No Dream Is Too High - Buzz Aldrin Page 0,38

in California, where I became commandant of the USAF Test Pilot School, a great job, but I cut my aeronautical teeth as a fighter pilot; I had never even been a test pilot.

Not surprisingly, I commanded the test pilots’ school for only nine months—admittedly, nine of the most stressful months of my life—before deciding to retire from the Air Force. I was only 42 years of age, with no real exciting job opportunities presenting themselves. But to me, the strain on my emotions and on all of my family relationships was no longer worth the struggle. I was not about to let “rejection” and “failure” be the final words of my life.

I’VE SINCE LEARNED THAT I MUST transform pain to power if I want to overcome setbacks. And sometimes that means I simply choose to ignore something that I don’t like. Even in the little things, the inconsequential or seemingly insignificant, I’ve learned to grin and bear it. For instance, for years, my wife made me the same Cobb salad every day, complete with veggies, boiled eggs, and fat-free mayonnaise. Unless we were going out to eat someplace, I knew what I could expect.

After my wife and I divorced, Christina carried on the tradition of making me a huge salad for lunch every day. Of course, she followed the example she had seen, including all the ingredients she had seen me eating for years, filling up the bowl with all sorts of vegetables, including carrots and celery sticks.

One day Christina came in as I was finishing up my salad, and I said to her, “You know, when I was a kid, I always hated celery.”

“Oh? And you like it now?”

“Naaah, I still hate it.”

“What?” Christina asked in surprise. “Where is it? Did you take it out of your salad?”

“No, I ate it.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because that was my West Point training. We were taught to eat everything on our plates and not complain about it.”

Sure, there are some things in life that are hard to swallow, but if you just gulp hard, you can get it down and keep on going. You have to believe there is some coconut ice cream—my favorite—out there somewhere, and that good things will be coming along soon!

• CHAPTER EIGHT •

PRACTICE RESPECT FOR ALL PEOPLE.

Differences in race, religion, politics, sexual orientation, or other barriers that seem to divide some people have never greatly affected my regard for another person. My son Andy jokes that to me there are only two kinds of people in this world—those who are interested in space, and those who aren’t. Andy is not far from wrong, but he’s not quite right, either.

None of us has a right to be a snob, regardless of who you are or what you have accomplished. No human being has a license to be disrespectful to another person. Regardless of another person’s race, religion, financial status, or outward appearances, acknowledge that we are all on this planet together, and despite our personality differences, we are pretty much the same. We all put on our pants the same way, unless you happen to hold yours out and jump into them.

So don’t judge.

When I was growing up, I could usually determine if a person was important or successful by the way he or she dressed. Whether the person was a schoolteacher, the president of a company, or a Hollywood star was relatively easy to discern, because most complied with the accepted norms of “dress for success.” Successful businessmen, for example, tended to wear dark suits with white shirts and either red, blue, or yellow “power ties.” Those days are long gone. It is especially precarious nowadays to judge people by their clothing or external appearance. Today you may meet a multimillionaire or a computer genius dressed in baggy pants or jeans with holes in them, wearing a T-shirt or sweatshirt. You never know.

One time, I was on my way back from a large event in Arkansas, and Christina and I were seated at the airport awaiting our flight home. Several people recognized me and wanted to talk with me, but Christina ran interference, informing them that I had been keeping a grueling schedule and was fatigued, so it might not be the best time for a conversation.

“I’m going to run to the restroom before we leave,” Christina informed me, vacating the seat next to mine.

“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll just sit right here and wait for you.”

“Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone,” she warned me facetiously.

“Who,