↩ the History · a speech, filed

For the Crew of the Challenger

Ronald Reagan · the Johnson Space Center, Houston · January 31, 1986
text: The American Presidency Project, UC Santa Barbara · a work of the United States government, in the public domain
colour carries the act's function; a dashed underline marks a predicted misfire; hover or focus any span for its filing

We come together today to mourn the loss of seven brave Americans, to share the grief that we all feel, and, perhaps in that sharing, to find the strength to bear our sorrow and the courage to look for the seeds of hope. Our nation's loss is first a profound personal loss to the family and the friends and the loved ones of our shuttle astronauts. To those they left behind—the mothers, the fathers, the husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, yes, and especially the children—all of America stands beside you in your time of sorrow.

What we say today is only an inadequate expression of what we carry in our hearts. Words pale in the shadow of grief; they seem insufficient even to measure the brave sacrifice of those you loved and we so admired. Their truest testimony will not be in the words we speak, but in the way they led their lives and in the way they lost their lives—with dedication, honor, and an unquenchable desire to explore this mysterious and beautiful universe.

The best we can do is remember our seven astronauts, our Challenger Seven, remember them as they lived, bringing life and love and joy to those who knew them and pride to a nation. They came from all parts of this great country—from South Carolina to Washington State; Ohio to Mohawk, New York; Hawaii to North Carolina to Concord, New Hampshire. They were so different; yet in their mission, their quest, they held so much in common.

We remember Dick Scobee, the commander who spoke the last words we heard from the space shuttle Challenger. He served as a fighter pilot in Vietnam earning many medals for bravery and later as a test pilot of advanced aircraft before joining the space program. Danger was a familiar companion to Commander Scobee.

We remember Michael Smith, who earned enough medals as a combat pilot to cover his chest, including the Navy Distinguished Flying Cross, three Air Medals, and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Silver Star in gratitude from a nation he fought to keep free.

We remember Judith Resnik, known as J.R. to her friends, always smiling, always eager to make a contribution, finding beauty in the music she played on her piano in her off-hours.

We remember Ellison Onizuka, who as a child running barefoot through the coffee fields and macadamia groves of Hawaii dreamed of someday traveling to the Moon. Being an Eagle Scout, he said, had helped him soar to the impressive achievements of his career.

We remember Ronald McNair, who said that he learned perseverance in the cotton fields of South Carolina. His dream was to live aboard the space station, performing experiments and playing his saxophone in the weightlessness of space. Well, Ron, we will miss your saxophone; and we will build your space station.

We remember Gregory Jarvis. On that ill-fated flight he was carrying with him a flag of his university in Buffalo, New York—a small token, he said, to the people who unlocked his future.

We remember Christa McAuliffe, who captured the imagination of the entire Nation; inspiring us with her pluck, her restless spirit of discovery; a teacher, not just to her students but to an entire people, instilling us all with the excitement of this journey we ride into the future.

We will always remember them, these skilled professionals, scientists, and adventurers, these artists and teachers and family men and women; and we will cherish each of their stories, stories of triumph and bravery, stories of true American heroes. On the day of the disaster, our nation held a vigil by our television sets. In one cruel moment our exhilaration turned to horror; we waited and watched and tried to make sense of what we had seen. That night I listened to a call-in program on the radio; people of every age spoke of their sadness and the pride they felt in our astronauts.

Across America we are reaching out, holding hands, and finding comfort in one another. The sacrifice of your loved ones has stirred the soul of our nation and through the pain our hearts have been opened to a profound truth: The future is not free; the story of all human progress is one of a struggle against all odds. We learned again that this America, which Abraham Lincoln called the last, best hope of man on Earth, was built on heroism and noble sacrifice. It was built by men and women like our seven star voyagers, who answered a call beyond duty, who gave more than was expected or required, and who gave it little thought to worldly reward.

We think back to the pioneers of an earlier century, the sturdy souls who took their families and their belongings and set out into the frontier of the American West. Often they met with terrible hardship. Along the Oregon Trail, you could still see the grave markers of those who fell on the way, but grief only steeled them to the journey ahead. Today the frontier is space and the boundaries of human knowledge. Sometimes when we reach for the stars, we fall short. But we must pick ourselves up again and press on despite the pain. Our nation is indeed fortunate that we can still draw on immense reservoirs of courage, character, and fortitude; that we're still blessed with heroes like those of the space shuttle Challenger.

