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April 27, 2011 01:46 AM PDT
John, the 40’ish college dropout who came back to mastermind the computer system
and finally get his electrical engineering degree, Rick, the Alabaman whiz kid
on the electronics, Jenny, the southern speaking mechanical engineer who built the
hull, and of countless other BU and NASA staff, it all finally culminated in a beautiful,
glorious moment where our dreams, our teamwork, and our efforts, took off
into space.
For me, the project was my redemption for almost failing out of school. I
sat back on the bench of the viewing platform, under the overcast sky. A calm
ocean wind blew our hair as we walked down to greet and shake hands with Dr.
Ruane and Dr. Chakrabarti in congratulations. We took pictures, and celebrated at
a restaurant in Chincoteague Island later that afternoon, and then in the evening, we
went swimming off the island’s waters. All through it, as we talked and cheered
the finish, I felt hollow inside. For four years, my identity and my life, was carried
in the aluminum hull of the rocket, and the project was done.
Earlier that year, I graduated on January, 2000, which fulfilled my father’s
dream. The rocket took off on June 13th, the day before my birthday. It was
the perfect birthday gift, and a month earlier, I was hired by a medical school on
Longwood medical campus in the center of Boston as a systems analyst. I needed
to pay my bills, as my stipend had run out. I had nothing to look forward to anymore.
All the long nights, the daily dreaming, was done. My dream was done, and
my role as the project coordinator was over. My identity was gone.
**********
I was home for the weekend, one warm August afternoon, and I had lunch with
my family. “You’re depressed, David.” Said my father as we ate ph.o the traditional
Vietnamese noodle soup.
“You truly are depressed with the way you sound.” He said. I looked into my
bowl, and fished in the rice noodles with my chopsticks. The smell of cumin, anise
seed, hoisin sauce, and cinnamon filled my nostrils as I ate. I looked out the dining
room window at the two eighty year old maple trees, and a large oak tree, in the
backyard. I called the trees the “Three Brothers”, since they were so close to each
other.
Depressed? I was depressed? I looked at my father. His gray beard and mustache
were stubble, and my mother sat down with us. They talked to each other in
Vietnamese, as I listened to the familiar, yet foreign phrases. I understood a little,
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