The historical event that fascinates me the most isn’t one I studied—it’s one I lived through.
I was sitting in the student union building at Stetson University that morning, skipping a math class I probably should’ve been in. Instead of working algebraic equations, I was watching The New Love American Style on TV. I remember being annoyed when the show was preempted for coverage of the space shuttle Challenger launch. But when they mentioned that this was the flight carrying Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher headed to space, that annoyance gave way to excitement. We all wanted to witness history.
As the shuttle lifted off, a girl nearby said she thought we might be able to see it through the window. We walked across the room, and sure enough, there it was—its white trail arcing beautifully into the clear blue Florida sky. For about 30 seconds, we stood there in quiet awe. Then came the explosion.
At first, we didn’t understand what we were seeing. I’d watched a night launch the previous November, when Atlantis took off, so I had an idea of the path the shuttle should take. This was different. The two solid rocket boosters were spinning off in opposite directions, and the bright bloom in the sky didn’t look like anything I’d seen before.
We hurried back to the TV, where everyone was already crowded around. I asked what had happened, and a big guy turned to me and said the shuttle had disappeared. Like a smartass, I replied that this wasn’t a David Copperfield illusion—shuttles don’t just disappear. He stepped aside, pointed at the screen, and said, “Well, then where is it?”
The rest of the day, I couldn’t pull myself away from the coverage. The tragedy of it all broke my heart, as it did for the entire nation. And then, as if to seal the day into my memory, ashes began to fall on our campus. We thought they were from the shuttle, drifting down from the sky. I ran inside, afraid of what might be in the air—only to find out later there had been a fire across town in DeLand, and the wind had carried the ash our way.
Even so, that day remains etched into me—the moment when awe turned to horror, and when a generation learned that progress often comes with heartbreak.
What fascinates me still is how that tragedy united us. For a time, the noise stopped. We all grieved together, prayed together, and learned together. It was a day that changed everything—one I’ll never forget, because I didn’t just watch history happen. I watched it hurt.
Copyright © 2025 Doug DeBolt.
