Remembering Tragedy

I flew with my five year-old daughter from Brussels Zaventem to the newly refurbished Rick Husband Amarillo International Airport in Amarillo, Texas, where incidentally the album, "The Best of Bread's" inner spread photo was taking in the 70's. Looks quite different from that old black and white album jacket that I have.

Husband, who was a commander of the Space Shuttle Columbia when it exploded in 2003, was honored earlier this week as the new Amarillo terminal was unveiled. You could still smell the "new car" smell of the carpet, walking out into the 97-degree Fahrenheit, twilight atmosphere. Quite a change from the significantly colder, wetter climes of Belgium that we had left some twenty hours prior.

Appropriate timing for Husband's tribute as the Space Shuttle Atlantis marked an end of an era last week as the final Space Shuttle mission was launched. The end of the Space Shuttle is truly a demarcation of time for me. I was born in 1969, the year of the Lunar landing, which for some is the greatest achievement that America has ever had during the heated Iron-Curtain era space race with the Russians, set upon a world stage.

For my generation, it was the Space Shuttle. And, unfortunately the explosions, for tragedy often leaves a deeper impression than triumph.

I remember very well when Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I was a junior at Amarillo High School, and we had a moment of silence over the intercom. It was an odd experience for us all. Normally, in a "typical" high school, straight out of Grease or, closer to home, small-town Texas à la Friday Night Lights, announcements on the intercom where usually times to chat, goof off, ignore, or whatnot. But, that day, an eerie silence covered the halls. I remember one of my favorite teachers from Junior High, Mr. Devoe, had wanted to be a teacher selected to be on the Shuttle. That fatal day, Christa McAuliffe, the teacher picked for the Teacher in Space program, died in the explosion, along with the six other crew members, who have come to be known as American Heroes for their sacrifice.

When the Columbia exploded, I also remember quite well where I was and what I was doing. I was at a water polo tournament in Florida, acting as coach and player.

We had flown all of the way over from Texas for this event. No one really knew who this team from Austin was. We blew them away, until the game that counted. We lost the one game we needed to win to put us into the finals, against a B-team, whose A-team we had already beaten. We choked. As a coach, you take responsibility for your team's loss, even when it is not your fault. It is not the refs' fault, nor the fans, but you, the coach, must shoulder the burden. As Hopper from "A Bug's Life" says, "First rule of management, it's always your fault."

As we were transferring planes in Houston, we passed a crowd of onlookers watching the World Cup Womens' soccer finals, and the US team dismantling within seconds during the penalty kicks. Lots of disappointment in the terminal. The news commentary afterwards was essentially that even though it was a loss for the US, it was a gain for soccer "appreciation." On small penalty kick for woman, one giant leap for soccer...Perhaps, Americans are fickle fans with women's sports, and soccer.

After the disappointing loss in Florida, I remember talking with my team, who all had their tails tucked under their legs, like dejected puppy dogs who had just been caught peeing on the carpet, again. I was also going through a very difficult time as a teacher, as one of my favorite students had just been admitted to psychiatric hospital back in Austin that I had visited the day before we left.

I told my team that there were far worse losses and defeats in life. People were currently picking up body parts in a field from the Space Shuttle's second disaster, and one of my most cherished students was currently so doped up on anti-psychotic medication that I barely recognized this brilliant young man any longer. Perspective changes a great deal of self-pity.

In September 2001, I remember teaching my course, The Curse of Socrates, and the events of September 11th became a crucial component of that course. Walking into class that day, literally minutes after seeing the second tower fall, I walked into a room of complete and utter shock. The kids were sullen, speechless, bawling their eyes out. One latecomer, Mark, the only student who did not condemn Socrates to death when we voted after reading the Apology, saw the seen, had not heard the news and quipped, "Woah, I need to watch TV more often, I guess."

We talked about everything that happened. It was a no-holds-barred discussion. Anything went. One young man decided on the spot to join the Army, which he did. Others decided to change their majors. Many things were decided in the next 90 minutes, their lives had changed forever. They had grown up in a matter of minutes from goofy college kids to adults. Without fail, each one of them later recounted to me that every other class they had that day had gone on that day as if nothing had happened. Nobody talked about what had happened that morning. I was stunned.

People often deal with tragedy with the most damaging way of all, we ignore it. However, later, the memorials do come. But, have the emotions already passed?