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FeedThe Burden Behind Him
Ten years after the worst American high school shooting in history, Frank DeAngelis reflects on the tragedy, the healing, and the Columbine he'll leave behind.
He's told this part of the story thousands of times "¦
On April 20, 1999, Frank DeAngelis left his home early to attend a breakfast banquet with students and faculty members participating in DECA, an extracurricular program for students interested in business. As principal of Columbine High School, this was just one of the many activities DeAngelis looked forward to throughout the year. It was a chance to show off what he already knew: His kids at Columbine were some of the best in the state.
DeAngelis arrived at school around 10:30 am. Any other morning, he would have been preparing to head to the common area for the start of lunch around 11:15. DeAngelis especially enjoyed lunch duty, which gave him the chance to talk to each of his students individually. That day, however, DeAngelis was waiting on Arthur Leyba to make his way to his office. He planned on offering the English teacher a full-time position.
The meeting was brief, and Leyba quickly accepted. By 11:20, DeAngelis was exiting his office when he recognized that something was wrong. Usually, the area at the front of the school known as the phone banks was filled with seniors. Today, the halls were empty.
What happened next took place in a matter of minutes. His secretary came out of her office yelling about gunfire in the cafeteria. He told her to call 911. Then his worst nightmare occurred. He saw a tall, slender individual at the west end of the hall.
"I saw the shotgun pointed at me," he says, his eyes fixated on some faraway experience. "The barrel of the gun looked like a cannon. I froze. All I could think about was what it was going to be like to be shot."
Glass shattered behind him, startling him back to awareness. He heard a group of girls coming out of their locker room, apparently unaware of the developing situation. He reacted. Running directly into the line of fire, he told the 15 or so students to follow him. What happened after that, DeAngelis says, is something of a miracle.
"The door to the gymnasium was locked, and we were trapped," he says. "I have around 20 keys on my key ring, but I reached into my pocket and pulled out the one key that opened that door. I know someone was looking out for us. I've tried it for the past 10 years and have never been able to pull out that one key."
DeAngelis told the girls to take cover in a storage area. Before locking the door, they decided on a code word to know when it was safe to come out. "Like teenage girls, they were arguing back and forth about the code word," he says. "One of them said, "˜Let's use pink.' Someone said, "˜Let's use Rebels.' I told them, "˜Girls, just be quiet.' We all started laughing. It was what we needed at the moment."
Leaving the gym, DeAngelis watched as students and faculty fled toward nearby Clement Park. Police cars arrived. He heard fire alarms go off. Realizing it would be safer for the girls to flee, he returned to the storage area and escorted them outside.
That would be DeAngelis' final return to school that day. Stopped from entering the building a second time, he spent the next eight hours drawing diagrams, answering questions, and helping law enforcement officers. Shortly after 9 pm, he made the drive to Leawood Elementary where busses had been delivering students to their anxious parents.
By the time DeAngelis arrived, the massacre had been over for nine hours and had taken the lives of Rachel Scott, Daniel Rohrbough, Kyle Velasquez, Steven Curnow, Cassie Bernall, Isaiah Shoels, Matt Kechter, Lauren Townsend, John Tomlin, Kelly Fleming, Daniel Mauser, Corey DePooter, and DeAngelis' good friend Dave Sanders, a business teacher who was also coach of the girls' basketball and softball teams.
"I can still see it as the counselors came up to those 20 or so remaining parents and told them to get dental records because their kid didn't come out of the building," he says. "That is something that will last forever."
SCHOOL COLORS
One of three original schools in Jefferson County, Columbine High first opened its doors at 6201 South Pierce in 1973. Just west of Littleton city limits, Columbine is the sprawling home to more than 1,600 kids who participate in more than 30 student groups ranging from debate and oceanography to band and choir. The official school colors are navy blue and silver. The school mascot is the Rebel.
The school is known for good sports teams. In 2003, the spirit squad placed fourth at the UCA National High School Cheerleading Championships. The football team has won the 5A state championship four times, including 2000 when they beat Cherry Creek High School 21 "“ 14. "I think even people from Cherry Creek were rooting for us," DeAngelis says with a smile.
Columbine is also a highly academic school. Attendance is well above 90 percent, and nearly 85 percent of its graduating students go on to college. A recent production of Beauty and the Beast saw more than 2,000 in attendance during its four-day run. The student senate donates to cancer research, and the diversity club raises money for Invisible Children, a nonprofit that aids victims of the civil war in Uganda.
