John Zak Writes

I must admit it. Since the fateful elections earlier in November, I have found myself experiencing a floating anxiety right in the pit of my stomach – something I’ve not experienced in many years. I am constantly questioning myself as to what is bothering me, gnawing at my insides. I’m a worldly person. I’ve traveled extensively. I’ve seen many systems of government. I’ve stood in the shadow of great individuals and kept my cool with those who might be put into other categories. But this election, somehow, feels unique. I feel alone. I am unable to understand my fellow citizens and, certainly, I do not understand or respect the political figures who will be stepping into some of the most consequential positions on the world stage. Perhaps, the original sin lies in the belief that justice and higher-minded ideas actually count for something. Were we brainwashed in the 1950s to put presidents on pedestals; to pledge allegiance to the flag, and to assume that if we saw things that were wrong taking place before our eyes, we had no right to protest them? How is it possible For a criminal, convicted multiple times of felonies and for abusing women, to return to an office that he once held, despite the chaos and disaster and impeachments that followed him? Where are our morals? Is everything transactional now? “I don’t really like Trump, but I know he’ll get things done the way I want them.” What a cynical point of view to adopt, and yet it appears to be a common way of thinking these days. I can’t shake a feeling of dread. I try to tell myself that, living in Hawaii, what he does won’t affect me. But I know that it will. I know that there is a possibility that adverse changes will be made to my Social Security and to Medicare. I know that there is a very real chance that vaccine research and administration of vaccines during upcoming medical emergencies may become a thing of the past. I know that, right now, I do not feel safe and I don’t like this feeling. I fear that this feeling will last for a very long time, perhaps longer than I will. Regarding issues of the environment, we are teetering on the precipice of a level of destruction that we are unable or unwilling to imagine. Regarding the immigration crisis, something that has been an ongoing issue for many years, the idea of mass deportations and quick solutions only portends more disaster. What if the countries from which the immigrants fled refuse to repatriate them? And if they do, will their own infrastructure be able to support thousands of unemployed people shoved back into their workforce? Will the knock-on effect of ill-conceived, cataclysmic decisions continue for years to come? I try to think positively. I divert myself with small activities like putting up lights on the Christmas tree and baking a loaf of bread. But somehow, like a rabid dog, emotions of sadness, disappointment and, sometimes, fear appear and occupy my doorstep and I cannot put them in their proper place. There is only so much bread one can bake before throwing up one’s hands and asking “what’s the point?“

Essay Number 2 – Doug and Bob

Today, I have decided to stop tilting at windmills, at least for the moment, and to focus on something that has brought me delight in a boyish way.

Doug and Bob came home yesterday. “Who are Doug and Bob?” you may ask. Doug and Bob are your everyday, ordinary astronauts who just spent two months at the International Space Station while we earthlings tried to make sense of Covid 19 and a world in seemingly endless turmoil.

Doug. Bob. Doug and Bob. Don’t you love it? A coupla regular guys you might meet at a weenie roast. Amazingly down to earth, especially considering that they’ve been away from earth for eight or nine weeks. Wouldn’t you just love to share a brewski with them and shoot the breeze about Cumulonimbus buildup over the south coast of Tasmania, or to ask them about the green glow of earth’s atmosphere when the station travels to the dark side? Wouldn’t you love to lean in a bit and ask how the space potty really works?

Yesterday, Doug and Bob brought joy to me, and a welcome respite from government ineptitude and press conferences worthy of Pinocchio at his pineyist. Watching the launch a few months ago and the splash-down yesterday stirred long-dormant feelings of early mornings glued to the television, watching the Mercury astronauts as they launched from Cape Canaveral. How I thrilled to the landing of Apollo 11, watching the coverage with my grandparents from the air conditioned comfort of their summer-sleepy home in West Texas. And, the culmination of it all came when I sat right behind Neil Armstrong, just a few months later, on a flight to Europe as he prepared to entertain U.S. troops for Christmas. There I was, talking with the first-ever man on the moon. Later, when Armstrong was asleep, I stared at his foot through the crack between the seats in the same way I had devoured the image of the Apollo lander on TV, even when the astronauts were inside, taking a nap.

Something and someone to root for, that’s what I have been craving. American-ism. As a boy, I understood neither the content, nor the context of President Kennedy’s speeches about our ambitions for the moon. At my tender age, I had no idea that, even President Kennedy, like many, teetered on feet of clay. He was a hero. “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” Wow. I felt great. I was part of something bigger than myself. I wanted to succeed. I felt safe, proud, enthusiastic.

This year, amidst Covid madness, for the first time in many years, our astronauts ascended into space and returned in an American-made capsule that looked as sleek as a Tesla. The interior basked in a glow of indirect light and all the clunky knobs and switches had been replaced by touch-screen panels. Doug and Bob wore futuristic space suits that could easily be imagined on Brad Pitt or Bruce Willis. These elements had not been designed by a mid-level civil engineer. Clearly these Space-Ex designers could, just as easily, have turned out designs for prototype Teslas.

The splashdown and capsule retrieval were delightful in the very fact that they were mundane, as if these folks had been doing this for years, which of course, they had, if only in training. The training had paid off. The capsule was hoisted from the sea by a device that might have its analogue in any mid sized marina, and an hour later, out popped Doug and Bob, a bit weak after months in zero G. Soon they were whisked away to see their families.

As I had once done as a boy, watching the Apollo lander perched on the surface of moon, I glued myself again, yesterday, to the TV screen. After being reeled in, Doug and Bob waited, patiently, to be extricated from their climate-controlled space-age man cave. A member of the ground crew came on the radio and asked how they were doing. Doug said, “The weather inside is beautiful.”

The noble, sleek Space-Ex capsule that once rode to the stars on a gleaming chariot of fire, now sat in the dock, bruised and battered. Inside, according to Doug, the weather was beautiful. Maybe, just maybe that image, one day, will apply to America, as well.