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Celebrating “Star Trek,” Remembering Nimoy

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News of Lenoard Nimoy’s passing was felt far and wide at the National Air and Space Museum. It may come as no surprise that many members of our staff—the same folks who have dedicated their careers to inspiring and educating the public about aerospace history—are also huge Star Trek fans.

As we remember Nimoy’s legacy, we can’t help but recall our own experiences meeting the man and celebrating the series. In 1992, the Museum opened a temporary exhibition on Star Trek and cast and crew of the beloved show descended upon the Museum throughout its run. Two staff members, past and present, reflect on that experience.

From left to right, William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, and DeForest Kelley at a panel discussion at the 1992 Star Trek exhibition opening.

Marilyn Kozak retired from the Smithsonian as director of donor relations in 2011, but in 1992 she was asked to serve as the gallery supervisor of the Museum’s Star Trek exhibition.

They kept coming. Sometimes over 4,000 a day. Some wore uniforms, others had memorized entire scripts, many were just curious. The president of Mozambique, Sonny Bono, Chelsea Clinton, David Copperfield, and Gary Busey all came to see. But the usually crowded Star Trek gallery at the National Air and Space Museum was quiet and empty early one morning when Leonard and Adam Nimoy came to visit. How can a fan (me) NOT be excited about standing under the model of the Starship Enterprise with Spock in the flesh. But my role that morning was gallery supervisor, not “fan.” That meant no pictures, no autographs, just a casual conversation about how the ears took SO long to get JUST right, the raging controversy over that first bi-racial kiss, and the “state-of-the-art” special effects that, well, just didn’t look quite that special anymore. We ended the visit watching the video clip of Joan Collins getting killed by a car as a devastated James T. Kirk looks on. The Nimoys smiled, it was time for them to move on. As we exited the gallery, I showed them the guest book with the names of, and comments from, thousands of visitors. Mr. Nimoy seemed genuinely moved as he paused to read the many pages of tributes, recollections, and expressions of appreciation from fans of a low-rated, often panned, sometimes cheesy but highly relevant television show.

Not everyone at the Smithsonian thought the Star Trek gallery was a good idea and they were unprepared for the huge crowds that visited every day during its short run. Leonard Nimoy was initially conflicted about his role as Spock and I suspect he was just as unprepared for the intense notoriety that waned and waxed over the years.

But just as the Smithsonian remains a much beloved institution, Nimoy, as an actor, artist, musician, director, and of course as Spock continues to inspire. Thank you for encouraging us to go boldly and allowing us to join you on your journey to explore strange new worlds. It’s been a blast!

Those famous Spock ears that took, “SO long to get JUST right.”

Linda King currently serves as a project manager at the Museum, but in 1992 she found herself momentarily stuck in a freight elevator with the cast of Star Trek.

The Museum hosted two events before opening the Star Trek exhibition—a morning press conference and an evening reception. For these events, each Star Trek cast member was paired with a staff escort; I was paired with Nichelle Nichols who played Lieutenant Uhura. I remember the evening event in particular. We all assembled in the parking garage and then boarded the freight elevator on our way to the second floor where the exhibition was on display. Before the elevator ascended to the second floor, it abruptly stopped. That’s right, the freight elevator momentarily stopped operating. To this day I don’t remember who said it, but within moments one lone voice on the elevator said, “Scotty, we have engine trouble.” The elevator roared with laughter. Moments later it became operational again and we were taken up to the second floor to attend the opening reception.

As I was looking through some of my project files, I stumbled across the logistics memo for that day and wanted to share with you who attended and who in the Museum served as escort.