Dick Scobee knew that every launching of a space shuttle is a technological miracle. And he said, "If something ever does go wrong, I hope that doesn't mean the end to the space shuttle program." Every family member I talked to asked specifically that we continue the program, that that is what their departed loved one would want above all else. We will not disappoint them. Today we promise Dick Scobee and his crew that their dream lives on, that the future they worked so hard to build will become reality. The dedicated men and women of NASA have lost seven members of their family. Still, they, too, must forge ahead with a space program that is effective, safe, and efficient, but bold and committed. Man will continue his conquest of space. To reach out for new goals and ever greater achievements—that is the way we shall commemorate our seven Challenger heroes.

Dick, Mike, Judy, El, Ron, Greg, and Christa—your families and your country mourn your passing. We bid you goodbye; we will never forget you. For those who knew you well and loved you, the pain will be deep and enduring. A nation, too, will long feel the loss of her seven sons and daughters, her seven good friends. We can find consolation only in faith, for we know in our hearts that you who flew so high and so proud now make your home beyond the stars, safe in God's promise of eternal life.

May God bless you all and give you comfort in this difficult time.

The divergences

"We remember Dick Scobee ... We remember Christa McAuliffe" — a family in the front rows files seven Declarations, six of which belong to other people and one of which is theirs, and reads the seventh paragraph against the others. The country listening files one Declaration performed seven times, whose object was named before the roll call opened: "our seven astronauts, our Challenger Seven." They part on scope. Read narrow, the paragraphs are unequal and the inequality is the content — Scobee gets a career, Jarvis gets a flag in a bag and three lines. Read wide, the differences are the proof of "they were so different; yet in their mission, their quest, they held so much in common," and the unevenness disappears into the claim it serves.

"All of America stands beside you in your time of sorrow" — the families file an address that reaches them, spoken by a man twenty feet away on behalf of a country they cannot see. The broadcast audience files the country's address to itself, since "all of America" is the sentence's subject and every listener is inside it. They part on target. Twenty months earlier at Pointe du Hoc the same speaker pointed with the same confidence — "These are the men who took the cliffs" — at Rangers in the front row, and the deixis held because the referents were present. Here the second person starts on the bereaved and does not stay: by the closing paragraph "you" means the dead, and the families have been moved into the third person, "those who knew you well and loved you."

"Grief only steeled them to the journey ahead" — a mourner files an Assertion about people on the Oregon Trail. The program files a precedent that settles, before anyone argues it, what this room's grief is for. They part on target: a claim about the past, or a move on the decision the next paragraph makes. The address is three days from the loss with no cause established, by its own account — "we waited and watched and tried to make sense of what we had seen" — and this sentence supplies the shape of an answer without supplying one.

"Today we promise Dick Scobee and his crew that their dream lives on, that the future they worked so hard to build will become reality" — the room files a Promise from the President of the United States. The agency that would keep it files an Assertion about an intention, because the pronoun changes two sentences later, "Still, they, too, must forge ahead," and the modal of obligation is theirs. They part on orientation: whether the sentence binds the speaker to something the world can check, or places him among the mourners while the obligation lands on people he is describing. He did not run the inquiry; the commission that would find the cause was appointed four days after this address, and the shuttle did not fly again for thirty-two months.

"A teacher, not just to her students but to an entire people" — the children who watched the launch from their classrooms file a claim about a woman they knew, and it is corrected inside the clause that states it. The country files a Declaration that promotes her, and the promotion is what makes the loss everyone's. They part on scope. The address never speaks to those children; the only children it addresses are the crew's, in the first paragraph, "yes, and especially the children." Her students appear once, in the subordinate clause the sentence exists to exceed.

"Man will continue his conquest of space" — the engineers at Johnson file a Declaration they are being asked to make true, and the sentence gives them no date and no appropriation. A listener outside the program files an Assertion about the species, which binds nobody and cannot fail. They part on function. The sentence directly before it states the program's obligation with a modal and a third-person pronoun; this one drops both, and the subject it takes is the only one in the address with no address of its own.

"If something ever does go wrong, I hope that doesn't mean the end to the space shuttle program" — heard narrow, a commander's hope, conditional, about a contingency that had not happened when he voiced it. Heard wide, the crew's consent to the risk and its instruction to the survivors, which is how the paragraph uses it: the next sentence enlists the families to the same conclusion, and the one after that answers with "We will not disappoint them." They part on scope, and the widening converts a mandate no living authority had issued into one the room could not decline. The only voice in the address that is not the speaker's belongs to a man who had been dead three days.