factor matters too -- the nature of the interaction itself. If you saw Brittany Spears, Denzel Washington, or Mick Jagger on the street and felt compelled to approach them, what would you say? In most such encounters, the fan seeks an autograph, and then compliments the artist's work. But beyond that, there's not much else to talk about, unless you are primarily driven by gossip and the search for secret information about the celebrity's social life.
I am not yet annoyed by random public encounters. And I might never be. Why? Because my privacy is never invaded: Nobody asks me for my autograph, unless it's to sign one of my books that they happen to be carrying. Nobody asks my favorite color. Or what car I drive.
Without exception, they instead bust forth with a battery of pent-up questions about the nature of the universe. I am not the target of their interest nor am I the object of their affection. The universe is. And they think of me primarily as their personal conduit to the cosmos. What more could an educator hope to be?
Contrary to the stereotype of the college-educated lifetime learner, most of them are laborers. And I am delighted to think of them all as blue-collar intellectuals, which, come to think of it, may be the first time those three words have ever appeared together in a sentence.
Appetite for the Cosmos: The Janitor
New York's American Museum of Natural History employs a large support staff that keeps the facility running smoothly. Among the workers are janitors, seen largely after (or before) hours. One janitor, in particular, had worked at the Museum's Rose Center for Earth and Space, for at least a year, but he and I had never formally met. Cordial nods on passing one another, but never a conversation. He was a large and tall fellow, perhaps in his low 40s, who wielded his mop with dignity and pride. But I never saw him speak -- to anyone -- ever.
For low paying jobs, one never knows the dramas that each person's life carries. We all like reading and hearing about the challenges navigated by people who became successful in life, but in my experience, none of those stories comes close to what can be told by adults in entry-level positions -- challenges that draw from mental or physical disabilities, family disruptions, educational derailments, encounters with the justice system, or simple bad luck.
One morning, wholly unprovoked, the speechless janitor paused from his mop routine as I walked by and asked to have a moment of my time. I was stunned. All of my usual thoughts about the universe just stopped in my head, and I further paused my morning reflections on the overscheduled day that lay before me. And I replied, "Of course!" I naively and stereotypically presumed he had a question about employee benefits or some other job-related issue. But no. In what is now the first conversation I had ever seen him conduct, this is what he said:
"Dr. Tyson, I was thinking. I see all those pictures of gas clouds taken by the Hubble telescope. And I also learned that stars are made of gas. So could it be that the stars are made within those gas clouds?"
My eyes got misty -- then, while listening to his question, and even now, in my re-telling of this encounter.
I replied loudly and boldly "Y E S". After which I confirmed his name from his nametag, ran up to my office, grabbed every book I had ever written, and then some, signed them all to the fellow, put them in a canvas Museum tote bag, ran back downstairs, and handed it over to him.
Afterwards, I could not help wondering, what uncounted numbers among us harbor deep cosmic curiosities, but for want of a stimulus or a catalyst, lay forever undiscovered, hibernating in cold recesses of our minds.
 Star Birth
Image taken by the Hubble Space Telescope of star formation in nebula NGC 604 in galaxy M33. Credit: Space Telescope Science Institute, Hui Yang (U. IL), and NASA |
Appetite for the Cosmos: The Cabbie
Last summer, one hot afternoon, I was running late to pick up my daughter at day camp. Rather than scurry in the Sun, I hailed an air-conditioned cab to take me the remaining eight blocks. The driver was uncharacteristically energetic, full of life, and chatty. Not yet out of his early twenties. Within the first two blocks, I learned that he was recently married and had a newborn kid. By the third block, he said he recognized me, first from my voice, and then from whatever I might have looked like in his rear view mirror, through the plexiglass divider between the rear seat from the front. He had seen my PBS NOVA series on cosmic origins that aired the previous Fall and was excited beyond his already high level of energy that I was in his cab.
Over the next three blocks came a rapid fire of a dozen questions -- on the search for life in the universe, black holes, the big bang, string theory, and the future of Earth. Most of this time he was not looking at the road or the pedestrians crossing the road, but was instead looking back at me as his questions rolled off his tongue.
