I recently had the honor to hear Frank DeAngelis speak. For
those that don’t know Mr. De (as I comfortably referred to him as, because
honestly, he is THAT guy. He was the principal to all of us in 1999 and we will
always be his kids) he was the principal of Columbine High School from 1996 to
his tearful retirement in 2014. It was
on April 20, 1999 that he became more than just the principal to Columbine
High, he became the principal to us all and we became his kids.
I was a junior at Novato High School in Novato, California
in 1999. I really have no idea what was planned for my day, but I do know
whatever it was it did not happen. We were an hour behind Colorado timewise,
and somewhere between 9 and 11 o’clock the school went into a weird, silent
mode. 13 kids in Littleton, Colorado had been killed. Two armed teens stormed
into their school, after their original plan of setting of bombs failed, and
began killing their fellow students. We didn’t have phones. The only internet
access was in the library. We got news from our teachers and eventually we all
saw the news on various TV’s that had been wheeled into selected classrooms.
What even was this? A school shooting? Who even does that?! We’re we safe? Is
this going to happen here now too? There was no language to even describe what
was going on. The word ‘Massacre’ got thrown around a little bit, but overall
the weird, collective silence that was present at school was there because it
was that simple; we didn’t have words for what had just happened. Teachers
didn’t have words to describe what was happening. Various admin around the
school could not find the right words. And without words or language, we could
not process this tragedy. We just cried and stayed together. That morning we
were all Columbine Students, crying over the loss of 13 fellow high school
students.
The days and months following April 20 my high school and
the community came together and honored and remembered Columbine. There was a
school memorial service in the gym. We wore silver and blue clothing. We made
silver and blue jewelry to wear. I even attended a church memorial service for
the victims in town, and I know there were several more like it taking place.
This was our tragedy, and we weren’t going to let it just get forgotten.
During this time there was a figure we looked to, whom
became a familiar face that at times we even stated we needed to know what he
was doing and if he was going to be on tv again soon to update us on what was
going on. We needed to hear from him for simply nothing but support and
reassurance. This man was Mr. De. For whatever reason, with all the news
analysis going on, all the speculation going on as to why these kids decided to
open fire on their school, all the parents of the lost kids speaking, the one
person we NEEDED to hear from was Mr. De. He became our principal, the one we
needed guidance and assurance from. And we all became his kids, because when he
spoke, he was speaking to us. Not the media, not the other parents of the
world, just us. I can’t really put into words why this connection to Mr. De
mattered so much, and quite possibly maybe it’s because our principal was also
called Mr. D, and no one could stand him, and he never did anything to help us,
but here was the Mr. De that was the exact opposite of ours and to us, he was
the good Mr. De. And we needed him. Over time we stopped seeing him on tv and
life carried on as it does, but we never forgot about that day, and most of us
never forgot Mr. De.
Columbine was my high school tragedy. And my peers around my
age consider the same. Just yesterday I mentioned to a few friends I met Mr. De
and the reaction from them all was the same ‘I remember that day like
yesterday’. One even said simply “Damn. That’s heavy”. And that’s the best way
to describe what we carry around, still being Columbine almost 20 years later.
Heavy.
But I also gained something yesterday. Something that I
didn’t know I needed. I received closure. And I received it from the one person
I needed it from. When Mr. De started to speak, I went still. I couldn’t move.
I started to shake. My heart began racing. For an hour and 20 minutes I didn’t
see or hear anything but him and the words that were coming out of his mouth. I
relived April 20, 1999. But I got the “then what” answered. I got the
reassurance that he did do all that he could for all the surviving students. He
was visiting those wounded in the hospital persistently and never gave up on
them. He made sure that all those that were in school during this tragedy made
it through their daily lives at school. He did what we all knew he would do.
Because he is our Mr. De, and that’s how he rolls. And we are his kids.
After he spoke, and I got myself together while others were
heading off to various other workshops taking place, I shouted “Hey, Mr. De”
like I had done it a million times. And he reacted as if I had. We spoke, and I
thanked him for closure and he made sure to tell me to call him when I am in
Colorado to go to lunch and he would take me to the Memorial. Consider that
done Mr. De.
Liz Mackey
Piatt County Domestic Violence Coordinator
(staff attended the Common Ground Conference, hosted by the Judicial District in Effingham in November 2018)
