A Very Personal Anniversary

 

In truth, I had forgotten about this anniversary until I saw the story in the paper.  In that instant my coffee cup was suspended before my lips, my eyes looked without seeing and I realized that, had I had my way, I would be looking at the anniversary of my death.

            On January 28, 1986 the Challenger space shuttle lifted off from Cape Canaveral, Florida at 11:38 a.m.  Seventy-three seconds later it blew up in a starburst of destruction, killing all the crew members on board.  They did not die instantly, and were probably alive during the ever accelerating plunge toward the ocean.  It is the impact with the water that killed them—that would have killed me.

On board was a crew as diverse as American itself.  Included in the group were America’s first teacher in space, Christa McAuliffe, a 37-year-old teacher.  As far as I was concerned, she had taken my place.  I had applied for the Teacher in Space Program and had been sorely disappointed when I was not chosen to represent Missouri.  I knew and applauded Chris Brown, science specialist from the Ferguson-Florissant School District, who was selected.  Chris was a great science teacher and a leader in the community.  His school district abutted mine and our paths crossed more than once.  It was just that to go to space was a life-long dream.   NASA’s Teacher in Space program was my chance. 

            Frankly, I was shocked to discover that in a very large school district (18 elementary schools, 3 junior highs and 3 high schools) I was the only teacher to apply.  In 1986 I was 39 years old, just two years older than Ms. McAuliffe.  Like her, I had children; my two daughters were in their early teens.  It is an age when girls need their mother.  Just that thought, even 35 years later makes my throat tighten. 

            I was not in my classroom when the Challenger exploded.  I was at the district headquarters, serving on a science textbook adoption committee.   I found out later that our Superintendent, a man most people thought of as crusty, cold and acidic, had called a hasty conference in his office.  Six head office suits were gathered in his small office all to answer one question:  who will go in the board room and tell Louise?  In the end, a consultant I had worked closely with on many projects said the job was his.  Peter came in and quietly asked me to come with him.   In his semi-private cubicle, he gave me the news about the Challenger: a total loss, a total disaster, no hope—oh, and by the way, there is a reporter from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that wants to talk to me.

I did not cry.  All I could think was that if I had died my daughters would never have forgiven me.  It was both bizarre and irrational, but that was my initial reaction.  I went through the press interview and the rest of my day on autopilot.  I remember none of it.  When I got home my husband asked if I had seen the explosion.  I said I did not.  In fact, I refused to watch the launch for days.  When I finally did, that is when I finally cried.

Our lives turn on a dime.  Our destiny’s may or may not be in our control.  I know that I would not have wanted to miss the life I have, my family, my children, my grandchildren, the friends, the laughter and even the sorrows.  But Christa McAuliffe would have said the same thing. 

Through it all, I keep the faith.