When the Unit 2 reactor on Three Mile Island (TMI-2) began to meltdown just before 4 am o Wednesday, March 28th, 1979 the NRC called my dad. Admittedly, it was not the biggest mistake made that day but it was pretty indicative of the type of day the US government was having. My dad worked at a local Christian school and painted houses on the side. He had been clean for over five years but he wasn’t that far removed from protesting National Disasters rather than containing them.
His father, however, for whom he was named, Joseph Robert Dietrich was nuclear physicist. This surprises a lot of people. I kind of forget sometimes. I guess it’s a big deal. I used to imagine him as a hero, meeting at some secret location that had been secured by an Indian Jones like character discussing how millions of lives could be saved without dropping “the bomb.” But even after he died and I stood in the coolness of my grandmother’s basement reading a letter from Albert Einstein to Doc, my grandfather, I knew that more lives had been lost by his attempts to harness atomic energy in a safe way than he could ever make peace with. It haunted him, I think, the lives his genius had taken, drove him to drink, to hide deep within himself, to be a well dressed distinguished rambling man. Eventually, he paid his debt for selling his soul to science sacrificing his revolting body to experimentation and study. The still might not have a cure for ALS but thanks to my grandfather they know at least a hundred more ways not to cure it. I think his friend Al would approve of that.
I was born shortly after he died. I was not a cute baby, no-one pretended that I was. My godfather’s best description was “lumpy.” Some people tried to say they saw my grandmother in me. Mostly because we both had horrendous eyesight and our most prominent feature was always our coke bottle glasses. But I had head full of brains and that was power. I didn’t have a way with numbers, just with words. Reading surprised me by being so much harder than talking. Talking has always been a breeze, it’s stopping that is hard. One of my student’s insightfully commented that, “ words just fell out of [my] mouth.” It’s true, my brain works so much faster than my common sense can keep up. I need a neurological version of the bumper sticker “Don’t drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.” Something like, “Don’t talk faster than you can process your own words and their possible effects.”
It wasn’t just talking that came easily, I remembered the details of every day. I found about the same time as my first panic attack that replaying the day in details was an effective way to ward off insomnia. It was also a survival technique as my parents only had one rule: Obey. And so listening and remembering was of vital importance to avoid the spankings that accompanied disobedience. Quoting my mom to herself was the most surefire way to avoid punishment. (Don't worry I am getting full payback now that I'm a mom.)
I also learned the sort of facts that impress people. I didn’t mind studying. I studied the things that people I felt people who were smart knew. So, I studied Doc’s work. I clearly remember standing in my grandmother’s basement, stuccoed inside and out. The air was thick with Virginia humidity. I had the door open to look out over the James river meandering past as I helped my dad clear out Doc’s things. I was convinced we’d find a secret cabinet or trap door in his desk. There were a good amount of classified documents but nothing top level. Still, I’m fairly certain I was the first 5 year old proponent of nuclear power. I knew the fatal flaw in my argument was how to dispose safely of the Uranium but that was before we even knew were were tearing a hole in our own sky. People were reckless but not ballsy enough to welcome a power source that also had fueled the greatest act of mass destruction to date. It was understandable. I am still contemplating the energy problem, over 30 years later. 
Doc may not have given the world the power source he felt it needed but he empowered me to learn everything I could about this beautiful messy world. And yes, he messed up a lot. He hurt so many people, millions he never knew and a handful who'd spent a lifetime loving him. So, I learned that from him too...as Mr. Browne puts it in the fantastic book , "When given the choice between being right and being kind. Choose kind." -RJ Palacio
