Artwork by Michael DiMilo
By Geoff Carter
On July 11th, billionaire Richard Branson launched himself fifty-three miles into the atmosphere—to the very edge of space, taking a slight edge in a three-way race between himself and other multi-billionaires Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk to establish a space tourism industry. Bezos plans to launch his self-funded rocket next week and Musk plans to send a crew into orbit this fall, but Branson’s flight has been called a landmark moment in the space tourism industry.
For me, and millions of other baby boomers, the very mention of the term space race brings back memories of the golden era of the American space program when the original seven astronauts, the chosen ones, vied for the chance to be the first Americans to orbit the Earth. We were in a hot battle with Russia to be the first nation to reach the moon. It was a time when the Mercury Redstone, the Gemini Capsule, and the Apollo LEM were icons of American ingenuity and cutting-edge technology. Most of my classmates had the Revell plastic model kits of one or more of these spacecraft and knew the names of the men who flew them: John Glenn, Neil Armstrong, James Lovell, Buzz Aldrin, and Alan Shepherd. They were real-life heroes to us, and they belonged to—us.
NASA was originally a government endeavor paid for with American tax dollars and which belonged to the American people. According to the National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958, NASA’s original primary objective was “the expansion of human knowledge of the Earth and of phenomena in the atmosphere and space.” That was revised in 1972 to add the phrase “to understand and protect our home planet”, which was deleted (due to pressures from climate change deniers) under the Bush administration in 2006. In any case, nowhere in the original mission statement or any of its revisions can the phrase “to turn a tidy profit” be found, but apparently that seems to be new raison d’etre for space travel—that, along with the need to inflate some already ponderous male egos.
While anyone who has witnessed the synchronous landings of Musk’s Falcon spacecraft has to be impressed by the sheer scope of the technology—and the total coolness of seeing a science-fiction fantasy come to life—the fact that this previously communal dream of space exploration and technological advance is now privatized is, to say the least, deflating.
Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of children have dreamed of space travel. Anyone who’s seen Star Wars, The Outer Limits, Star Trek, The Invaders, or countless other science-fiction works might have felt the aspiration to fly beyond the stars. And, in the days of NASA, it was possible. Anyone could try to become an astronaut. Not anymore.
While space travel (on the equivalent of a Princess cruise ship) will soon be possible, it will hardly be affordable. The very first American space tourist, Dennis Tito, paid Russia twenty million dollars to fly him to the ISS. According to CNN Business (cnn.com), Branson and Bezos will soon be ready to offer flights priced at approximately $250,000. Like so many other activities, space travel now seems to be in the realm of the very rich.
Privatization of public entities, whether they be schools, prisons, parks, or space programs are invariably positive for some (the extremely rich) and negative for others (everyone else). To myself, a child of the sixties who collected every NASA mission emblem and built my own Saturn V and Redstone rocket models, privatizing space travel is akin to stealing childhood dreams and defiling American exceptionalism. It would be like someone buying the Lincoln Memorial and turning it into a waterpark. The American space program used to belong to all of us and it benefited all of us. The same is true of education. It used to be public. It used to belong to all of us. Today, profiteers have steered funding for public schools into their own charter programs—and their own pockets.
I don’t begrudge these billionaires their aspirations. I do resent their insatiable greed. By taking, taking, and taking, Bezos, Branson, Musk, and the rest of the power elite have taken opportunity, even the hope of opportunity, from the rest of us. Space travel is now the Ferrari of dreams, the private Caribbean Island of hopes; who can afford it? The truth is when any one person possesses as much money as a small country and can build and implement their own space programs, there is not nearly enough income equity. Or equality.
If this country once again had a fair tax system, the money these men now use to build their vanity space projects would be in the public coffers. In the 1950s, the ultrarich were taxed at rates of up to 55%. Today they pay, when not using tax shelters, offshore accounts, or other taxes dodges, only 39%. An extra thirty percent of one billion dollars is $300,000,000. Multiply that number times however many billions these people possess, and we would have the common resources to build a space program that would belong to all of us—not just to the few. And perhaps the common aim of space travel might once again be for the betterment of all and not the few.
And if these men understand how their amassed fortunes could truly benefit their countrymen, they might begin to advocate for climate change policy.
Or help install a national health care program.
Or combat poverty.
Or reconstruct the infrastructure—all of it.
Or address the problem of world hunger.
Building a fortune is a great accomplishment. I salute these men for their fortitude. But they should not have it all. At some point, they need to learn to share. I don’t want them making decisions about public education, penal policy, or the interplanetary exploration. I don’t want to look up and see a refinery on the moon.
I don’t want them taking our dreams anymore. Outer space is not their personal space.