Scobee, Smith, Resnik, McNair, Onizuka, Jarvis, McAuliffe
Weepy evening.
Several weeks ago, Jaymes and I rented City of Angels on DVD, because it's one I had wanted to see and never got to. Jaymes was reluctant, as he always is when he's seen a movie and considers the ending senselessly sad. A couple of years ago, I had tried to rent it with Chris and Bear, but Bear commented that City of Angels wasn't nearly as good as the movie it was a remake of, Wings of Desire... so we rented Wings instead.
After Jaymes and I rented City, I wanted to see Wings again. The mood is much better; it's a better film. Not as glossy, or American-tragedy-pabulumized -- maybe not a better "movie", but a better film, as a local downtown theater would make the distinction. I decided to get Jaymes to watch Wings with me, because nearly all I remembered of it was that it didn't have a senselessly tragic ending.
Wings is a slow movie, from an American perspective. I was afraid Jaymes would find it suffering from Samurai-Standoff Syndrome, lots of suspenseful posing with a quick blow to the head and then tea afterward. I shouldn't have worried; he really liked it. He especially liked the fact that even having seen City, which contains ten times the action and none of the thought, the one plot twist in common to both movies still took him by surprise. We were silent most all the way through the credits, that smiling, "Aren't we lucky to be together, having just watched that movie, still draped across each other and smiling at each other the way we are now?" silence. Happy, deep-breaths silence. The moment faded and I went out for a cigarette.
Music came drifting across the porch, familiar music. It wasn't John Williams, but it was the same kind of thing. A movie soundtrack, maybe? I ducked back inside. Jaymes had put on his Philip Glass CD. He identified the song for me and then said, "Hey, you grew up interested in space. Maybe you'll recognize this one..."
As soon as it started playing, video montages of space photos started flickering at the edges of my memory. "2001 soundtrack?" I asked. "No," he said, and brought the CD insert over to me.
"Ron McNair?"
I could feel the pressure and the hot prickles climbing up in my sinuses, the ones that mean that no matter how much I don't want it to be, no matter how silly the reason or how public the place, the tears are going to start. As long as it's just the sinus pressure, I can discreetly drive my pinkie nail under my thumbnail, and the pain will shock back the tears. But once the hot prickles hit between my eyes, it's all over but the crying.
Jaymes, maybe taking my silence for a lack of recognition, said, "Challenger?"
I could feel my face contorting. I hoped I could get out some explanation before it got too twisted up to speak clearly. I said, "Yeah. I know. His name was on the patch my dad brought home for me."
I went into the kitchen and put on water for tea. I stood, and watched the water not boil, and Jaymes came over and held me while I sobbed like a seventh-grader again and we listened to the music that had become the first saxophone solo in space.
I could, at this point, write about where I was when I found out, or how it affected me. But I don't wanna. Because there's really only one thing to say about it that really matters:
Challenger still makes me cry.
Several weeks ago, Jaymes and I rented City of Angels on DVD, because it's one I had wanted to see and never got to. Jaymes was reluctant, as he always is when he's seen a movie and considers the ending senselessly sad. A couple of years ago, I had tried to rent it with Chris and Bear, but Bear commented that City of Angels wasn't nearly as good as the movie it was a remake of, Wings of Desire... so we rented Wings instead.
After Jaymes and I rented City, I wanted to see Wings again. The mood is much better; it's a better film. Not as glossy, or American-tragedy-pabulumized -- maybe not a better "movie", but a better film, as a local downtown theater would make the distinction. I decided to get Jaymes to watch Wings with me, because nearly all I remembered of it was that it didn't have a senselessly tragic ending.
Wings is a slow movie, from an American perspective. I was afraid Jaymes would find it suffering from Samurai-Standoff Syndrome, lots of suspenseful posing with a quick blow to the head and then tea afterward. I shouldn't have worried; he really liked it. He especially liked the fact that even having seen City, which contains ten times the action and none of the thought, the one plot twist in common to both movies still took him by surprise. We were silent most all the way through the credits, that smiling, "Aren't we lucky to be together, having just watched that movie, still draped across each other and smiling at each other the way we are now?" silence. Happy, deep-breaths silence. The moment faded and I went out for a cigarette.
Music came drifting across the porch, familiar music. It wasn't John Williams, but it was the same kind of thing. A movie soundtrack, maybe? I ducked back inside. Jaymes had put on his Philip Glass CD. He identified the song for me and then said, "Hey, you grew up interested in space. Maybe you'll recognize this one..."
As soon as it started playing, video montages of space photos started flickering at the edges of my memory. "2001 soundtrack?" I asked. "No," he said, and brought the CD insert over to me.
"Ron McNair?"
I could feel the pressure and the hot prickles climbing up in my sinuses, the ones that mean that no matter how much I don't want it to be, no matter how silly the reason or how public the place, the tears are going to start. As long as it's just the sinus pressure, I can discreetly drive my pinkie nail under my thumbnail, and the pain will shock back the tears. But once the hot prickles hit between my eyes, it's all over but the crying.
Jaymes, maybe taking my silence for a lack of recognition, said, "Challenger?"
I could feel my face contorting. I hoped I could get out some explanation before it got too twisted up to speak clearly. I said, "Yeah. I know. His name was on the patch my dad brought home for me."
I went into the kitchen and put on water for tea. I stood, and watched the water not boil, and Jaymes came over and held me while I sobbed like a seventh-grader again and we listened to the music that had become the first saxophone solo in space.
I could, at this point, write about where I was when I found out, or how it affected me. But I don't wanna. Because there's really only one thing to say about it that really matters:
Challenger still makes me cry.