An Architecture of Connection - Part 2: NASA and the Art of Confidence
Previously: After getting a call from my brother in Tehran about our father’s heart attack, I stepped out of Mission Control in Houston and into a new unfolding—one that took me half-way across the world to Tehran.
You can catch up reading the link below.
I still marvel at how easily I landed that one-in-a-million entry-level job. Yes, I was fresh out of college, bright-eyed, smart, and good-looking. But most importantly, I was confident. This last part really made all the difference.
Day one: I made a résumé at the University of Houston’s job resource center. Day two: I spent a small fortune—courtesy of a wire from my dad—on a suit. Day three: I walked into a space industry job fair and hoped for the best.
I knew I wanted to work for the space industry. My bachelor’s degree was in physics—driven by my fascination with space—and I’d worked in a space physics lab during undergrad. A job at NASA felt like the natural next step.
I walked straight to the only person I talked to that day–a tall, handsome, 40-something white recruiter with light brown hair from Lockheed Martin.
“Hi there! My name is Banafsheh Madaninejad,” I said, extending my hand, carefully pronouncing my name the American way. Renaming myself never felt right—it filled me with shame, reminding me that I had to hide certain parts of myself in my new home. But I wasn’t about to let that stop me from seizing this chance to connect. Butchering my name acted as my first performance in assimilation, in deference. That usually flung the doors of opportunity wide open.
“Well, hello there, young lady!” The newly divorced middle manager from Lockheed beamed, his eyes lighting up. “Are you looking for a job?”
“Yes, I am. Here’s my resume,” I said, smiling broadly as I handed him the top sheet from the stack I had in my bag. I was breezy. I was light. Most importantly, I was calm and confident. He read my name on the resume and made an effort to pronounce it correctly, even asking for help. I like him already.
“What a beautiful name. What kind of name is it?”
‘What kind of name is it?’ has always been one of the more polite versions of ‘What are you?’ a very prevalent way of asking about race and ethnicity in Texas.
“It’s an Iranian name. I’m from Iran,” I replied.
“Are you an American citizen yet?” he asked in his recruiter voice.
“No, but I have a Green Card and can legally work.” He looked pleased with that answer. The recruiter started studying my resume and suddenly got animated.
“Physics!? I also have a physics degree!” he continued with a lot of pride and enthusiasm, sounding like he had been waiting for a physics grad to walk by the whole day.
“Do you know how to program?” he asked cautiously. “We’re looking for computer programmers.”
“Yes! My last position was writing simulations for a chaos theory lab at the University of Houston. I loved it!” He didn't need to know it was the topic and the actual research that I loved and not the programming part.
“Oh, theoretical physics! I was also into theory,” he said, warming back up. I recognized the familiar theory vs. experimental divide in the physics world and was thankful he was on my side. I started to relax. My practiced, polite smile began to shift into something real. This was going well.
“What computer languages do you know?” he asked, zeroing in.
“Fortran and C.”
“Hmmm… we need C++ programmers,” he said, a little disappointed.
Unfazed, and without missing a beat, I said, “I mean, it’s a language. How hard can it be? I learned C in a few days and started writing code for our experiments within 10 days. I’m not really worried.” My smirk did most of the talking—it said that for those of us who do physics, picking up a programming language is basically a warm-up. The look I gave him said, You get it, right? The logic was shaky and definitely arrogant, but I was massaging his ego—and he took the bait. I was just as taken in by the “physics equals big brain” myth as he was. Meeting a recruiter whose ego vibrated at the same frequency as mine was a lucky break. He caught the subtext in my smile and grinned back. His eyes said, You’re cocky and clever, and I’m into it.
“I have to say,” I blurted out, “I’m not really into programming—it’s not what I want to do with my life.” It wasn’t strategic; I had said the quiet part out loud. But in that moment, it also had the effect of showing him I knew my mind—and wasn’t afraid to say it. He became even more intrigued.
“Don’t worry about it,” he responded. ”Do programming for a bit and then move onto something else. This is your first real job.” The recruiter paused for a few moments as he looked back at my resume.
“Come to think of it though, you seem like the kind of person we’re looking for regarding a more specific position. We need someone who knows both physics and programming. The flight controllers are irritated by the programmers. They figure the programmers don’t really understand space or physics, and write them off as awkward tech guys. The programmers can’t communicate well with the cocky flight controllers. It’s a bit of a mess, really. I think you could be a liaison between the two teams,” he said.
Liaison, a communications expert who understands the different languages at play and the different viewpoints at stake. I liked the sound of that. This was, however, not the position I came to occupy. In fact, I think he made that whole thing up on the spot to excite me about the job.
It worked.
“That sounds awesome. I’m in!”
Years later, it occurred to me that, in this recruiter’s mind, the ideal “peacemaker” between two male-dominated teams was, of course, a good-looking young woman. At best, there was some unconscious sexism at play. I’ve chosen to frame it differently though: as a testament to a woman’s range. We can write code. We can speak physics. And when needed, we can bridge divides and build understanding—especially in rooms where men can’t seem to manage it.
He ended the conversation by telling me that he’s the manager of the managers, and that once he gives my resume to the appropriate manager beneath him, they will be in touch. I was so confident about the possibility of a future at Lockheed that I only walked around the fair for another five minutes before heading home.
It took a few weeks—and several persistent follow-up calls—for the offer to come through.
When I think back on that time, what I remember most is the sheer confidence I carried in my early twenties. I moved through the world as if time were endless and anything I decided to do was already halfway done.
Despite what we’re told about getting wiser with age, I feel I had a better sense back then of the quiet, insistent, spaces between reason and luck. I trusted the process more. I had a clearer memory of how the architecture of connection is supposed to work—before all the adult schooling made me forget.
I left Johnson Space Center right after calling my brother and went home to my mom, who was staying with me at the time. She had just bought one of those miniature wine four-packs from the health food store in front of my apartment and was getting ready to sit down to a nice lunch, when I walked through the door.
I was trying my best to stay calm and cool. “Oh hi! What are you doing at home?” she called out, pleasantly surprised, strolling out of the kitchen with a mini wine bottle in hand. She was clearly happy to see me—and already a little tipsy.
“I’m about to eat something. Come join me.” She seemed lighter than I’d seen her in a long time, free enough to day-drink, relaxed enough to enjoy it. It made me happy to see her like that. And it made me ache a little too—because I knew the news I was about to deliver would change everything.
“Maman, I just talked to Kayvan. Apparently baba is in the hospital. He’s stable and okay but has had a small heart attack.”
This stopped her in her tracks. Her face fell. She put the tray she was holding down.
“What do you mean? What did he exactly tell you?” When she was younger, my mom had a strange way of calming down when medical emergencies happened. Part of her nursing training, I guess. I shared what Kayvan had said. Once done, she walked over to the landline phone and called our home in Tehran. Kayvan, who had probably been waiting by the phone since we had hung up, answered immediately.
I am absolutely riveted by this story. And I love your writing—certain turns of phrase, the insights and self awareness—so good. Can’t wait for more!
You have a perfect sense of timing, weaving these stories together in a way that gives just the right amount of balance and suspense!