The men and women in the news business, whether it’s the print or broadcast media, are accustomed to looking at daily tragedies almost casually — until something comes along like the demolition in space of the Challenger and the deaths of all seven of its storied riders.
It happened on January 28, 1986, but the memory of that terribly fateful day lives on as if it were yesterday. I remember seeing a lot of tears everywhere in the newsroom of Seattle’s KIRO-TV and Radio, and some of them were my own.
I also remember a great number of shocked, tear-filled voices on the phone from men and women who called because they suddenly needed somebody to talk to — anybody who would listen and offer condolences and some solace over what was America’s great loss.
With moist eyes, one usually spunky reporter, a young woman, who acknowledged that she had never cried before, said the space tragedy was like “the death of a dream, but that’s exactly what it must not be.” If we killed the space program of the seven deaths, she said, “it would be like spitting on their graves.”
And the rest of us who heard her understood exactly what she meant. We nodded agreement or told her how we felt. Other reporters, editors, producers, and anchors stopped everything, not really knowing why. It was as if the world had stopped turning and the hands on all clocks stood still.
To nobody in particular, another reporter said: “It feels just like it did when the Kennedys were assassinated — right here in the pit of my stomach.” I knew the feeling. Another seasoned but saddened editor said she knew why the Challenger tragedy affected Americans like few others:
“For the first time,” she said, “it was as if each of us was on the space flight — or could have been. Christa McAuliffe, the teacher, was one of us, not a trained astronaut or flyer.”
A caller who heard the news in her car said she saw other drivers crying and one pounding his dashboard in anguish. It was truly a tragic day for the nation. But eventually the tears dried and hope was restored when it became known that the space program would continue.
It had to for at least two reasons: One was that continuation of the program would be the best memorial that could be offered in memory of the seven who died. The other was that our past American history told us that our future depends upon those brave souls who are willing to take risks for the ultimate benefit of the nation.
I specially liked what President Ronald Reagan said at the time: “The future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted. It belongs to the brave.”
Herodotus, the father of history, put it this way back in the 5th Century B.C.: “Great deeds are usually wrought at great risks.” Thus, as has happened, no greater tribute could have been paid to Christa and her six traveling companions than to continue exploration into space — and to make certain that their great risks were not in vain.