(originally posted at www.opennasa.com)

The first time I ever thought of culture, I did so kicking and screaming. It was World Cultures class in ninth grade. Everyone had to take it. I didn’t know why I needed to take any kind of culture or history class at the time. My eyes were on the future, my head in the stars. Thinking back, I have no idea what I was thinking.

Culture is cool. I get that now. And it’s important, too. It’s a unifying force and the unseen hand of progress and failure, tolerance and pride, beauty and injustice. It’s always there and might be the most important factor in our success as an agency and nation.

What is NASA culture to you?

Maybe you’re a student, imagining an exciting career working on cutting edge space technology. Maybe you’re a NASA employee, passionate about exploration yet frustrated about the progress and leadership of the agency. Maybe you’re an informed outsider, captured by the allure and romanticism of space exploration yet not professionally involved in the endeavor.

Or maybe you’re one of the many once-starry-eyed space camp kids who dreamed of floating adrift (tethered, of course) against the backdrop of space or feeling the firm lightness of lunar dust scattered at your boot step, now for whatever reason disillusioned by the reality of space travel and the structure of the organization charged with the task of realizing those dreams, at least from the public sector perspective.

Disillusionment is a powerful word. My MS Word thesaurus says disillusionment is “disappointment caused by a frustrated ideal or belief”. The key there is the ideal or belief part. You can’t be disillusioned without an ideal or belief to become frustrated over. Forever the optimist, to me that means there’s hope- because if there are still ideals and beliefs to become frustrated over, at least we don’t have to worry so much about generating them. When there’s a frontier to explore there will be ideals and beliefs about its exploration. So let’s work on the frustration.

NASA culture to me is like a tale of two cities. On the one hand, you have a foundation built on the highest standards of technical excellence driven by a bold spirit to challenge humanity’s collective concept of what is “impossible”. It is a culture of determined men and women, who dedicate their lives in public service to the passionate pursuit of exploration. It is the side of integrity, selflessness, toughness, and willingness to adapt to overcome any obstacle.

On the other hand, you’ve got the degenerating side of NASA culture—the dark side that is almost never openly discussed. The side of complaint, frustration, finger pointing, selfishness, and anger. It’s the 800-lb requirement-gorilla in the room. It’s the contractor-civil servant cockroach crawling out of the AC vent. It’s the pesky gnat of the leadership void buzzing in your ear.

Ok, I’ll stop before diving too far into the metaphorical zoo of NASA shortcomings. You get the idea though—it’s the side of cynicism and our good friend, disillusionment.

I recently read one person’s opinion that people waste their entire lives at NASA, slaves to the burgeoning bureaucratic behemoth of false dreams and misplaced idealism. “NASA will never change,” this opinion seemed to suggest. “You should save your breath.”

Well, if everyone thought that, of course nothing would ever change.

Forgive the high-minded political fluff rhetoric for a moment and consider that the greatest aspect of NASA culture, of American culture, is that it CAN change.

Admittedly, I’m a victim to the wave of idealism and change sweeping across the nation and the world, a product of the times, a testament to the sometimes brash naïveté of youth and innocence and the generation that’s supposed to lack the attention spans to stick with it for the long haul and all that jazz, but I don’t care. I’d rather live in this city than the one across town.

I still get goose bumps when I watch Apollo 13. I’m still honored every day to walk the same halls as the great men and women before me. And I still think NASA can be a model for the world as a leader in exploring frontiers, whether they come in the form of the physical frontiers of space or the idealistic frontiers that drive men and women to challenge themselves to reconsider what they think of as “impossible.”

Sure, I’ve seen some disillusionment, but mostly I’ve seen quite the opposite in this agency. I’ve seen high-level managers opening discussions about how to tear down organizational barriers. I’ve seen young engineers seeking out and finding outstanding mentors in uncommon places. I’ve seen mentors go to extraordinary lengths to instill not only a sense of technical excellence, but a genuine sense of honesty and integrity that is arguably even more important to sustainable engineering projects—and life for that matter—than data analysis or raw technical knowledge.

So, in short, I’ve figured out that culture is, in fact, cool. And important. And I’m inspired by its potential to drive change at NASA, despite the uphill battle it may seem at times. (If my World Cultures teacher is reading this, I humbly apologize for falling asleep in your class.)

What do you think about NASA culture?

