Ungrounded Outlet

Five years ago today, I was getting ready to celebrate my twentieth birthday.

Because my birthday and my cousin’s birthday fall so close to each other (a day between them), we often had family birthday parties together. More than anything, it provided an excuse for the family to get together and eat. This year, my parents were hosting just such a party at their house.

While my parents were downstairs getting everything ready, I was hiding up in my bedroom surfing the web and watching one of the 24-hour news channels (probably CNN). I don’t normally watch the news, but that day was special: the space shuttle Columbia was coming home from her latest mission. As a huge space geek, I try not to miss opportunities to watch the shuttle land.

But it didn’t happen. Controllers on the ground lost contact with the shuttle and never regained it. As the minutes slowly passed, the newscasters started using the phrase “broke up”. Next came the eyewitness accounts and the amateur video: the shuttle had broken up over Texas. There was a number to call if you found debris in your back yard. There was very little hope for survivors.

And of course, with the possible exception of some experiment spiders, there were no survivors. One doesn’t really expect to survive when your spaceship disintegrates.

I went downstairs and in a rather quiet voice said, “The space shuttle blew up”. My parents weren’t particularly concerned. They cared but they didn’t seem to share the same shock and sadness that I did. Maybe it’s because they aren’t space geeks. Who knows?

The Columbia disaster means more to me than the Challenger does. I suspect this is because I’m old enough to have watched the Columbia on TV (I was not even three when the Challenger exploded). I can remember seeing the Columbia memorials. I can remember the flags being at half mast. And, perhaps most importantly, I can still see the effects of that day on the United States’ manned space program (something I feel very strongly about).

Today, I remember those men and women who died. I think of humanity’s destiny and I wonder if it can possibly lie in the stars. I think about sacrifice and risk and honor and courage. I think about our fragile blue home and how cold and lonely it is when we are away from it. I think about beauty and all the glorious wonders that human eyes may never see.

Today, I raise a glass to Rick Husband, William McCool, Michael Anderson, Ilan Ramon, Kalpana Chawla, David Brown, and Laurel Clark. I raise a glass to Francis Scobee, Michael Smith, Judith Resnik, Ellison Onizuka, Ron McNair, Gregory Jarvis, and Sharon McAuliffe. I raise a glass to Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee. I raise a glass to Vladimir Komarov, Georgi Dobrovolsky, Viktor Patsayev, and Vladislav Volkov.

I raise a glass to every man and woman who has ridden on that column of fire because they can’t bear to be so far away from the stars. I raise a glass to every engineer and scientist who spend long, sleepless nights so that we can do the impossible. I raise a glass to every teacher who inspires their students. And I salute every child who, like I did, stares up at the brilliant night sky and walks away with a head full of dreams.

I will probably never walk on an alien world. I will probably never look down upon this globe with my own eyes. I will probably never escape of the confines of my birth planet.

But humanity will. Because we must. Because we’re human. And when we choose to be, we’re amazing.