When I first turned on my television today it was like being punched in the stomach. The wind was taken from my sails, and my mind went largely numb. For a moment, I relived my shock and horror at seeing the space shuttle Challenger explode in January, 1986. I was again standing in line at the north campus commons cafeteria of the University of Michigan, staring in shock and dismay at the television, watching two contrails of smoke twist in ways they shouldn't be twisting. And then I was returned painfully to the present, watching a different contrail from the remnants of a different disaster.
There will be plenty of people writing about this incident and what an awful thing it is, and many of them will be far closer to the situation. I wouldn't presume to have anything useful to say to NASA, to the families, or to any of the other people who will be so intimately involved with what is sure to be a lengthy investigation. There is something that I think I am qualified to write, however, and that's an essay about the proper epitaph for Columbia. It is with that worthy end in mind that I presently labor.
First, an observation: the word 'tragedy' is as inappropriate as it is overused. In the aftermath of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, another day that will live in infamy, the word 'tragedy' was bandied about quite unthinkingly. Worse, there were some who actually used it properly with the full knowledge of what it meant. I shall explain what I'm driving at carefully, because neither the fiery death of Columbia nor the falling of the towers were tragedies.
The primary lexical definition of 'tragedy' refers to a kind of dramatic work, which is most notable for the fall of a heroic figure. What ought not be missed is that the central point to such works is not that the hero falls, but rather that he falls because of his own hubris or tragic flaw. That is, for a thing to qualify as a tragedy, it must be an awful thing that is brought about by the overweening pride, or the overreaching in defiance of obvious limitations, of those involved.
I despise the use of the word 'tragedy' as applied to the September 11 incident because it implies that the United States brought the terrorists' actions upon herself. This is, of course, exactly what many in academia, as well as the more liberal corners of the political world, have claimed. They use this word with the full knowledge of what it means. I will not give you my honest appraisal of such claims, because that crowd of foolish vultures is entirely beneath contempt. What I shall say instead, with the very wildest of charity, is that they are wholly wrong.
Similarly, I despise the use of the word 'tragedy' as it applies to the loss of Columbia because it implies that we have brought this failure on ourselves in our pride and arrogance. The word's use indicates that we have no business in space, that we were overstepping our bounds to develop such machines in the first place. Consequently, it implies that the disintegration of Columbia, and the deaths of the bodies she carried, were something to be mourned but ultimately expected. That's the dramatic power of tragedy, for the audience sees the tragic flaw in the hero from the outset. They know ahead of time that he is overstepping his bounds, and that the tragedy he must face will surely be of his own making.
This is absolutely not how we ought regard the Columbia disaster. Yes, there is a sense in which the disaster is of our own making, but only insofar as we are imperfect beings. Because we are imperfect beings, any machine we build will necessarily be less than perfect. This unfortunate fact sometimes results in the sorts of catastrophic mechanical failures that the world presumably witnessed this morning. But in the aftermath of such awful things, we are left always with a powerful choice. We can choose to retreat, to whimper in the darkness and lick our wounds, and to shrink as human beings from utilizing the talents possessed by us alone in the natural order of things. Or we can choose to learn from the situation and continue onward, hopefully smarter and perhaps wiser.
As regards September 11, my first thought was one of horror and grief. My second thought was that all of the bastards responsible for such acts, both present and future, should be found and given swift death, rather than the far-more-painful punishment they so richly deserve. My third thought was that when all of this was over, America should rebuild those towers, only bigger and more beautiful. It is still my hope that we as a people will rise to that challenge and build something even more spectacular than the original towers. We owe it to ourselves and to our posterity. We also owe it to the bastards who so baselessly hate us as well, for there could surely be no greater testament to the futility of their worse-than-useless lives.
Those three stages of thought are individually important, for each captures an appropriate portion of the response to any such event. The first stage is the grief and horror that is natural to the human condition. The second is the demand for justice—yes, justice, for not all reprisal is revenge. And the third is the demand that we continue in the drive to be something more than we are. It is built into the human species to seek growth, to develop, to master the world around us, and to propel ourselves forward in our knowledge and abilities. The alternative leads to a diminished people, a diminished nation, a diminished world.
The crew of the Columbia were exactly the sort of persons who reject that latter path. They were made of the sterner stuff that seeks after the stars, despite all the many risks. In the midst of this great sadness and disaster comes a wonderful opportunity to dedicate ourselves as a nation to moving onward, to moving outward. When the investigation has concluded, and the dust has finally settled, we can choose to shrink back and become a smaller people, more risk adverse, more concerned with staying where we're at, etc. Or we can choose to go forward boldly as Columbia and her crew did.
It's pretty clear, to me at least, which option makes the most sense. Manned space flight was a catalyst for much of our technological progress in the twentieth century. It will continue to be so instrumentally useful into the twenty-first if we do not shirk the better part of our natures. Manned space flight is also a unifying and not a divisive force, as we have seen since its inception. It brings people together, and I don't mean in the silly, utopian one-world-government aspirations of contemporary political liberals. I mean that it brings people together in a more fundamental and practical way, for it represents the best efforts of some of mankind's brightest souls toward discovery and invention.
In short, a significant part of man's future welfare is "out there". While petty naysayers look to the Earth and (falsely) bemoan how little of this or that remains, the bold look beyond the confines of our world and see limitless vistas of resources, of new arenas for exploration and discovery. Do not misunderstand me: Earth is precious, for it is our present home and will always be our birthplace. But our birthright takes us beyond its atmosphere. Our birthright demands that we continue onward, upward, and outward, heading toward the stars. Amidst the mourning, whatever else might be forgotten, we must always remember that fortune favors the bold.
So let us not shirk our potential. Let us not dishonor the memories of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice this morning. Let us take this opportunity instead to dedicate ourselves to a next bold step in space. Whether it's a permanent moon base, a manned flight to Mars, or something more spectacular still, it is not the goal that is most important. It's the forcing ourselves to set it and then reach it that fires our imagination, ignites our passions, and makes us grow. Therefore, may the epitaph for Columbia be this: they died not in vain, for their loss inspired a great nation to still-greater things, for all mankind.
02/01/2003