This week marked the 25th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. It went by pretty quietly, not even mentioned in passing at work, where a memorial exists on the Boulder campus of the university flag and a football that were recovered from the crash site; astronaut Ellison Onizuka was a CU alum. No, more pressing news took precedence for most. But for those that did remember, one thought seemed to be unanimous -- "I can't believe it's been 25 years already, it seems like only yesterday."
In January of 1986 I was 7 years old and in the second grade. We were not allowed to watch the shuttle flight at school; that was a privilege given only to the 6th graders. At launch time I remember being in the school library. The 6th grade classrooms were adjacent and both classes were huddled in one room, with the lights off, watching the screen in anticipation. It was time for my class to return to our room but I remember lingering, hiding among the bookshelves closest to the 6th grade class, hoping to catch a peek of the action for myself.
I can't say I remember whether my interest was due to a fondness for space exploration, the fact that a teacher was onboard, or just because it was something I was not invited to see, but I remember desperately trying to be discreet enough to stay. And then I remember how I wished I had not.
I did not see the "explosion" when it happened - my view was a very skewed angle where all I could see were colors. I remember the blue blue sky and the rust color of the fuel tank and engines blaring. The classroom was buzzing but not completely for the launch; some were just excited that they were getting out of normal classwork and getting to watch TV at school. 73 seconds in, gasps rang out; first from the teachers, then the students. All I could see was the rust color had been replaced by an expanse of white.
There was a silence then, an eery, unpeaceful silence that in the years that have passed has been a part of every disaster of that magnitude in my life, whether personal or national. It has been there with me during accidents and events such as 9/11. If you have experienced it, you know. If you haven't, you can't understand.
Confusion set in; it was unfathomable that something that had started to become routine after 25 years could go so wrong. I can't imagine what those teachers must have gone through that day. I remember not being entirely sure of what had happened, but knowing it was something bad. I walked quietly down the hall alone, aware that no one else in my room knew what happened yet. As I didn't really know myself, I told no one. As the day progressed, teachers were made aware, as were students throughout the grades, rumors spilling down from the oldest kids to youngest. I believe my teacher's explanation for the events was for us to sit down and talk with our parents. No one wants to be the bearer of bad news.
That night my family gathered around the television set. I remember the speech that President Reagan made instead of the scheduled State of the Union. In speech class in college it was still viewed as one of the most eloquent speeches in recent history. Politics aside, it still has an impact today:
In January of 1986 I was 7 years old and in the second grade. We were not allowed to watch the shuttle flight at school; that was a privilege given only to the 6th graders. At launch time I remember being in the school library. The 6th grade classrooms were adjacent and both classes were huddled in one room, with the lights off, watching the screen in anticipation. It was time for my class to return to our room but I remember lingering, hiding among the bookshelves closest to the 6th grade class, hoping to catch a peek of the action for myself.
I can't say I remember whether my interest was due to a fondness for space exploration, the fact that a teacher was onboard, or just because it was something I was not invited to see, but I remember desperately trying to be discreet enough to stay. And then I remember how I wished I had not.
I did not see the "explosion" when it happened - my view was a very skewed angle where all I could see were colors. I remember the blue blue sky and the rust color of the fuel tank and engines blaring. The classroom was buzzing but not completely for the launch; some were just excited that they were getting out of normal classwork and getting to watch TV at school. 73 seconds in, gasps rang out; first from the teachers, then the students. All I could see was the rust color had been replaced by an expanse of white.
There was a silence then, an eery, unpeaceful silence that in the years that have passed has been a part of every disaster of that magnitude in my life, whether personal or national. It has been there with me during accidents and events such as 9/11. If you have experienced it, you know. If you haven't, you can't understand.
Confusion set in; it was unfathomable that something that had started to become routine after 25 years could go so wrong. I can't imagine what those teachers must have gone through that day. I remember not being entirely sure of what had happened, but knowing it was something bad. I walked quietly down the hall alone, aware that no one else in my room knew what happened yet. As I didn't really know myself, I told no one. As the day progressed, teachers were made aware, as were students throughout the grades, rumors spilling down from the oldest kids to youngest. I believe my teacher's explanation for the events was for us to sit down and talk with our parents. No one wants to be the bearer of bad news.
That night my family gathered around the television set. I remember the speech that President Reagan made instead of the scheduled State of the Union. In speech class in college it was still viewed as one of the most eloquent speeches in recent history. Politics aside, it still has an impact today:
This tragedy is the first that I can remember. I'm not sure I really could understand the concept of death; which now sounds strange to me that I could be that old and not know. It's also heartbreaking to me to think how much younger my nephews and nieces have experienced tragedies such as this in their lives.
I remember hearing about the loss of the shuttle Columbia in February 2003 on my way to work on a Saturday morning at a little local bank. It was sad, another tragedy on top of the one that had happened in September a year and a half before. But the loss didn't stay with me. I worried that I had been changed; that the loss of another 7 astronauts did not affect me as much as those before. Had I become jaded to catastrophes, now taking them as a regular part of life?
Perhaps it was less devastating because it happened on their way home. I have always made a morbid conversation with God that if I am to be on a plane that is going to crash, it would be great if it was on the way home instead of the way there, that way my last memories would be of a pleasant trip; a journey out of my everyday life.
I wonder if I would feel the same way if the Challenger crew had been able to make their mission first. Was the prospect of the journey enough? One of the most disturbing thoughts of the Challenger disaster is that the crew was still alive until they reached the Atlantic Ocean. Whether or not they were still conscious is not known. I hope not. I hope there was still a glimmer of hope, a tiny doubt that all was not lost, that their journey here was not complete.
The space shuttle program is ending this year. While it will hopefully be replaced with something else that will enable us to explore more than our small part of the universe, it will be a bittersweet departure. Because for me, to no longer look beyond, to leave life and it's deeper meaning to just that with which can be seen... well, that would be the biggest tragedy of all.
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