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Sharing Our Gifts
    The intention of this space is to allow secondary students to share.....their ideas, their work, their experiences, their inspirations......

Many thanks to Mackenzie Walker from Northern Collegiate for sharing "Space Dust" with us.  Her SHAD Valley experience may have re-opened a closed door?  Enjoy! 

Space Dust

“I am going to be a doctor.”

          “Why is that?”

          “I like people and I am good at science, there’s nothing more perfect to do.”

          “You are more passionate about English, and a lot better too.”

          “I enjoy it, yes, but no one actually goes into English. I. I closed that door a long time ago, ha. Everyone finds themselves in the sciences at some time.”

I actually had this conversation more than once, more than one hundred times. Every time anyone would ask the cliché: “What are you going to do after high school?” or “What are your going to be when you grow up?” I immediately regurgitated the regular (doctor) and braced myself for the argument that would unremittingly follow: but you are so creative! You have a way with languages! You write so wonderfully!

Ironically enough, the sciences did help me find myself.

          I had never considered anything but medicine, really. My father, a third-generation family physician, and my mother, who holds her Masters in chemistry, always told me it was “in my blood”. I would be great with the patients, excellent at saving lives, and “very well-off”, apparently. I lived in a bubble where going to med school had seemed as unavoidable as the sun setting. I had never seen the apartment/office of my grandmother, a freelance artist and writer. I had, however, ridden in ambulances, taken X-rays, and visited the hospital infinite times with my grandfather, second-generation physician. I had never been to the conventional “summer camp” either. Pre-med science camps for “gifted” students, yes, but Sloppy Joe’s and sleeping bags, no.

          Not that I led a deprived childhood. I thoroughly enjoyed the delightful era, filled with blissful days of doing Dr. Barbie’s hair and suturing my Furby closed with the first-aid kit I received for my sixth birthday.

          Convinced my parents had a most marvelous life planned out for me, I listened to their every word. In the summer of my sixteenth year, they suggested I apply to Shad Valley at the University of British Columbia, a month-long, highly competitive biology, chemistry, and physics camp with a prestigious collection of important, successful, “scientific” alumni.

          It was common knowledge amongst us prospective university science students that the words I attended Shad Valley on any university science program application, undergraduate and graduate, were a sparkling gold ticket, guaranteeing admission, scholarships, and special treatment. I applied without questioning why I was going – was I going to learn more about science? Was I going to learn more about myself? Was I going to learn at all, or just look really good on a post-secondary application?

          When I sent my application away, I had an academic average of 92%. My physics mark was the reason it was so low, sitting at an offensive 86%. Luckily I had my French, English, and music to bring it up, all 94%’s. I had an extracurricular list from my house to the stars, including the likes of the school’s concert band and the school newspaper. I was put on the waiting list, accepted only three weeks before the program was to begin. My parents assured me I would get into the camp, it was as inevitable as the sun rising, so being on the waiting list did not trouble me whatsoever. Dad had me convinced I was “meant to be there”, amongst all the science folk, and mom called me “shad-worthy”.

          When the summer rolled around, three weeks later, my parents enthusiastically waved their precious pre-med daughter in her safe pre-med bubble off to the other side of the country, resting assured that the four weeks spent away from home and immersed in academia would be put to excellent bubble-polishing use. I had never been away from home for longer than one week and felt somewhat liberated by a sudden lack of guidance.

          At camp, we were divided into small teams of students and assigned science projects. As part of the project, we had to write a business plan, seek help from professors on difficult material, and present the plan orally to a panel of judges that included CEO’s, Ph.D. holders, “investors”, and sponsors. It soon became apparent that the other students far surpassed me in everything science-related, though none could communicate or write worth a B+. I quickly became responsible for all creative aspects of the project, including writing the business plan and speaking with professionals.

          Some time into the camp, I was sent with a team science question to interview Professor Mark MacLauchlan, a professor of chemistry at the university.

          The meeting was so revolutionary I completely forget the question now.

          Mark was passionate. As I spoke with him, his eyes ignited with love for his job. He spoke of palladium and selenium as though they held splendid parties on Friday nights. Such passion bewildered me, as I never witnessed anything quite so exciting before. Mark was enthusiastic about what he did for a living, mixing science with helping people and personal passion. I wondered to myself… If he is brilliant enough to be in this office, sitting in that chair, why did he not go to medical school? Why is he listening to every word I - a mere high school student - say?

          Mark listened to me speak, studying my character more than my questions so it seemed, before asking for the business plan I had written. He read my work with the same fervent flame of passion burning in his eyes as when he spoke of chemistry. I felt vulnerable.

          “I’d like to show you something,” he said, in what sounded to be his teacher voice.

          Mark reached over to his open window and plucked a small petri dish from the ledge. It contained what appeared to be a sponge-like block of frozen smoke, reflecting light in every which direction.

          “Pick it up,” he said, motioning with his hands. There was definitely the teacher voice going on there.

          I obediently picked up the frozen smoke, sensing how delicate and weak it felt.

          “Aerogel,” he explained to me, “composed of 99.8% empty space, 0.2% glass. On space missions, NASA uses it to collect space dust. Notice the millions of pores?”

          I nodded. So many empty pores made it fragile and weightless.

          “They hold it in a vacuum-sealed sphere until they reach outer space, far away from home. Then they sent the sphere out on its own for a certain length of time. The sphere opens up, revealing the delicate Aerogel to the beauty of the unknown. It attracts whatever dusts –moon dust, stardust- the abyss that is space has to offer, filling its open pores. The dust is analyzed, and NASA takes what it finds interesting and pursues it passionately.”

          I nodded again. A speck of dust floated in through the open window and onto the Aerogel.

          “Keep it,” Mark smiled.

          I thanked enraptured NASA-boy for his time and turned to leave the room, powered by a sudden weightlessness and freedom. Freedom to be passionate and freedom to question what I don’t understand. Exercising my newfound independence, I turned to face Mark and fearlessly inquired, “why? Why leave something so susceptible on an open window if it attracts so much dust?”

          “I wanted to see what it could pick up out here in British Columbia.”

          Satisfied, I turned, rather, twirled, around and sauntered out of the room.

          “For further help with that issue of yours, I suggest you visit Professor Wieland two buildings over.”

          I sung Mark one more heart-felt thank you, and, clutching my weightless, slightly dusty Aerogel, meandered two buildings down, stopping once to smell the University’s famous Rose Garden.

A sign on the building read, “Welcome, young minds, to the Department of English.” Smiling, I reached for the doorknob and opened that door. Coincidentally, a blustery wind showered me with dust at the exact same time.