April 12, 2001, marks the twentieth anniversary of the launch of the first Space Shuttle.
On that date in 1981, I was eleven years old. Shortly before, my mother had begun divorce proceedings against my father. She had moved us out of the house and into a junky duplex apartment across town. I was moody and depressed, not understanding at all what was going on between my parents, and retreated even more than usual into books and television. Nothing I read or saw during that time made much of an impression on me; I was simply occupying my brain so I wouldn’t think about what was happening.
Then two momentous events occurred. On March 30, 1981, Reagan was shot. And two weeks later, Space Shuttle Columbia lifted off.
These two events helped to wake me from my funk. Wow, I remember thinking. The world goes on. Important things are happening while I’m sitting here stewing in misery. Who knows what else I might have missed? I was still unhappy, of course, but at least I had some evidence that life wasn’t coming to an end.
Fast forward to January, 1986.
I’m a high school junior. I’m sitting in International Relations, taught by Chad Kerrihard. I love the class; it’s where I first acquired my lifelong fascination with China. We do exercises like simulating the United Nations, where we break into small groups, each of which takes the role of (and carefully researches) a different nation. After a week of independent learning, Kerrihard brings the groups together and proposes various political and diplomatic crises. Each group represents the interests of the nation it’s playing; we’re graded based on how well we’ve done our homework, and understand our country’s needs. I even remember which country my group played: Syria. I loved this class.
It’s five minutes after the class was scheduled to begin, and Kerrihard is not there. As high-school kids are wont to be, we’re restless and antsy. If this weren’t a class we all enjoyed, we would have left four minutes ago.
Then, the door opens. Kerrihard comes in and holds the door. Somebody from the Audio Visual department comes in, pushing a TV/VCR cart. We all quiet down, watching. Nobody says anything. The A/V guy plugs in the cart, then stations it at the front of the class. Without a word, without looking at us, Kerrihard turns on the TV, then the VCR. The screen warms up for a few seconds.
Kerrihard pushes Play, and two minutes later, the world ends again.
He pushes Stop, and surveys our pale, shocked faces. Up to that point, I’d never really seen teachers as the emotional and fully vulnerable humans they of course are. He didn’t look into our eyes; he looked above our heads, and around at the walls, regarding us only peripherally, his lips pressed tightly together, his pockets bulging with his fists. Finally, after a long silence, he said, “There’s an assembly in the gym. Please go there now.”
I don’t remember the assembly clearly. We gathered together silently; my only specific memory is that the sarcastic banter had, mercifully, disappeared, as even the most jaded of us were rocked by the event. We got a few weak platitudes from the administration, and then we were released early.
When I got home, I found the special stop-the-presses edition of the local newspaper on the front porch, with the now-famous image on the front, the white cloud with forked trails spinning away. I read every word, twice. Then I turned on the television and didn’t move until dinner.
I remember the emotion I felt, but I can’t put a word on it. It was sadness, but also confusion. It was as if a close family member I knew intimately but had never met had died. It was as if something important I didn’t even know I possessed had been taken away. It was a tragedy of the taken-for-granted, and it changed me in ways I can’t explain.
Fast forward to September, 1988.
Discovery was the first shuttle scheduled to be launched since the Challenger disaster. I had followed the investigation carefully; I remember that being my first, but by no means last, exposure to the name of Richard Feynman.
The launch was scheduled for 7am West Coast time. I never get up that early – I’m not a morning person – but I was up by six, nervous with anticipation. I told nobody how much this meant to me. Nobody in my circle of friends was really talking about it; in hindsight, I think many of them had been so scarred by Challenger that they didn’t want to open themselves to it again, at least not publicly. But for myself, I knew this was something I had to be a part of.
I had the small television in my room on by 6:30. I learned almost immediately that the launch would probably be delayed; naturally, they were taking no chances. I was supposed to be in my first class by 8:30, so I waited anxiously as the timer counted down.
Before long, it was halted. There was a problem with the suits – I don’t remember exactly what – and there was an issue with wind conditions. They weren’t sure if it meant they’d have to scrub the launch, or if they’d just have to wait a few extra minutes. I wasn’t moving.
By the time 8:15 rolled around, they were fairly sure they were back on track, and I had long since decided that my first class could go screw itself. This was more important, and I’d just be late.
8:37 West Coast time, and the billowing flame bloomed at the bottom of the launch vehicle. My hands were clenched; my eyes were unblinking. Come on, I was thinking. Get it right. Do this for all of us, but most of all, do it for me.
Slowly, the shuttle lifted off. It rose into the sky; I remember being fully conscious, almost for the first time, of just how large, heavy, and complex a machine it was. Every instant, I expected something to go wrong, and tragedy to strike a second time. Higher, higher: dozens of meters, then hundreds.
And then the network played Elton John’s “Rocket Man.”
At that moment, with the familiar song humming from the speaker, as the shuttle pushed itself into the sky on a column of fire, I wept. I’m almost weeping now.
Everything was right again. Tragedy had been converted to triumph, and for the first time, I truly understood what was meant by the strength, power, and resilience of the human spirit.
And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
'Til touchdown brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
Oh no, no, no, I’m a rocket man
Rocket man – burning out his fuse up here alone…