The best books about race and racism in America during the time of the space program

Before moderating a Smithsonian panel, I mentioned this book to Astronauts Mae Jemison and Leland Melvin.

It prompted a conversation (among people who’d sat atop rockets that shot them into outer space) where they agreed that the most frightened they’d ever been was while driving at night near the Cape Canaveral. The book, about Harry T. Moore’s lonely war against domestic terrorism, lays bare the source of their fear. Murdering Black people was how White Supremacy kept its power in the states where the space program was based.

Florida had the highest lynching rate per capita, and Brevard County, where NASA launches rockets, was the playground of the Klan. Moore became their target after registering 100,000 people to vote in a gubernatorial election. After this book, Florida will never seem the same. 

Every Baby Boomer thinks they know everything there is to know about Gov. George Wallace’s efforts to prevent Black enrollment at the University of Alabama.

What I learned from this book though, was that Tuscaloosa was Wallace’s second choice. NASA had recently helped Alabama open a university campus near its Spaceflight Center in Huntsville, and a Black NASA employee, David McGlathery wanted to integrate it. Wallace thought that his best chance to confront Federal power was to publicly stop McGlathery in NASA’s backyard.

McGlathery was still alive when I was writing my book, but despite entreaties from his wife and friends, he refused to talk about this episode. I leaned on this book to fill in the blanks of an unknown chapter in American history. 

Throughout the 1960s, NASA tried in vain to lure Black engineers to its Southern Centers.

The agency had its excuses, but as I began to talk to NASA’s Black pioneers, I began hearing vivid descriptions of the terror that kept their friends from going to work with them at NASA. This thought-provoking examination of one of the darkest chapters in American history helps lay out a source of their reticence.

The book delves deep into the socio-political, racial, and cultural factors that led to the widespread practice of lynching. Brundage skillfully portrays the complex web of prejudice, fear, and power dynamics that fueled this brutal form of violence. Through his detailed analysis, we gain a chilling picture and the backstory of what kept NASA so White.

While researching a documentary, I tripped over an interview with George Reedy, White House press secretary from 1964-65.

Reedy had also worked in Pres. Johnson’s Senate office, and he spoke about how thirteen days after the Sputnik launch, he and an aide to Alabama Senator Lister Hill plotted to use the space program to transform the South. This book fleshes out much of that story. While it primarily delves into the economic development and transformation of the South, it also provides valuable insights into Johnson’s tenure as a senator.

The book highlights how Johnson used his political acumen to advocate for policies that would improve the economic conditions of his region. He understood the importance of federal investment in infrastructure, education, and healthcare to lift the region out of poverty.

I wrote my book because I heard a talk. Glen Asner of the Pentagon Historical Office spoke at a 2006 conference on the Societal Impact of Spaceflight. There, he championed the use of social history to interpret that impact.

Social history was once derided as “pots and pans” history, he said. Instead, it should be harnessed to tell the story of NASA employees who used “their equal status within a federal institution to reshape local institutions and conceptions of race.” The Warmth of Other Suns unlocked the way to do that for me. It takes the stories of the millions who travelled north during The Great Migration and finds ways to personalize them.

This book was a lodestar for me, as I labored to do something similar.