MARGARETH HAMILTON

Margaret Hamilton, who we see in this rare historical photo from 1969, is the software engineer that history forgot to mention, unlike Neil Armstrong or Buzz Aldrin. Hamilton led the NASA software team that landed the Apollo astronauts on the moon. She was a software engineer before anyone knew this term, and in this photo she is standing next to what is believed to be the code or program list that led to the success of the Apollo mission.

"She was a pioneer in software engineering development, and… a pioneer as a woman to do that job, with that role." - said Dr. Teasel Muir-Harmony, curator of the Apollo Project collection at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. 

A few minutes before the moon landing, the alarms went off. The radar that would have been used for reentry on the command module (and which at that time had no role) was activated by mistake. The radar began to send a huge amount of data to the computer, also the result of the random electrical noise caused by the incompatible power supplies of the two devices. Overloading the computer entailed an enormous risk: it left no more room for the calculations necessary to guarantee the moon landing.

Margaret Hamilton anticipated this eventuality while writing the software. The program, in fact, was developed not only to detect and report an overload problem. He was able to "sort" and organize the tasks that were assigned: the most important processes, fundamental for the landing on the Moon, could interrupt the unnecessary ones. In those excited moments the software acted as expected.

"If the computer hadn't identified the problem and solved it, I doubt the Apollo 11 mission would have been successful," Hamilton wrote in a March 1971 letter.

Margaret Hamilton is 78 today and heads Hamilton Technologies, the software development company she founded in 1986. It was she who coined the term "Software Engineering".

STORY OF A TRIP

I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA. 
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.

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