In praise of the guys in skinny black ties

By Dan Neal, Palm Beach Post Staff Writer

Tuesday, February 4, 2003

Like children frightened by a father’s tears, we have to worry when engineers cry. Amid the weekend’s terrible images-the flaming shuttle, the blasted debris, the ruined families-the one that troubled me most came from the most unlikely place: a news conference with the scientists in charge of the mission.

Swallowing tears on Saturday, shuttle program director Ron Dittemore grappled with his grief before a devastated nation.

"There’s a certain amount of shock in our system," he said. "We have suffered the loss of seven family members."

Granted, it was a mild reaction, given the circumstances. Oprah Winfrey can gnash more teeth over a set of sit-ups. But somehow the engineer’s brave understatement cut deeper than O will ever go.

When the guy with the pocket protector cries, when the catastrophe is so shattering that even the egghead cracks, we know instinctively that there’s more at stake than personal loss. We never know why, never know exactly what’s going on, but we know enough to fear that it might mean the end of the world as we know it.

Because the world as we know it belongs to the engineers. They built the cars we drive, the roads we drive on. They designed the homes we live in, developed the crop system that keeps our bellies full. They invented the TVs we worship, the phones we yak on and every one of the silly or suddenly indispensable gadgets that prop up our lives. From umbrellas that save us from the rain to medical equipment that saves us from death, engineers are the ones who make our world possible.

They do it without fanfare. They demand no pats on the head. And for their efforts, generally, we mock them. They can send a man to the moon, we gripe, but they can’t make a VCR you can program, or a computer that doesn’t crash, or a you-fill-in-the-blank.

We don’t know-we aren’t even interested in-how VCRs, computers and "blanks" work, so we can’t be expected to help solve these problems ourselves. But like teenagers tooling around in Dad’s Corolla, we can make fun of the folks who feed us: Look at the geeks and pinheads in the skinny black ties, we say. They don’t care about clothes, they never get dates, they aren’t "in touch with their emotions." These guys are so out of it, we jeer, they think calculus is fun, and studying and working are the only things worth doing in the world. And when that world breaks, of course, the engineers are the ones we blame — and the ones we count on to fix it. While the rest of us stand by and wring our hands over the latest calamity, we expect them to get to work and make everything whole again.

Usually, they do. Because, by nature, they are the fixers, the problem-solvers, the men and women behind the scenes who make the trains run on time, no matter how they might feel at the moment. They don’t resent the role, they treasure it and believe in it-believe with the indomitable optimism that keeps this country moving forward that no matter how bad things get, there’s nothing that human ingenuity and hard work can’t fix.

"This is a bad day," chief flight director Milt Heflin said at the news conference, his eyes red with grief. "I’m glad that I work and live in a country where… when we have a bad day, we go fix it."

We have no choice but to believe him. Yes, we’re shaken when the ones who are supposed to be calm and logical and in control are reduced to tears, and, yes, we’ve had a bad day. But while people like us can’t fix it, we know people like Milt Heflin probably can.

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Hymn of Breaking Strain

By Rudyard Kipling, 1865-1936.

Source: Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia Library

The careful text books measure
(Let all who build beware!)
The load, the shock, the pressure
Material can bear.
So, when the buckled girder
Lets down the grinding span,
The blame of loss, or murder,
Is laid upon the man.
Not on the Stuff — the Man!

But in our daily dealing
With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us, —
For no laid course prepare —
And presently o’ertake us
With loads we cannot bear.
Too merciless to bear.

The prudent text-books give it
In tables at the end —
The stress that shears a rivet
Or makes a tie-bar bend —
What traffic wrecks macadam —
What concrete should endure —
But we, poor Sons of Adam,
Have no such literature,
To warn us or make sure!

We hold all Earth to plunder —
All Time and Space as well —
Too wonder-stale to wonder
At each new miracle;
Till, in mid-illusion
Of Godhead ‘neath our hand,
Falls multiple confusion
On all we did or planned.
The mighty works we planned.

We only of Creation
(Oh, luckier bridge and rail!)
Abide the twin-damnation —
To fail and know we fail.
Yet we — by which sole token
We know we once were Gods —
Take shame in being broken
However great the odds —
The Burden or the Odds.

Oh, veiled and secret Power
Whose paths we seek in vain,
Be with us in our hour
Of overthrow and pain;
That we — by which sure token
We know thy ways are true —
In spite of being broken,
Because of being broken,
May rise and build anew.
Stand up and build anew!