As local stores are already promoting back-to-school supplies, I'm feeling nostalgic and excited about the end of summer. I was the quirky kid who loved school and couldn't wait to start new classes. And I've been feeling a great yearning to fill in the gaping gaps in my astronomical knowledge.
I fear that my knowledge of astronomy is light-years wide, but only one Planck length deep. Opportunities for organized learning have not been abundant or obvious, not to mention that I have had to devote my time and energy to being a responsible adult in the world. So if I want to understand the universe and my place in it, it is up to me to make that a reality. It is time to design my own Star School.
When I was 14, I attended a governor's summer school in my home state of Virginia. Choosing the planetarium class over the aquarium program was an easy one. We visited museums, watched videos, learned how to use a planisphere, and took a camping trip to West Virginia to visit the Green Bank Observatory and its radio telescopes. It was a cool, nerdy way to spend the summer.
But I felt like a cosmic dilettante. During an end-of-session planetarium presentation for our parents, I was put on the spot by pointing out a constellation I’d never heard of. I panicked. I picked a spot on the projected sky and drew a circle around an arbitrary configuration of stars. My classmates told me later that they’d been just as clueless when it came to their turn. We’d learned how to operate a small planetarium, but we still didn’t know the sky. And we didn’t get extra points for inventing new constellations, either.
Summer classes ended and my window to the universe suddenly closed. I didn't know how to open it again. I became distracted and it was decades before I could continue my astronomical education.
I was one of 16 writers in the 2011 class of the Launch Pad Astronomy Workshop at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. Led by astronomy professor and science fiction writer Mike Brotherton—and featuring guest lecturers Stanley Schmidt and Jerry Oltion—Launch Pad was like trying to absorb an entire semester of Astrophysics 101 in a single, scorching July week. Thirteen years later, I’m not sure my brain has recovered. I was ridiculously excited about this program—literally running to the bathroom and back so I wouldn’t miss the lectures. I discovered a new fascination with spectroscopy, but have done little to deepen my learning since. Life got in the way. Another astronomical start and stop.
The pandemic changed all that. When everything suddenly stopped, I found the time and incentive to look up again. I bought a good pair of binoculars and my first real telescope, along with a bunch of astronomy books I haven’t read yet. I’m still a middle-aged novice feeling my way toward the stars. Adulthood and “all the things” continue to steal the show, but I’m more stubborn about giving up ground now.
Last winter, I took an online course with the Kalamazoo Astronomical Society. I sat at my desk every other Saturday to learn more about seasonal constellations, our solar system, observing equipment, and astrophotography. Upon completion, I was awarded the “rank” of amateur astronomer. I framed that certificate and display it with the same pride as my fancy college diploma.
The beauty of amateur astronomy is that we are lifelong learners. I have been thinking about planning a self-paced beginner astronomy curriculum for a while now, and with back-to-school in the air, I feel motivated to start again.
Here’s what it could look like: I could put together a YouTube playlist featuring NASA, Alexander Spahn, McDonald Observatory, the Silicon Valley Astronomy Series, and other channels like AstroJeff and Learn the Sky. I can read an astronomy textbook and the many books I have on my shelves, or read basically anything by Brian Greene. I can also hone my star-hopping skills and attend or even volunteer at star parties. With no exams or final papers, my learning will be measured at night under an open sky.
