By Erica Rogers
Daily Nebraskan (U. Nebraska)
(U-WIRE) LINCOLN, Neb. -- On Feb. 1, 2003, seven astronauts relinquished their earthly privileges and entered the hallowed halls of sacrifice, forever young, forever heroes. As a devout follower of the American space program, I am saddened by the loss of such fine, dedicated people. NASA is more than a financially carnivorous agency. To me, it's an integral part of my American identity.
When the Soviets cast Sputnik into the atmosphere in 1957, Americans were both fascinated and apprehensive. The Cold War had its unforgiving grasp on the American conscience; a collective stranglehold on the American psyche that hinted nuclear annihilation was not only possible, it was eminent.
Optimism gave way to caution. Identification bracelets and military style I.D. tags were popular jewelry pieces purchased for American children in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
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Like today's war on terrorism, the Cold War raged at undisclosed locations, dependent on the subterfuge of propaganda and stealth intelligence.
Like an angry dog, the Soviet threat barked at the heels of the American people.
As more and more countries were lured into communism, the American fervor for containment intensified. Sputnik was, to most Americans, an ominous sign of the Soviet's intentions to obtain world dominance.
The United States scrambled to launch the satellite Explorer in 1958 and created NASA, but our Soviet fear did not abate.
President John F. Kennedy stood before a Houston crowd in September 1962 and answered the Soviet threat by declaring America's need to enter and win the space race.
"Space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own. Whether it will become a force of good or evil depends on man," he told the world, "and only if the United States occupies a position of prominence can we help decide whether this new ocean will be a sea of peace or a new terrifying theater of war."
The Apollo Space Program was born and our country fell in love with a new version of the quintessential frontiersman and cowboy: the American astronaut.
My father, like many young men in the '60s, fell for engineering somewhere between his first Erector set and NASA. His love of science and the molecular fascination he still has began with his first chemistry set.
Enthralled with the nation's focus on space, he hungrily read and watched everything NASA, including Walter Cronkite's chemical experiments on the evening news.
Cronkite's scientific updates included chemically frozen items shattered before a national audience eager to understand the technology that promised to beat the Soviets to the moon. Dad remembers hot dogs shattering like glass and the profound curiosity and wonder that made him declare, "Wow!"
Due to his technologically driven enthusiasm, our family was not a band of Ovaltine drinkers or Orange Nihi nursers. We were Tang people.
My mother looks at the 1960s through a social historian's perspective. Feminism gained new voices. America lost its young president. The Civil Rights movement was robbed of its most powerful and gifted orators of justice and equality. Vietnam and the draft stole young men from every hometown, coast to coast. Cronkite delivered body counts from Vietnam during the evening news, highlighting the most inhumane aspects of humanity for an emotionally overwhelmed American public.
The enthusiasm my mother felt early in the decade was slowly and methodically beaten down by violence. To her, those turbulent years represent the decade America forever lost its innocence. America needed a hero.
On July 20, 1969, a generation who grew up within the Cold War's threat of nuclear annihilation, turned their faces to the sky with wild wonderment and fascination. An American public sat before the blue glow of black-and-white TVs and waited. Far from home astronaut heroes, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, delivered the garbled message of hope and victory from the moon's Sea of Tranquillity: "The Eagle has landed."
On July 21, 1969, Americans watched the first steps on the moon. Our flag stabbed the moon's surface in the most patriotic and defiant act of national pride we had ever dared. We had beaten the Soviets at their own game.
Communism would not expand into the galaxies. The new ocean of space would be a sea of peace.
When the Iron Curtain fell with a clank in 1991, the communist threat we once knew dissolved and America questioned its need of NASA. The launching and return of space shuttles became as familiar to us as 747s landing on runways.
Americans awoke from their space exploration dream, questioned the politics behind government spending, and the technological wonder of NASA faded likes the album covers we once cherished.
But I come from Tang people. I still look at a full moon with wonder. I still feel immense pride in the uniquely American technological achievements of the Apollo program.
A photograph of a defiant American flag standing boldly before the backdrop of planet Earth still creates triumphant stirrings in my heart. The Space Shuttle -- the Apollo programs -- are permanently linked in my mind. I am inspired and humbled by those who can give their time and lives so completely to the passions of their hearts.
And astronauts are still heroes to me.
