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Billionaire’s Outer Space? How about the Outer Space Caused by Inequality in Oakland?

I’m contemplating this because frankly, “outer space” as metaphor makes me wonder. If you’re a person of color, we’ve been there before.

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Did you relate to Virgin Atlantic founder Richard Branson’s recent PR blitz where he’s trying to make it a “thing” to go to the edge of space? 

If you’re in Oakland, would outer space be Orinda? Or the Oakland hills?

I’m contemplating this because frankly, “outer space” as metaphor makes me wonder. If you’re a person of color, we’ve been there before.

When I was a fry cook’s son, the first in my family to go to an Ivy League college, I didn’t just get a full-ride scholarship. 

To me it was like a ticket to …outer space.

Though it’s hard to say who was the alien. The kids I met from the expensive prep schools. 

Or the public school me. 

What about asking your boss for a raise in a company where you feel like an alien? You’re in outer space.

That was my lens watching Branson’s PR stunt when he forayed into the edge of space last weekend. 

For the record, there was one person of color on board Branson’s flight on Sunday. One out of six? The numbers still don’t sound terribly diverse. So, thank God for Sirisha Bandla.

Bandla, 34, immigrated with her family from India as a young girl when her father, an academic, came to America. Bandla grew up with a love of science and went on to Purdue University to study aeronautical engineering, then got an MBA. She’s now the VP of Virgin’s government affairs and research operations. Cush gig. And she gets to go into space.

On Sunday, after getting her wings, and popping champagne like a Super Bowl champ, Bandla was grabbed from behind by Branson, who went underneath Bandla’s legs to lift her up on his shoulders and carry her off the stage. (Hello, Virgin H.R. department?) 

Perhaps it was just the post-flight exuberance.

When Branson went to the edge of outer space last Sunday he did just enough to qualify as a civilian astronaut.  More than 50 miles into the sky, the Virgin rocket plane went about the same distance as a car would have from the southernmost part of Wash., D.C. to the northernmost part of Baltimore. Just enough for some G-force fun, a bit of weightlessness, and a glimpse of the Earth that was to die for.

But will that be worth $250,000 a ticket to an average consumer? 

For all the talk about the billionaire space race being the “democratization” of space, I’d correct that adjective to describe the venture as space and its “commercialization.”

This isn’t just something you put on the Discover card. Not enough space (pun intended). 

Nor would you take out a mortgage on your home to be a 21st Century space tourist.  Would you?

Let’s face it. This is an elitist’s bucket list fantasy. 

But Branson has the answer. You can enter his lottery/charity to win your ticket to ride.  “Space for Humanity” gives you a chance to win two seats aboard a Virgin Galactic flight.

“Just imagine a world where people of all ages, all backgrounds, from anywhere, of any gender, of any ethnicity, have equal access to space, and they will in turn, I think, inspire us back here on Earth,” Branson said, brimming with a sense that diversity has a place in space.

It’s the good guy thing to say in a vanity moment to the extreme. 

Much had been said about the so-called “overview effect,” the humbling shift in perspective when one gets a galactic glimpse of the earth.

But Branson is already considered a better than average “good guy.” How much better will he be post-flight?  If space is transformative, shouldn’t we be sending the climate deniers? The vaccine deniers? The people who still think Trump was robbed of victory last November and will be re-installed as president at any moment? The people who want to restrict voting rights that will impact all people of color?

You know the type. Essentially, it’s the people who threaten our democracy. They’re the Americans in need of a perspective change. People for whom a bungee jump from a tall canyon is not enough. Send them to the edge of the world for that “we are all one team” moment, with the hope they’ll return as kinder, more empathetic humans for the good of the country, if not the world.

You know we need it when 4,100 attended CPAC (Conservative Political Action Conference) in Dallas this past weekend, where Trump won a straw poll among attendees as their presidential choice for 2024.

Does Branson sell one-way tickets?

Frankly, if Branson wants to really make a difference with his billions, forget about traditional “space” and look to the space that’s emerged from the inequality in this country.

There are places in Oakland no one cares about or bothers to visit that may as well be in outer space. They’re areas with real people that all could be developed and made productive. And it wouldn’t even take a big investment to be life changing. 

Now that would be far more gratifying than selling billionaire joy rides to the edge of space.

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Oakland Post: Week of May 7 – 13, 2025

The printed Weekly Edition of the Oakland Post: Week of May 7 – 13, 2025

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Oakland Post: Week of April 30 – May 6, 2025

The printed Weekly Edition of the Oakland Post: Week of April 30 – May 6, 2025

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Arts and Culture

BOOK REVIEW: Love, Rita: An American Story of Sisterhood, Joy, Loss, and Legacy

When Bridgett M. Davis was in college, her sister Rita was diagnosed with lupus, a disease of the immune system that often left her constantly tired and sore. Davis was a bit unfazed, but sympathetic to Rita’s suffering and also annoyed that the disease sometimes came between them. By that time, they needed one another more than ever.

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Love Rita Book Cover. Courtesy of Harper.
Love Rita Book Cover. Courtesy of Harper.

By Terri Schlichenmeyer

Author: Bridgett M. Davis, c.2025, Harper, $29.99, 367 Pages

Take care.

Do it because you want to stay well, upright, and away from illness. Eat right, swallow your vitamins and hydrate, keep good habits and hygiene, and cross your fingers. Take care as much as you can because, as in the new book, “Love, Rita” by Bridgett M. Davis, your well-being is sometimes out of your hands.

It was a family story told often: when Davis was born, her sister, Rita, then four years old, stormed up to her crying newborn sibling and said, ‘Shut your … mouth!’

Rita, says Davis, didn’t want a little sister then. She already had two big sisters and a neighbor who was somewhat of a “sister,” and this baby was an irritation. As Davis grew, the feeling was mutual, although she always knew that Rita loved her.

Over the years, the sisters tried many times not to fight — on their own and at the urging of their mother — and though division was ever present, it eased when Rita went to college. Davis was still in high school then, and she admired her big sister.

She eagerly devoured frequent letters sent to her in the mail, signed, “Love, Rita.”

When Davis was in college herself, Rita was diagnosed with lupus, a disease of the immune system that often left her constantly tired and sore. Davis was a bit unfazed, but sympathetic to Rita’s suffering and also annoyed that the disease sometimes came between them. By that time, they needed one another more than ever.

First, they lost their father. Drugs then invaded the family and addiction stole two siblings. A sister and a young nephew were murdered in a domestic violence incident. Their mother was devastated; Rita’s lupus was an “added weight of her sorrow.”

After their mother died of colon cancer, Rita’s lupus took a turn for the worse.

“Did she even stand a chance?” Davis wrote in her journal.

“It just didn’t seem possible that she, someone so full of life, could die.”

Let’s start here: once you get past the prologue in “Love, Rita,” you may lose interest. Maybe.

Most of the stories that author Bridgett M. Davis shares are mildly interesting, nothing rare, mostly commonplace tales of growing up in the 1960s and ’70s with a sibling. There are a lot of these kinds of stories, and they tend to generally melt together. After about fifty pages of them, you might start to think about putting the book aside.

But don’t. Not quite yet.

In between those everyday tales, Davis occasionally writes about being an ailing Black woman in America, the incorrect assumptions made by doctors, the history of medical treatment for Black people (women in particular), attitudes, and mythologies. Those passages are now and then, interspersed, but worth scanning for.

This book is perhaps best for anyone with the patience for a slow-paced memoir, or anyone who loves a Black woman who’s ill or might be ill someday. If that’s you and you can read between the lines, then “Love, Rita” is a book to take in carefully.

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