Star Trek Cast Member …. Staff Escort

William Shatner (Captain Kirk) ….. Valerie Neal/Kathie Spraggins
Leonard Nimoy  (Mr. Spock) ….. Bob Craddock/Patti Woodside
DeForest Kelly (Dr. McCoy) ….. Bea Matkovic (Mowry)
Nichelle Nichols (Lt. Uhura) ….. Linda King
James Doohan   (“Scotty”) ….. Mandy Young
Walter Koenig (“Chekov”) ….. Mike Tuttle
George Takei  (“Sulu”) ….. Priscilla Strain
Majel Barrett Rodenberry ….. Raymond Stephens
Bill Theiss (costume designer) ….. Barbara Brennan
Robert Justman ….. Jack Van Ness
Martin Davis
& Brandon Tartikoff,
Larry Levinson
Harry Anderson
(all Paramount execs) ….. Susan Beaudette

Star Trek artifacts on display in the Museum’s 1992 exhibition.


You’ve heard from Marilyn, Linda, and previously from Bob. Now, we encourage you to share your own stories here in the comments. What did Mr. Spock mean to you? 


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To Me, Mr. Nimoy Was Mr. Spock

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All actors create characters. Some of these characters even achieve iconic status. However, what Leonard Nimoy created was legendary. Spock appeals to so many different people in so many different ways.

Leonard Nimoy (right) and William Shatner at a panel discussion with fellow cast mates at the opening of the Museum’s Star Trek exhibition in 1992. Photo: Mark Avino (SI-92-1547-28A)

Prior to Star Trek, most television characters were formulaic. Dad wore a hat, mom wore a dress, and the children were all sugar coated. Spock was alien not only because he had pointed ears, but because he was smart. Very smart! Spock knew thousands of years of world history as well as any form of higher math and physics. Spock was so endearing because he was one of television’s first true intellectuals. And Nimoy was so convincingly smart as Spock that he often had scientists ask him for his opinion about things. Nimoy made it cool to be smart.

In a crew as diverse as the Enterprise’s, Spock was also different, and the struggle Spock had with his identity (both on screen and in real life it seems) is something everyone feels at some times in their lives. To find peace, we must accept who we are and appreciate that our differences are what make us special. There were so many times where Nimoy showed us that this was the case.

It was Nimoy’s idea to make Spock and the Vulcan culture focused on logic and to control all emotions. In our own culture men and even boys are taught not to show any emotions (“boy’s don’t cry”). It is no wonder Spock was so appealing, particularly to males. Even Spock cried sometimes.

Sometimes Spock needed rescuing. Sometimes it was Spock who did the rescuing. Whatever the circumstances, it was obvious that Spock was a true friend who his crewmates could always count on. What’s not to like about that? Through Spock, Nimoy created someone all of us can identify with and admire.

My late mother, who was also an avid Spock fan, used to say, “Star Trek is about hope.” I think she was right. However, that hope is set in the future. While I appreciate the optimistic outlook Star Trek portrayed about the future, the underlying message that we can apply to today is that we should treat everyone with dignity no matter how different or alien they are.

The author, Bob Craddock (center), and Leonard Nimoy (right) at the opening of the Museum’s 1992 Star Trek exhibition. Photo: Carolyn Russo

The entrance to the Museum’s Star Trek exhibition in 1992. Photo: Mark Avino (SI-92-7742)

I had the opportunity to serve as Mr. Nimoy’s escort when the Smithsonian opened the Star Trek exhibit in 1992. I spent the better part of two days with him and his wife, Susan Bay. Probably the thing that impressed me the most about him was that he always had time to talk to a fan. Despite hearing the same questions or comments over and over all day, he never lost patience. He treated everyone with dignity. In that short time I had the privilege of being with him, it was obvious that he lived the message of Star Trek. Mr. Nimoy was indeed Mr. Spock.

Bob Craddock is a planetary scientist and avid Star Trek fan in the Museum’s Center for Earth and Planetary Studies.

