The Humanity Star
In January 2018, three things happened (all of equal importance to the globe, though that goes without saying): First, New Zealand successfully launched its first rocket, Still Testing. Second, aboard that rocket, the Humanity Star art project was released into a low orbit, with the intention of circling the globe every 90 minutes for the next nine months. And third, I started working as a stargazing guide in the Aoraki Mackenzie Dark Sky Reserve. What event touched people’s lives the most? Probably the third, but let’s not take an official poll.
The rocket launch was successfully completed by RocketLab, a small, private company owned by Peter Beck. There were two failed rocket launches before Still Testing. As my more astute reader’s can guess by the name, they thought that Still Testing would be the third failure of the bunch. But it surprised everyone when it made it out of the atmosphere. This was a pretty big deal. New Zealand became the 12th country in the world to successfully launch a rocket out of the atmosphere. All of the other countries with space programs had lots of money or loads of missiles. But New Zealand made it happen thanks to the investment of Peter Beck.
Do you remember this launch? I probably wouldn’t if I hadn’t been looking into the night sky on the same island nation that it took place. And it didn’t really stand a chance on the international stage because the world was captivated by another first around the same time: Elon Musk’s successful launch of the Falcon Heavy. How do you compete with a man in a convertible flying around space? You don’t.
But the Still Testing launch also had an artsy gimmick that caused many astronomers to turn their attention towards it: the Humanity Star. A giant disco ball (well, more or less) that was designed by Beck to catch light from the sun and reflect it back to earth. It supposedly looked like a flashing satellite and was labeled relatively quickly as “space trash.” It caused a small outrage amongst astronomers and stargazers, who are a group of people that actively avoid flinging extra light into space.
But to hear Beck’s explanation, the Humanity Star was a thing of beauty. A reason to look up at the night sky and remember that despite everything going on down here, we are all connected, all dependent, on this little, fragile Earth. Every 90 minutes, once it was dark enough, there was the distinct opportunity to be caught off guard by a brilliant flashing object dancing across the sky. Could we pull together, rise above the total bullshit that was the political gimmicks of the year 2017 and save our tiny lifeboat of a planet? Maybe a floating disco ball in space was all it would take to bring our disparate species together.
Carefully studying both takes on the Humanity Star, I have to admit that I was swayed toward the space trash argument. I mean, a billionaire launches his own art project into the night sky, hoping we all admire it? It seemed like some weird feel good project that just stole attention away from one of the most beautiful and untouchable parts of our world. I didn’t want to see a self-righteous disco ball while I was trying to see nebulas and constellations, and distinguish between tiny, improbable specks of light. And beyond all that, what precedent did this send? What would we have to look at next up there?
One February night from my small vantage point in the dark sky reserve was clear and perfect for stargazing. This was a small miracle because it was supposed to be cloudy- which would have triggered a PowerPoint presentation of the night sky that was sure to ruffle feathers and end in a paralyzing loss of confidence of my presenting skill. But both my clients and myself were relieved to step out of the van and see the Milky Way in all of its dark sky reserve beauty. As we looked up in wonder (some of us tripping over a sneaky step), I saw a moving point of light, blinking demurely at us. I gasped. The Humanity Star! I was seeing it for the first time and I was unexpectedly struck by it. I stuttered an explanation as my whole group looked up (probably anticipating an incoming asteroid due to my breathless reaction). I explained what the point of light stood for: connectedness. The soft blinking faded quickly.
Something about seeing the Humanity Star changed my mind about the whole thing. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, the tiny Humanity Star humbly trudged on while 30 of us watched it’s improbable journey. The disco ball was not as gaudy as I had imagined it might be. It was hard to wrap my head around that fact that something that was made here, that was on Earth with me a few weeks ago, was winking at me amidst all the opaque beauty and points of light that were unfathomably far away.
I looked for it again, wondering if it would inspire the same reaction, but I only saw it that one time. A few weeks later, the Humanity Star fell out of the sky. Despite it’s intention to give humanity nine months to gaze at it and figure out how to save our planet, it fell out of orbit after just two months. It caught light one last magnificent time before ceasing to exist at all.
I used to tell my tour groups that I hoped its untimely demise wasn’t a metaphor for humanity. A joke that was, as it turns out, a little too dark for a feel good stargazing tour. So I scraped it, the same way the atmosphere scraped the humanity star before it’s time.
In the end, what did the Humanity Star mean? Was that one minute that I witnessed it enough for me to decide whether it was a piece of trash or a work of art? I don’t think it matters. Like everything in this convoluted world, it was what you saw in it. It was not as bright as I thought it would be, nor was it as eye catching and disastrous as some people made it out to be. If anything, it was brief. But in my experience, there was something brilliant about its dull, steady march around our home.