Upon arriving at my destination, the fare was $4.70. And I was happy to draw $6.00 from my wallet to hand him. At this point, he flatly refused the payment, saying it was his honor to have me in his cab, answering all his questions.
I don't know if I will ever fully understand how a young man, just married, with a baby, driving a NYC taxi, could refuse payment for a fare just because he learned some new things about the universe. True, the fare was not large, but as a father of two, I will not soon forget the incessant cost of diapers and bottles and baby clothes. And the fellow behaved as though he would have refused to accept any fare, perhaps justifying the decision because a longer cab ride would have meant that even more of his questions would be answered.
On exiting the cab I asked for his address, which he gave, and when I returned to my office the next day, I prepared and sent a package of cosmic stuff -- Hubble posters, books, astro-stickers, mission buttons, and a NASA bib for his baby.
Appetite for the Cosmos: The UPS Delivery Guy
I don't know about your UPS delivery guy, but our UPS guy delivers during dinner. A sure time to get people at home. But unlike dinner-interrupting telemarketers, at least the UPS delivery guy has a package for you at the end of the intrusion of your family time.
Our UPS guy recognized me early on. "Are you the guy I saw on the news last night?" Apparently, our guy is a science buff and watches all the programming that PBS and Cable television can send him -- the Science Channel, the Learning Channel, National Geographic, NOVA. There is no stopping him.
You could never gauge this level of curiosity from his personality. He is polite, soft-spoken, almost timid. And even though he may have, hidden behind him, an entire handcart of undelivered packages, if I answer the door, he will spend a slow ten minutes just asking questions about a television program he just saw, or a book he just read, or a cosmic event he just heard about. One of his favorite subjects is the status of Pluto's planethood.
The way this unfolds, you would think that each UPS delivery to my door was the guy's last. I am certain he would spend more time (how much remains to be tested), but I am always the one to cut him off because I don't want my dinner to get cold, and surely the other people in the building would welcome their packages sooner rather than later, and I'd bet his family would welcome his early arrival home that night. But who am I to judge the cosmic passions that burn within. I can only serve them, whenever and wherever they arise.
 A View from Pluto's Moon
An artist's conception of the view from one of Pluto's new moons showing Pluto, Charon, and another small moon. Credit: NASA, ESA, G. Bacon |
Appetite for the Cosmos: The Sanitation Truck Driver
There's a scene in Sergio Leone's epic film "Once Upon a Time in America," in
which a man who was targeted by the Mafia stands on a street corner at night
when a garbage truck drives by. The noisy vehicle slows down as it passes,
and then resumes its speed. The truck leaves the scene, and the guy on the
street corner is gone.
I'm given no reason to suspect such a fate for myself, but I was not without a spot of anxiety one morning when I was walking my two kids to elementary school. Strolling down the sidewalk, we approached the curb as the traffic light was about to turn green. At that moment, a noisy sanitation truck approached. It cruised through the yellow light, moved broadside to us, and stopped abruptly in the cross walk.
Sanitation trucks simply don't do this. People in the city, even daydreaming ones, know not to cross in front of these things, so the driver wasn't stopping for a pedestrian. Nor does Manhattan have suicide squirrels. And nobody would ever stop for a pigeon. So this moment was without precedent in city life.
I heard the airbrakes squeal, as the driver's door swung open with force. This was the moment when I thought of the movie and briefly felt tense. The driver, a heavy-set, jolly sort of fellow, then leaned his body through the open door, and while straining his seatbelt supports he shouted, "Dr. Tyson, how's the Universe today?"
Anything other than a one-word answer would be unrealistic in that setting, so I treated the question as rhetorical, like the currently meaningless "How are you today?" where nobody but your closest friends and relatives actually expects you to tell them how your really are. So I smiled back to him, nodded my head, and silently offered two thumbs up. This was my way of saying that all is well in the universe. And the driver could not have known that my answer was inspired by the fact that he had asked the question in the first place.
[ what is this? ]