StarLab

Twice a school year, we had the wondrous StarLab. Like a circus, they took us in shifts, and the descent into the cafeteria was full of chipper chatter. The dome would sit there, completely inflated, with the hum of the fan running in all its chromium glory. Just the act of crawling in was sublime, like entering a mysterious universe. A room within a room within a building. The projector would hum, and the star map would come to life, enchanting us with late 90s technology. We’d gawk at how the dots morphed into animals and people. The myths of old, transmuted before doe-eyed children. T. would whisper jokes to me, about how he had the biggest dipper around. E. was into something called the Zodiac. She’d point to Sagittarius other girls wanted to know what their sign was. The faceless instructor would educate us on the mystery of space in the most juvenile of terms. Unsure if the lessons even landed within the silver spectacle. Time disappeared while we were in there and crawling out was a rebirth that nobody wanted. It forced us to resume the fluorescent lighting and mundane classwork and real life. I questioned why they taught astronomy in Catholic school and couldn’t get the Big Dipper out of my mind for days. Or why a bear took a backseat to a ladle.