Moon Landing

There’s something very orderly and comforting about ironing. On July 20, 1969, the heat of the iron was like a warm bath on a hot day. The water both cools and softens, and allows your body to merge with the air outside, your discomfort dissolving because you have stopped fighting the weather. You have surrendered to the atmosphere, no longer separate and alone, just one with the clouds and the sky. That’s the way I felt when I was standing in front of the television set ironing. Granted, it was easy for me to enjoy the moment because of the air conditioning set on low and humming in the background. A sense of belonging to the world, optimism and peace enveloped me in a way that air conditioning alone couldn’t achieve.

Being 16 years old and seven months pregnant, I didn’t have many clothes of my own to iron. I had three dresses, all that I made myself on my mother’s old sewing machine. When I was done with them, I would iron my father’s handkerchiefs and the tablecloths. It wasn’t so much that we needed to have these items be flat and perfectly creased, but that I needed something to do. This afternoon, I started with the sleeveless lilac flower print A-line dress with the rounded Peter Pan collar and the three buttons at the neck placket. It was so easy to iron these dresses as they ballooned out from the top down. There were no pleats, no sleeves, no cuffs, no sections that were fitted or tight. Just a large swath of fabric that grew larger as I pressed. This particular dress had a raised texture in strips with a delicate flower pattern occasionally crossing and weaving in and out of the fabric. I loved the feel of the raised cotton material as I carefully checked for wrinkles or creases where it should be flat. As the dress blossomed into its full flowery beauty, all was right with the world and I was in control.

As I moved onto my father’s handkerchiefs, I became aware of the television program. I had been watching a soap opera since there wasn’t much on in the afternoon, but now the network switched to their news department and the announcers began talking about the moon. There were men up there in space and they were getting ready to land and walk on the moon! Of course I knew that this was going to be happening, but I forgot that it was going to be today. I had been so preoccupied with myself that the timing of the moon landing had passed me by. As I listened, you could hear the sound of wonder in the announcer’s voice. They showed pictures of people all over the world, with snippets of foreign languages in the background, all watching the television at the same time. It was dark, nighttime, in some places. In others it was morning; for some, it was afternoon. People were gathered in town squares, soldiers in Vietnam were in barracks. My baby’s father was in one of those barracks. I was in my living room in Queens.

The smell of the steam from the iron reminded me to pay attention, to lift the hot metal from the handkerchief before it burned. Then there they were, men in space suits gently stepping off a ladder onto a powdery surface and bouncing lightly. This was the world I was bringing this baby into, a world where men walked on the moon. I had to sit down. apollo 11

The chatter from “Houston” to the lunar vehicle with the echo, the static and very technical sounding language almost removed me from my excitement. The low voices of the men sounded so serious and confident, you might almost think they didn’t realize what was happening. But when Neil Armstrong leapt off the ladder and spoke the famous line, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” even the scientists were impressed.

My worries about this child and her future suddenly seemed unimportant. I knew everything would be okay. Somehow it would have to be. I felt very old, very mature and very wise. It was quite a small planet after all, if we could just jump up and fly to the moon. Here I was, comfortable in a sunny apartment in Queens and only a few thousand miles away, men were walking around looking at moon rocks, taking pictures and planting flags. If we could do this, why can’t we take care of one small child? I knew it wouldn’t be me, but I had no doubt that she would be happy. Wherever she went, whoever took care of her, it would be good. It was okay that I was giving her to another family. Adoption was the right thing to do.

I was smiling and crying just a little at the same time. The handkerchief with my father’s initials was still on the ironing board and the newsmen were discussing the technical details of the landing vehicle, the space suits and the camera. I got up, folded the handkerchief and unfurled a tablecloth.