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Vance Marchbanks’ Contribution to Public Health Policy on Sickle Cell Disease

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Dr. Vance Marchbanks, Jr. is famous in both the black history and aerospace history communities for his accomplishments as one of the first in his field. He was one of two black MDs to complete the United States Army Air Corps School in Aerospace Medicine at the beginning of World War II. His fame continued through his association with the 99th and 301st Fighter Groups, who later became known as the Tuskegee Airmen. He served as their flight doctor during the war. His fame among the black community continued through the early years of the American Mercury space program when he was detailed to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) to monitor the health of John Glenn in orbit from a listening station in Kano, Northern Nigeria. Even after he retired from the Air Force as a colonel, Marchbanks’ fame rebounded with each new accomplishment as an employee at Hamilton Standard, where he worked on the life support systems for the Apollo program. Nevertheless, one of Vance Marchbanks’ greatest accomplishments was less frequently heralded. During the late 1970s and early 1980s, he used his considerable political and personal clout to challenge the U.S. Air Force on one of its medical dogmas.

Dr. Vance Marchbanks, Jr., served on the flight control team in Kano, Northern Nigeria.

Sickle Cell Disease (SCD) gained its name from its initial medical identification in 1910. A young doctor coined the term after examining a blood sample from a patient who had complained of both chronic and acute pain and anemia. Instead of the round donut shaped red bloods cells that he expected, the doctor saw cells that were shaped like sickles, a hand-held agricultural tool with a curved blade. The disease that he described had existed for thousands of years under various local names among people in Africa, the Mediterranean, and the Near East—largely in regions where Malaria is endemic. It was not until the late 1940s and early 1950s that the genetic nature of the disease began to be clear to doctors in the U.S. and Britain. In 1949, two articles appeared independently showing conclusively that SCD was an inherited, recessive gene. During the 1950s, it became possible to screen for SCD. This was a life-saver for those who inherited two copies of the gene and the ability to identify those who carried single copies of the gene made genetic counseling possible for SCD. Carrying a single copy of the gene was dubbed as having Sickle Cell Trait (SCT).

Once scientists had identified the molecular expression of SCD, they sought to identify the causes of the periodic acute episodes like the ones that the 1910 patient had suffered. Looking at the anecdotal evidence, scientists surmised that stress and hypoxia caused attacks. Doctors further speculated that even those who carried a single copy of the gene could be subject to sickle cell attacks. The United States Air Force (USAF), using an overabundance of caution, acquiesced to preliminary hypotheses of biologists and geneticists and declared that no pilot-candidate with the single gene for SCD and known as having Sickle Celt Trait would be allowed to participate in any altitude duties. They argued that the limited medical knowledge concerning the effects of stress and the environment on individuals with SCT justified this action. The result was that any man screened as having SCT could not become a pilot.  What had been characterized as a caution within medical circles had become USAF doctrine. The doctrine became public in 1979, when a candidate to the Air Force Academy with SCT was dismissed from the academy because of his genetic trait. The young man sued.

When it came to the attention of the community of black doctors in the U.S. that the USAF had instituted this policy based on the unproven belief that the trait alone could cause health issues for pilots, they went to Vance Marchbanks for any data that might have been recorded during World War II to either prove or disprove the Air Force’s justification for excluding pilot candidates with SCT. Of course, the USAF did not have the capacity to screen for SCD during the war, but Marchbanks had maintained contact with his fighter pilot colleagues and was able to assemble a contact list from which doctors could determine the prevalence of SCT among the Tuskegee Airmen. Dr. Oswaldo Castro at the Howard University Center for Sickle Cell Disease conducted the testing and Dr. Marchbanks determined that out of 154 veterans of World War II, 10 were found to have SCT. All had flown in unpressurized aircraft without evidence of any hazard. One of the 10 had amassed a total of 600 flying hours in combat. Marchbanks published his data in the Aviation, Space and Environmental Medical journal in March 1980, and reprinted the results in the Journal of the National Medical Association the following year.

Effective on May 26, 1981, the Air Force rescinded its policy on flight crews and Sickle Cell Trait. The Department of Defense issued guidance to all the military services to do likewise. Today, we know much more about SCD, its causes, treatment, and screening. But it is thanks to Vance Marchbanks and his long career that screening for the trait ceased to be a United States Air Force dogma.

