What’s This Got to Do with True Crime?
Nothing, really.
editorial by Kim Cantrell
You’re probably asking yourself what a post about a 25-year-old horrendous space shuttle accident has to do with true crime.
Nothing, really. But a lot of what I do here is remembering those abruptly taken from this life, and I think the crew of the 1986 Challenger space shuttle explosion fits that bill.
Although it’s been 25 years today, I remember that January 28, 1986, day like it was yesterday.
I was a 12 year old, hanging out at home because our schools were closed due to snow (even a threat of snow will cancel schools in Middle Tennessee), watching television.
Of course I had tuned into the launching of Challenger. Twenty-five years ago, we used to do that kind of thing. Space exploration programs hadn’t come under the government knife yet and, being just a few months shy of the 17th anniversary of Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, space shuttles launches were relatively still new and exciting.
If I hadn’t been out of school on this day, I can guarantee you I would have been watching it on a school television as it was being fed in through one of those massive satellite dishes. That’s what we did back in the day.
So there I sat watching, filled with anticipation. And after silently counting down with the control tower, I felt an elation for the crew as Challenger lifted off.
After all, this was a special mission. One member of the Challenger crew wasn’t a dedicated astronaut; a commoner, for lack of a better word, in the NASA world. This launch was hosting the first teacher in space: Christa McAuliffe.
Just 73 seconds after watching the shuttle head upwards towards its destination, I remember watching as suddenly there was an explosion.
My 12-year-old mind had trouble comprehending exactly what had occurred. I remember the silence of the control tower. The stunned faces of spectators. But I just didn’t get it.
Maybe they just had something similar to car trouble. Will they come back?
Then as time ticked slowly by, I remember realizing (whether it was through what announcers said or what, I don’t know) that the crew of the shuttle was gone.
Including Mrs. McAuliffe, whose children I had seen only moments earlier as they waited to watch their mother become famous as the first teacher in space.
She would, indeed, be remembered. Just not as she and her children had envisioned.
I cried. Sobbed uncontrollably, as I ran to find my mother and tell her what had happened.
Glued to the television for hours afterward, we both cried.
The whole world cried.
It was 1986. Twenty-five years ago, today.
Since then I’ve watched the television as the world mourned the death of Princess Diana and the towers crumbled in New York on 911.
It doesn’t take much now for reality to set in. Age has brought wisdom.
Sometimes I wish for the naivete of youth, but at least now I am comfortable putting into words what I thought so long ago: Farewell, Challenger crew. May you rest in peace.
And today as 37-year-old woman, I say: Then I cried for you because you were gone. Today I cry because I remember.
I can only hope that the crew of the Challenger Shuttle, wherever they are, are exploring worlds never imagined, because I’m sure that’s what they would be happiest doing.
