I’ve heard people say that Generation X lost its youth when the Twin Towers collapsed on September 11, 2001.
That’s not so.
Generation X lost its youth on a bright winter morning in January 1986, when seven brave astronauts died when the shuttle carrying them exploded barely more than a minute after launch.
Many of us were in class that day. At my school, the kids in 3rd-period Drama were getting a special treat; they were going to get to watch the shuttle launch live on TV, on those oversized sets the AV club would roll out for special broadcasts. The rest of us had math, history, biology — boring shit, as my “adopted” big sister Patricia commiserated with me the night before. I had a geometry test to study for, and I was miserable because I was sure I was going to flunk it no matter how much I crammed.
So. January 28th, 1986. Third period, geometry. My entire class, save one person, was crouched at desks scribbling test answers. I actually wasn’t scribbling answers; I was praying for the earth to swallow me and end the ordeal of trying desperately to guess the right answers to equations that left me bewildered. And then the one person — our class clown — ran into the room.
“Everyone, listen! The space shuttle just blew up!”
Pencils went down, jaws dropped, people gasped — and then someone snickered, “Oh, dude, you suck,” and we all started laughing. This guy would say something that stupid, wouldn’t he? He always came up with the dumbest jokes, trying to get an easy laugh.
“I’m not joking! Honest!” He looked at our teacher, eyes wide and hands outstretched. “I saw one of the kids from Drama, and they said—“
The teacher snapped, “Sit down and be quiet. You shouldn’t have been anywhere near the drama department.”
He took his seat, mumbling he was telling the truth. We snickered and side-eyed him, and in ten minutes we handed in our papers and ran for the door as the bell rang for fourth period — lunchtime. Sometimes the weather was nice enough in Phoenix during January that we could sit outdoors, and I joined my friends at one of the picnic tables outside the cafeteria’s snack bar.
I told them about the geometry class clown’s announcement, and they laughed. God, how stupid! Really, that was so dumb of the guy. Everybody knew that if something like that had happened, the drama kids would be all over with the news! Say . . . where were the drama kids, anyway? We looked around from our seats, but didn’t recognize anyone we knew was in Drama. And we shrugged. Maybe they were staying late for some reason.
The next period was English, and as I entered the classroom, our teacher stood before us, grim and stiff. “Everyone, sit down,” she ordered. “In five minutes, the principal is going to give an address to the school. I want you all to be quiet, and any questions you might have will be answered later.”
Wait . . . questions? An address? We exchanged glances, but said nothing; in this class, we knew our teacher meant business.
And then our principal came on the PA system and announced that the Challenger shuttle, scheduled to launch that day with a crew of seven — including one teacher who’d won a lot of affection nationwide — had exploded shortly after takeoff. There were no survivors.
I don’t remember how we reacted. I don’t remember when we were allowed to leave the school. I know that it was early, because when I arrived home, I found my mother sitting on the couch, watching ABC News. She looked up, startled to see me home so soon, and I burst into tears.
We watched the news that afternoon — Peter Jennings, as I recall — and at some point Mom insisted we watch a movie instead, to take our minds off what had happened. She hadn’t gone to her appointment, either; as she and Patricia waited for the bus, a crying man had passed them. Pat had asked what was wrong. “Didn’t you see it?” he exclaimed. “The shuttle just blew up!” Horrified, they’d gone back into the house, and Mom turned on the TV to try to find out what was going on. Unnerved, Pat had left for her own place. Mom claimed the news had just come on when I got home, but as that was around 2:30 p.m. MST, I’m certain she saw it and just lost track of time.
Some of my classmates and I kept up with the hearings afterward, and saw the moment when Richard Feynman exposed the fragility of the O-rings used in the Challenger’s rocket boosters with a cup of ice water. Of course, none of the right people paid the price for that, and some of the wrong people paid with their careers and reputations.
And there were seven who paid the ultimate price, no matter how lovely their final epitaph was.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air…
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew –
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
--”High Flight,” by John Gillespie Magee
To Commander F. Richard Scobee, Pilot Michael J. Smith, Mission Specialist Ronald McNair, Mission Specialist Ellison Onizuka, Mission Specialist Judith Resnick, Payload Specialist Gregory Jarvis, and Payload Specialist Christa McAuliffe:
Godspeed.