Vance Marchbanks died in Connecticut in 1988.

Cathleen Lewis is a curator in the Space History Department at the National Air and Space Museum.


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Obscure Objects: WWI U.S. Army Protective Helmet Used by American Rocket Society

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What does a piece of World War I Army surplus have to do with early rocketry? Well, a helmet from the war, painted white for easier visibility, provided protection for American Rocket Society members during rocket testing in the 1930s.

Ed Pendray, wearing the WWI surplus helmet, uses a tracking device during solid-fuel rocket flight tests in Midvale, New Jersey, 1937.

Ed Pendray, wearing the WWI surplus helmet, uses a tracking device during solid-fuel rocket flight tests in Midvale, New Jersey, 1937.

One such member was G. Edward Pendray a newspaper reporter and editor, freelance writer, and public relations man in New York City. In the 1920s, he and his wife, Leatrice “Lee” Gregory, became excited about the prospect of space travel. They began meeting with friends — mostly science fiction fans and writers — at Nino and Nella’s, an Italian restaurant/speakeasy in New York City, to talk about the possibilities of space flight. One day a regular at the meetings, David Lasser, the editor of the science fiction magazine Science Wonder Series, suggested they organize. Thus, in 1930 the American Interplanetary Society (AIS) was born, and Lasser became its first president.

Pendray replaced Lasser as president in 1932, and the focus of the AIS began to change from a group that promoted the wonders of space travel into a society that built and tested small rockets. As the organization evolved, the members decided to rename it the American Rocket Society (ARS) in 1934. Eventually, most of the original science fiction devotees began to drift away and were replaced by scientists and engineers.

Much later, in 1963, the ARS merged with the Institute of the Aerospace Sciences (originally the Institute of the Aeronautical Sciences) to form the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics (AIAA), which is now the world’s largest technical society dedicated to the global aerospace profession.

Pendray contributed to the field of aerospace throughout his life. Today, the AIAA awards the “Pendray Aerospace Literature Award” in recognition of his achievements.

The helmet used by ARS members during early rocket tests is made of steel and was mainly used from 1935 to 1941. It was given to the Museum by Ed Pendray in 1968. The helmet is now on display in the 1,000 Years of Rocketry case at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center.

World War I U.S. Army helmet used by the American Rocket Society (ARS).

For additional reading on the subject, see Tom D. Crouch, Rocketeers and Gentlemen Engineers: A History of the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics…and What Came Before (Reston, Va: AIAA, 2006) and Frank Winter, Prelude to the Space Age (Washington, DC: SIP, 1983)

Kathleen Hanser is a writer-editor in the Office of Communications.




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Scoffing at Superstition

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Friday the Thirteenth always puts me in the mood to listen to Stevie Wonder’s hit, “Superstition.” Although I’m not particularly superstitious, I’m probably not going to take chances like a group of aviation cadets did at the Air Corps Training Detachment, Hawthorne School of Aeronautics, Orangeburg, South Carolina, in February of 1942.


Aviation Cadets at the Air Corps Training Detachment, Hawthorne School of Aeronautics, Orangeburg, scoff at superstitions on Friday the Thirteenth, February 1942. NASM 00187027

According to the Air Corps publicity photo, these cadets cast superstition to the winds, preparing to fly Stearman trainer number “13” on Friday the Thirteenth. To thumb their nose even more, one of the cadets intended to break a mirror. Another stood under a ladder. They even obtained a black cat, but it wisely ran away from the shenanigans!

History does not record what happened to these particular cadets. We can only assume they survived their standoff with bad luck. But if you are superstitious, look out! 2015 has THREE Friday the Thirteenths. Be careful today, and again in March and November!

Elizabeth Borja is an archivist in the National Air and Space Museum Archives and thinks she may know what happened to the black cat!

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