FEBRUARY 11TH, 1962 — SOMETIME MIDDAY. You were supposed to be a computer, here at NASA. You were supposed to correct tons upon tons of advanced equations from your peers with a smile on your face and pep in your step. You were supposed to do more and be less; that was the life of a black woman, not just at NASA but in America all over. And yet, here you were in the pentagon calculating the go/no go coordinates in front of navy men, your boss, top government officials, and John Glenn himself.

“The go/no go coordinates are as follows,” you said before listing off your coordinates down to the sixth or seventh decimal place. With a turn, you pointed to a spot on the map hung up. It was somewhere off the east coast, in the Atlantic Ocean. “Should be about here, give or take 20 miles. Nautical miles.”

Everyone was silent, staring at you. The tension was thick and heavy, suffocating you more and more with every passing second. It was damn near unbearable until John Glenn spoke up. He gave a smile to you — “I like those numbers.”

It seemed that Glenn’s approval was all the other men needed, as they laughed and nodded in agreement. You found your way back to your seat, relieved. You’d fought for your spot in this room and now you’d actually proved that you deserved it.

The rest of the meeting, at least for you, was a blur of explanations concerning the navy’s role and other minor details. At the very end, everyone stood to leave the room. As you grabbed your folders, your papers, intent on heading back to your station, you heard the voice of Glenn behind you.

“Those calculations you did, I mean wow,” he began, smiling at you warmly, “it’s like watching an artist paint. If you’ll allow me to be forward here, I’d love to get to know the little lady calculating my launch.”

..What?

John didn’t seem to notice the confusion on your face, continuing on, “How does lunch work for you? You can take a short lunch break, right? Not everyday you get to eat with an astronaut, I bet.”