(originally posted at www.opennasa.com)

Culture.

What does that word do for you? I hear it thrown around a lot when talking about change. And change, unless maybe you’ve been living in a Thai jungle for the last 2 years or so, seems to at least be a hot topic on many people’s minds lately.

(No offense intended if you have in fact been living in a Thai jungle and feel this image unfitting.)

How important is culture to a country’s ability to change? Is change an inherent characteristic of our nation’s culture?

President-elect Obama, in his acceptance speech on election night, said, “For that is the true genius of America- that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.”

I bring this up first as a topic on a national level because I think it’s important to understand change in the context of our nation’s character, regardless of political stance, before getting down to how NASA fits in.

(Feel free to comment on NASA culture here if you want, but part 2 will be “Our NASA: Culture and Change”.)

(Originally posted to www.opennasa.com)

“FITZPATRICK!!!” He’d call, running up and grabbing my facemask with a giant fist of hard, burly knuckles, “you’re running around like a blind dog in a meat house, son!”

Eloquent words recalled from my days prowling the defensive backfield as a free safety on the high school football practice fields. My coach would make it a point to yell from the complete opposite side of the field, making everyone stop in their tracks to watch his 260-pound frame barrel down on me to inform me that:

A) I was out of position

and

B) I didn’t have a clue why I should have been in the right position.

“Do you know WHY you should have been filling the C gap in cover 2?! Why?! Tell me WHY you should’ve been in the C gap, Fitzpatrick!”

“Well…uhh…” I’d say, still thinking of the image of a blind dog running on a rampage through a meat house. Would it run around all crazy, eating everything it ran into? Or would its senses overload, scaring it into a dull, mindless stupor?

“Because the end’s blocking DOWN and the fullback’s picking up the linebacker!” He’d explain to me as if scolding a 4-year old for grabbing a hot frying pan.

I’d get it, eventually. But through the heat of the Chicago summer, enduring three-a-day practices and the yelling and the sweating and the bleeding across the sun-dried fields under the slowly creeping shadow of the town water tower, it was nearly impossible to avoid the question—why was I even doing it all?

And then the season would begin. Game days brought packed stadiums, crisp uniforms and hungry looks in the eyes of those who had been through it all right alongside me. I’d feel the energy building up before an opening kickoff and the highs and lows of all that comes with fierce competition. I’d actually be in the right place at the right time; another piece of the puzzle that had to fall in place to ensure the success of the team. And I’d eventually come to understand the reasoning behind the madness my coach would put us through for all those months.

Today, I even miss running around on those practice fields.

I’m not about to sign up for another stint on the gridiron, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe the practice fields just have a different form today.

That thought occurred to me the other day when I got to thinking about why people do what they do. And, more specifically, why do I do what I do? Why work for NASA? Why explore? Why push the limits? Why try to change public opinion about space? Why bother?

Why?

It might be the most important question anyone can ask. And a close second in my book is a cousin of the first: why not?

Personally, I believe in exploration and I think the fundamental asking of the question “why” goes hand-in-hand with what exploration is in the first place. To me, we explore because we aren’t content with the way the world is and we are compelled by a desire to find out more. It isn’t good enough for us to sit back and accept that what we see is what we get. Exploration, science, innovation, personal discovery and enlightenment—they all share the same basic underlying drive and it is a drive that you might say has had some history of success in the world so far.

I would venture to guess that Mr. Columbus might have shared a similar stance in that regard. Lewis and Clark, too. The founding fathers of the American democracy. Einstein, Bohr, Magellan, Aristotle, Lindbergh, Polo, Newton, Galileo, Edison. Abraham Lincoln. Kennedy. King. (I’ll stop there only in the interest of keeping this brief).

They all saw something in the world and wanted to make it better.

Workers in any career should ask themselves the tough questions. As a nation and as a world, we should also ask ourselves the tough questions. And in the end, regardless of generation, occupation, background or motivation, maybe everyone could use a minute to take a step back, see the entire playing field in all its sometimes tortuous, incessant grind and really—and I mean really, not just in passing or jotted down as an item in a bulleted list to be lost or checked off as blueberry yogurt on a grocery list—ask him/herself the tough questions:

A) Why?

and

B) Why not?

