I Want to Be Like Yuri

At some point, back in my school days, I heard a dumb joke about a commission coming to a school to interrogate all of the first-graders:

“Boy, what’s your name?”

“Vasya.” 

“Vasya, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A cosmonaut.”

“Boy, what’s your name?”

“Petya.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe a cosmonaut?”

“Yes, a cosmonaut.”

“And, you, boy, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A cosmonaut.”

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t know.”

The joke wasn’t all that funny, but it contained a kernel of truth: back in the sixties, even kids who could barely remember their own names wanted to be cosmonauts. At the very least, they were supposed to want that, because a cosmonaut was perceived as a new sort of hero, practically superhuman.

The way people perceived the conquest of space in the USSR (and, perhaps, not only in the USSR) brought together an eclectic mix of vastly different images, ambitions and interests. On the one hand, putting people in outer space was clearly a great event for humanity as a whole. In October of 1957, people around the world gazed skyward in hopes of spotting Sputnik-1, and soon after, Gagarin’s smile would be recognized in every corner of the globe.

The jubilation that broke out in the Soviet Union after each new rocket launch was absolutely sincere. People had to be corralled into joining official demonstrations for May Day and the anniversary of the October Revolution, but when Gagarin’s flight was announced, people burst into the streets by the thousands out of sheer elation. Subsequent missions provoked similar responses. People were exhilarated and full of hope that such achievements would keep coming. At the same time, of course, it was an unbelievable Cold War triumph for the USSR.

Today much has been written about the pressure that Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev put on Sergei Korolyov, the country’s lead rocket engineer, pushing and pushing, unphased by failures and flaws, in pursuit of only one goal: being first in space. And the Soviet Union achieved that goal. Soviet officialdom could be justifiably proud, boast of its success in front of foreigners, and explain to the Soviet people how far ahead we were, compared to the capitalist world.

Later, the famous bard Yuri Vizbor would write a song called “Tale of Technologist Petukhov” about the title character’s meeting with an African delegate to an international peace forum. The two drink, and Petukhov indignantly refutes the rumors the other man has heard. First, the African says, “In Russia, they say, it’s too cold to swim; that’s why it’s unsightly here,” and then, “In Russian villages they don’t dance the twist; that’s why, they say, it’s unsightly here.” Petukhov knows just how to respond. Each time he replies,

But, I tell you, we make rockets
And we’ve dammed up the Yenisei
Also in the area of ballet,
I tell you, we’re ahead of the whole planet!

With those words, Vizbor summed up the points the Soviet leadership was fond of bragging about to its own people, but especially to foreigners: space, ballet and grandiose engineering projects (in this case, the Krasnoyarsk Hydroelectric Station).

And something else important was happening: Soviet citizens began to see the country’s achievements in space as their own achievements. Somehow it worked out that every Soviet person was able to take credit for the space program and other successes. When Petukhov and his drinking buddy are fairly well along, the African visitor asks a typical Russian “drunk” question:

And then we washed it all down with champagne.
He asked: “Who are you, really?”
He said he was a Son of Africa,
And I say, “I’m technologist Petukhov.”

This leads into a variation on the familiar chorus:

I tell you, I make rockets,
I dam up the Yenisei,
Also in the area of ballet,
I tell you, I’m ahead of the whole planet!

This personal pride in what the country had done would undergo a serious test when news came that the Americans had landed on the moon in July of 1969.

First, it came as a surprise to many Soviets that the Americans had cosmonauts of their own (who for some reason were called astronauts). That’s not to say that anyone was hiding the fact that Americans were also flying to space, just, well, you might say nobody was advertising it.

My childhood fell during those first magical years of the conquest of space. Of course, my classmates and I knew all the Russian cosmonauts by name. We watched the ceremonial homecoming of every returning hero on TV. We mourned the loss of Vladimir Komarov.* It was a very important, integral part of our lives. I try to recall the name of even one US astronaut now, not counting Neil Armstrong, of course, and I can’t. Then again, my contemporaries in the US also have trouble remembering anyone besides Gagarin.

So, what did it mean for us when, in July of 1969, Apollo 11 landed on the moon? Did it mean anything at all? Of course, it did.

Our whole country was sadly deprived of the opportunity to see the landing live, not because it was banned, but simply because Soviet television didn’t broadcast so early in the morning (it happened at 5:56 am, Moscow time). Couldn’t they have made an exception? Well…nah, not in this case.

Later, of course, we were informed of the event and even shown the recording. And then? Nobody ran into the street. No jubilation ensued.

In the newspapers they naturally noted the importance of the event for the future conquest of space by Soviet and American scientists. One paper came up with the excellent headline, “Earthlings Land on Moon.” It was clear from the text which country the Earthlings were from, but the way they phrased the title emphasized that this fact wasn’t really all that important. Another newspaper told the story in detail, and even put in photographs before finishing in memorable fashion: “While celebrating the successful Apollo 11 mission, the World Press again and again draws attention to America’s unresolved problems. ‘We are happy for America’s success,’ writes the Nigerian newspaper Morning Post, ‘but we still ask that it clean up the ghettos and feed the poor.’”

I don’t know if Nigeria really had a paper called Morning Post, or, if it did, whether the paper really published these words, but what we see here in essence is Technologist Petukhov’s words given a new twist: You may make rockets, but that ghetto of yours is “unsightly.”

Today, perceptions of Russia’s space program aren’t what they used to be. Proton rockets go down one after the other. The space industry is in decline. The heirs of Technologist Petukhov now laugh at Russia’s “unsightliness” and no longer identify with the generation that “dammed up the Yenisei.” One of the most popular online memes now is to publish some wild story like, for example, “Novosibirsk Scientists Learn to Smoke Herring in Particle Collider,” and add the tag “How’s that, Elon Musk?”

And of course now everyone wants to be not a cosmonaut, but a YouTube superstar.