You Know Pluto

by Nkiruka Chiemelu ‘04

“You know Pluto’s not a planet?”

In the well-trodden halls of the Museum of Natural History on a sweltering summer afternoon, the lofty achievements of Ptolemy, Copernicus, Galileo, Newton and those who have come before us were displayed on the giant walls, privy to the unassuming eyes of little children and loud tourists with nasal Southern accents.  It was at this time, as my friend Dan and I were perusing the upper floors, stopping in front of the “Nine Planets” display, that I decided to emulate the great iconoclasts of those times and introduce a radical idea that would shatter every elementary level science textbook.

“What?”

The Earth is round and revolves around the Sun.

“Pluto,” I repeated, “it’s not really a planet anymore.”

“How can it not be a planet?” he asked.  “It didn’t blow up or anything.  I would know if Pluto blew up.”

“No,” I said, exasperated that he did not automatically take my word as astronomical law and accept the new planetary arrangement.  “It’s still there, it’s just not considered a planet anymore.  Apparently, it never was.”

“When did this happen?”

I froze, knowing that I did not know what I should.  Racking my brain, I sifted through boring lectures of notes in my mind, only to find a hazy picture with many holes.

I remembered my physics professor pacing up and down the auditorium, his scratchy, sometimes incomprehensible voice resonating through the stadium-like room.  I would have been sitting.  Possibly talking or scribbling unrelated notes.  I remembered words coming out of the professor’s mouth and, vaguely, the sounds that they had made.  I thought, I should have been listening, knowing that the information I had scoffed at as irrelevant could have been utilized at this very moment.  Shoulda, coulda, didn’t.  Only after briefly noting the irony of having “spaced out” in Astronomy, I realized that I was just about to fail the first, last and only test that would have allowed me to apply what I had learned outside a classroom setting.  I stood there, unsure of what to say, for what seemed like minutes.  I am Galileo under inquiry and persecution; I am unwilling to recant and will speak only what I know.  Unfortunately, what I know is insufficient.

I was just about to fail the first, last and only test that would have allowed me to apply what I had learned outside a classroom setting.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully, “I don’t really remember.”  I knew at this point that I’d lost his faith and that nothing I could say would make him a believer, until he saw it for himself in an accredited scientific journal or at least casually mentioned as a set-up for one of Jay Leno’s poorly-timed monologue jokes.  “But it’s true,” I said in a feeble, useless attempt to solidify my already-weakened stance.

“No.”  He shook his head, drawing out the word, as he excommunicated my madness from his Church of reason.  “I don’t believe it.”

I paused in front of the giant mural, my eyes straining to see tiny Pluto—so far from the Sun.  The black sheep amongst his giant brothers who belong to an exclusive club that Pluto can only gaze upon.  They who are magnanimous in their magnificence, towering over all the rest, blinding us with their effulgent rings as their numerous groupies orbit around them to bathe in their heroic light.  Poor Pluto, always on the outside looking in, at times making desperate erratic forays into that higher plane of existence, but it can never be for long.  To us, the Earth-bound observers, it looks anomalous—wrong, even.  We are not sated until it is back on the outside once again and all is right with the universe.  Foolish Pluto, know thy place.  The shortest straw is your cross to bear.  Whether a god or a rock, you will never surmount Olympus to tower over others from the heights.  No.  In the recesses of our solar system, a cold Hades waits for you—alone.

I could have explained to Dan about the patterns of the planets in our system according to their distance from the Sun.  The theories of the Terrestrial, smaller planets, with rocky terrains, and Jovian Planets, the larger ones composed of gases, and how Pluto, too small and too solid to fit into our cookie-cutter categorization, is more likely a “minor planet”, an errant asteroid drawn in by the gravitational allure of our well-ordered celestial society to play the role of planetary tagalong.  I could have made him believe that Pluto was not deserving of the same childlike awe granted the dusty copper-red cliffs of Mars or the tumultuous storms of Jupiter.  I could have changed the Nine Planets display before our very eyes, deleting Pluto from the honor of the title while rewriting what was once taught to be a fundamental scientific fact.  2+2 was now 5.  But would anyone have to know that?

Poor Pluto, always on the outside looking in, at times making desperate erratic forays into that higher plane of existence...

Had I achieved what I originally set out to do, he would have left the museum a little wiser, Pluto looking down, a cold fire of shame burning as my friend spread the new astronomical gossip around until every inhabitant on Earth, definitely the nosiest planet in the system, having spied on and invaded practically every other in the system, would look to Pluto no more and look down on it instead.

Perhaps I was overexaggerating and nothing would change; it was just astronomy, after all, the Pluto of the physics world.  Would it matter if Pluto were no longer a planet?

“Do you want to see the precious stones exhibit?” I asked suddenly.

At any given time of the day, there are 1000 people in the Museum of Natural History.  Ninety-eight percent of them are looking at the Hope Diamond.

“Okay,” he shrugged.  As we left for the next room, the subject of Pluto was dropped and forgotten, and as the controversy over whether Pluto “is” or “is not” rages on, I have settled on the truth for myself. In my eyes, Pluto is as Pluto was: small and irregular but still far more spectacular than anything that can be found here on terra firma.  Who was I to decide its fate but a haughty humanities major thought to be suddenly imbued with some sort of Newtonian genius or Einsteinian wisdom after having taken one class on astronomy?  I am no Galileo.  And as such I would much rather feel for Pluto than argue its planetary status.  It will have neither the glory nor the gleam of the others, and it pales miserably in comparison to those who have the honor of sharing their place in the Sun or those who are large enough to contend with it.  It will never be more than what it already is, and in the museum that day I saw no point in seeking to take away what it currently was. Pluto is neither a planet nor a satellite, not even an asteroid.  Pluto, to me, a humble admirer of the skies, represents the outsider who will never measure up.  Foolish Pluto, I suppose, to ever dream that this time you won’t pull the shortest straw.