It is the purpose of it all that gets lost in the midst of all the noise, whether that noise be in the form of large sweating teenagers in pads running at full speed with eyes like daggers pointed through your chest or the constant barrage of technology creating an entire generation formed in the highly generalized mold of short attention spans and instant gratification.

“You think its HOT?!? Boy, you ain’t seen hot yet! HOT?!? Hell is hot! This??? This is ILLINOIS! You go to hell then come back and complain to me about HOT!”

Maybe my football coach wasn’t exactly what you would call “politically correct”.

But in some way I would not have considered in a thousand years if you had asked me after getting chewed out by my football coach all those years ago that I’d be glad for it, but I am. And I’m glad for asking myself the tough questions, too.

Today, we have the opportunity and the means (and with that, the responsibility) to engage so many more people around the world to ask themselves the tough questions. And I’m not just talking about those questions about space or NASA here. So, here’s one of them (and I promise I won’t come running after you with a giant fist of hard, burly knuckles), regardless of what it is you do:

Why do you do what you do?

(originally published at www.opennasa.com)

I recently had a conversation with a friend about blogging. She said, “I would never blog—I’m worried enough about my words coming back to haunt me through email, let alone captured for the world to see through a blog.”

I told her how I was trying to learn the ropes of blogging (though I’m terribly infrequent about it, I know) and that I try to put at least some conscious thought into the words I use in any communication, including emails and even my post-it notes, which are carefully edited, often crumpled up and re-written to cram all the details I’m trying to convey on that tiny neon green sheet of paper before being applied to a coworker’s monitor in an attention-grabbing location. But, at the end of the day, I’m ok with my words running free, even through the abyss of the Internet.

Yes. These words, too.

I then went on to say, “then again, maybe I just don’t know any better.”

Well, that one’s almost certainly true. Maybe if I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t leave such an electronic fingerprint on the Internet for all to see 30 or 40 years from now when I’m accepting the Nobel Peace Prize for bringing all nations of the world together to agree on an international ban on paperclips or something. But it doesn’t change the feeling I have that the principle of standing behind your words and taking ownership of them is an important one, and I think one that also resonates closely with the foundations of engineering judgment we depend on so much here at NASA.

To me, learning how to not be afraid of words offers a parallel lesson to learning how to stick behind a technical engineering position on an issue. When it comes down to making any engineering decision, from one that could affect the lives of astronauts and potentially the fate of our nation’s space exploration program to a decision on changing a routine hardware inspection, the bottom line is simple: you’d better know your stuff and have confidence in knowing your stuff, too. Because the alternative is living with the knowledge that you could have done something different, something more. The tough line to find (though probably the most important I’ve seen in my brief career as an engineer) is the one drawn in the sand between being excessively cautious in the name of safety and mission success and knowing when to stand confidently behind a technical position and then move on, because space exploration is inherently risky and we wouldn’t go anywhere if we didn’t know when and where to make that stand.

I don’t mean to say that being excessively cautious is a bad thing. But there has to be a point where you press forward and accept a certain amount of risk in this business.

I draw the parallel to blogging because there are stories and lessons and insights at NASA that need to be told, yet I see an underlying fear that expressing them will somehow overly expose people to labeling, criticism, blame, and liability. While today’s age brings more ways to make a fool of yourself everyday, should that mean that we shy away from sharing anything, out of fear that our words, ideas, and stories might do more harm than good? Doesn’t NASA stand for pushing the limits of exploration? Don’t we bother with exploring in the first place because we believe at some level in that spirit of taking risks?

Maybe there’s a similar fear that handcuffs the technical development of engineers here. While I never want to explain a mistake in engineering judgment with “maybe I just didn’t know any better,” I think it’s important to constantly and actively seek out that line of acceptable risk and learn from mistakes along the way so that when it comes down to a decision of ultimate consequences, you may stand confidently behind your words, whether they come in the form of a speech, hallway conversation, email, blog post, or a tiny, neon green post-it note.

(originally posted on www.opennasa.com)

Whew-I made it!

One full year on the job.

(NASA, I’m writing you this blog entry as a combined present for our anniversary and your 50th birthday. Even though I’m technically late on both and you might have been hoping for a more substantial present like a bouquet of tulips or a nice dinner at that fancy French restaurant in town or a pearl necklace-yeah right on my salary!-I hope you won’t use that in future arguments over which TV show we’ll watch on Tuesday nights. I’m still voting for House, for the record).

