In May 1961, President Kennedy threw down the gauntlet and America responded.
In an address at Rice University in September 1962, he used a wonderful metaphor to describe the promise of exploring the vast reaches of space:
We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own. Whether it will become a force for good or ill depends on man, and only if the United States occupies a position of pre-eminence can we help decide whether this new ocean will be a sea of peace or a new terrifying theater of war.
Yesterday was the eighth anniversary of the Columbia disaster. And yet, I heard nothing about it from local or national media or from conversations held in public or private squares. However, I was the unwilling recipient of information about The Bachelor, catty gossip about colleagues, and a briefing on the status of Charlie Sheen.
As a young girl growing up in India, Kaplana Chawla dreamt of flying. She became fascinated by space travel, purposely moved the the United States and chased that dream with the purest of passions. The prospect of mastering the physics of space travel mattered to her almost as much as the fact that by risking her life (and it's an utter shame that only when tragedy occurs do people get reminded of the fact that astronauts risk their lives) she was helping people, people she had never met. On February 1, 2003, along with her fellow crew members, she gave her life for that dream. I believe given a mulligan, she'd make the same decisions in a heartbeat.
Laurel Clark showed her orientation toward helping others early in life. An animal lover and a skilled and dedicated physician, she served with distinction in the U.S. Navy as a flight surgeon. She routinley told friends and family how blessed she was in this life, and people said they always heard the smile in her voice. She felt honored to be carrying out experiments while in space, knowing their benefit to mankind. While in orbit she watched new life spring from cocoons, and in an email home she said, "Life continues in a lot of places and life is a magical thing." She perished on February 1, 2003, along with her crewmates, leaving her husband and eight year old son. A mixture of pain and pride must wash over them every day since.
Ilan Ramon was the son of an Auschwitz survivor, and he was Israel's first astronaut. He was immensely proud to be living proof that the struggle for an independent Israel mattered, and the pleasure that his achievments brought to Holocaust survivors made him weep when asked about it. On February 1, 2003, moments before they passed, he and his crewmates, knowing they were going to leave this earth once again, must have felt their brotherhood as crew and human beings to an unimaginable depth.
I could continue, but the picture is clear. Make life matter; make their sacrifice matter.
Memento mori.