I started full-time at NASA back in August 2007, having graduated the previous May after spending five co-op tours at JSC over the previous four years. They say you usually don’t start talking to yourself or addressing the agency as your significant other for at least 10 years, so I’m thrilled to be ahead of the curve on this one.

A year might not sound like all that significant to most, but to me, it’s a huge milestone. An-all-too-welcoming stroll down memory lane brings me back the image of a college junior, tying a tie eight times before getting it right the morning of his first day as a co-op, then staring wide-eyed at the monster Saturn V rocket lying on its side in the grass at the main gate of the center, an ominous sentry to the unsuspecting kid who still couldn’t believe he had landed an interview with the agency, let alone to be actually sitting in his car outside its gates.

But apparently I tied that tie well enough to get hired on as a full-timer, joining the ranks of men and women whose ingenuity had inspired me to crack open the differential equations textbooks (ugh) and survive the all-night college library exam studying (read: cramming) to get to where I am now, celebrating a year of ups and downs, triumphs and failures, exploring questions and trying to make the agency a little better place than when I got here.

Wednesday I drove through the gates at JSC and I thought of that first day on the job. I glanced at the (relatively) recently-built giant building enclosing the massive Saturn V; the beast of a rocket built to billow colossal plumes of fire and smoke and taught to reach constantly upward into the heavens as the height of our audaciousness, fueled by a defiant dream and the lure of the unknown, now asked to bathe in shadow, awaiting a lifetime of staring at a wall of corrugated aluminum siding while tourists gawk at the grandeur of man’s creations and NASA employees drive past, largely oblivious to its tormented suffering in their rush to meet the next impossible schedule.

A rocket that took astronauts to the moon all those years ago…

What if I had just finished up my first year in 1968, instead of 2008? Would I have this same excitement? Would I be so driven? Or, more importantly, would I be talking to myself like this?

I wonder what it was like to drive through that same gate on the way to a day on the job, working towards a goal of lifting humans to heights never before reached, to our knowledge, in the history of the universe. To live in a world where man had not yet walked on the surface of another heavenly body. What was that world like when those preconceptions of man’s limitations were shattered?

I can’t imagine such a world because the people who drove past that gate and many others like it for so long have given me the gift of seeing the world through different eyes.

In our rush to figure out how to improve the openness of the agency and either anoint or discredit the past, current, or future generations of engineers and rocket scientists, leaders and dreamers, heroes and soldiers of exploration, let’s not forget to take a step back and smile at that gift.

Even if some of us weren’t around when it was given.

What to do about the endeavor of space exploration? Does it matter like it used to? Did it ever matter? Does its relevance live up to the challenges and expenses it necessitates? Does it capture the hearts and minds and dreams of humanity?

Should it?

These are the tough questions NASA and other space programs of the world must ask. Not once or twice in fifty years, but continuously, diligently, and without fail. It is an introspection of massive importance and significance. If the endeavor of space exploration seeks to extend the collective knowledge of humanity, extend humanity’s physical presence and its awareness of the universe beyond the Earth, then this introspection is not one to be undertaken by the few in power—it is one that everyone must take seriously—NASA employees, space industry professionals, and the citizens of the world—because, simply, it is of vital importance.

Proponents of space exploration imagine a future where people and machines live and work in space and that there are clear benefits in doing so. It isn’t a huge leap to say that most Americans are in favor of NASA and, in fact, are proud of the agency because of its past, despite not really knowing much about what or why NASA operates today. And so, the challenge is to connect an increasingly impatient public with the grand, noble efforts that we, as stakeholders in the endeavor and as citizens of the world, feel passionately about undertaking in space exploration.

That’s the picture. We need to ask the tough questions and consider that ‘we’ is not an exclusive club of space industry people anymore. Everybody needs to ask these tough questions. So, the challenge is—how do we get people to be interested enough to engage in this introspection?

Getting people to explore these questions will not be easy. It will take some clever strategies and tactics. We may not like what people ask. We may not like the answers people come up with. But if we don’t get them to ask the questions, we will never connect to them. Not really. People will always want to watch launches of people into space, simply because it is entertaining. Space is still cool. Rockets and fire and danger are still cool. But to get people to care about the purpose takes a little more.

How can we connect people to this purpose?