"There is a strong sense of community pride in Columbine," DeAngelis says. "Former students are moving back into the community, so their kids can go to school here. This is my 30th year, and I have students who are in school now whose parents I taught. Seventeen of our teachers are Columbine graduates. Columbine is a great place."
This month, Columbine High School will again become the site of the Columbine Tragedy. Media on the local and national levels will arrive to report on the 10-year anniversary. Rumor has it Oprah has expressed interest in taping a show here. In an effort to cooperate, DeAngelis has set aside three days to answer questions and give tours. For the month of April, an excellent high school with an unquestionable reputation will be defined by one tragic day.
"The toughest thing for the kids now is when people say, "˜Oh, you go to that school where the shootings occurred,'" says DeAngelis. "Columbine is really an out-standing high school. It's unfortunate that Columbine will be shaped because of what happened in 1999 and not all the good things that have taken place since 1973."
TWO PRINCIPALS
An abandoned marquee on the west side of nearby Santa Fe Drive reads, "Love is blind, or blindfolded." The phrase seems oddly appropriate to a man who was painted in the media as out of touch (at best) or irresponsible (at worst) in regards to school bullying.
"I was defensive early on with the issue of harassment," says DeAngelis, who testified in front of the Governor's Commission that bullying was not a problem at the school. "When your family gets attacked, you get defensive. My perception of Columbine was that it was a wonderful and fantastic school. When I opened my eyes and met with some at-risk students and kids who hung out in the smokers' pit, I got a different perspective."
A Colorado native, DeAngelis never made it far from home. He grew up near 36th and Tejon in the Highlands area of Denver and attended elementary school at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church. He earned his undergraduate degree at Metro State, his masters at the University of Colorado, and his administrative license at the University of Phoenix in Aurora. When the shooting occurred, he was working towards his doctorate at CU. "I had a very difficult time reading a newspaper," he says, "so I would have had a very difficult time in class."
Originally, DeAngelis planned to be an accountant but just couldn't see himself sitting at a desk all day. He needed to be around people. In 1979, a young DeAngelis took a job teaching social studies and coaching baseball at a new school just south of Denver. "My uncle once said to me, "˜Choose a job you love, and you'll never work a day in your life.' And I live by that."
The first year after the tragedy, DeAngelis was in a fog. Suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, he withdrew under the weight of the guilt. "I was told it would be a marathon and not a sprint," he says. "Well, I'm still running. There isn't a magical day when things will go back to normal. It's never going to be over."
The emotive Italian began to shut down. He worked nearly 16-hour days, seven days a week. When he did return home to his wife and two kids, he would barely speak. "The last thing I wanted to do was share my experiences with my wife," he says. "All I wanted to do was go down to my basement, get my golden retriever, and be left alone for three hours."
He went to the hospital several times after suffering anxiety attacks. His blood pressure and cholesterol went through the roof. There were violent nightmares. His doctor said if he didn't change something, he wouldn't have to worry about it. That was his wake-up call.
He began to go to counseling "” what DeAngelis refers to as "going in for maintenance." He met with his pastor to renew his faith and found a community eager to support him. But it wasn't enough to save his struggling marriage. In 2002, he and his wife of 17 years divorced. "I should have brought my wife and kids to counseling," he says. "They didn't understand what I was going through. I was the principal of that high school. I let those kids down, and I had to live with that.
"What we really needed at Columbine was two principals," he adds. "You needed a principal to run the school. Then you needed a principal to deal with the aftermath. College can't prepare you for a tragedy like this. I never learned that when a balloon pops you'll have half the student body diving for the ground."
LESSONS LEARNED
Seventeen-year-old Rachel Joy Scott was the first to die, shot while having lunch with a friend outside the library. Two weeks later, her family found an essay she had written titled, "My Ethics, My Codes of Life." In that essay, Scott challenged her fellow students to "start a chain reaction" of kindness, a highly impactful message that her family presents to schools across the country.
Rachel's Challenge stands as testament to the good born of devastation, a legacy of pervasive kindness and understanding that many survivors see as the blessing of that day. "There are a lot of kids who were impacted who have chosen to give back," says DeAngelis. "A lot of kids saw the support they were given and have decided to go into fields where they could do the same."
This year marks DeAngelis' 30th at Columbine "” his 13th as principal. There have been changes over the years, internally and externally. Only 33 faculty and staff members remain from the 1999 incident, and DeAngelis is the only administrator. They've replaced carpeted floors with concrete and installed trophy cases to display awards won by the victims. They built a $3.5 million Hope Columbine Memorial Library and brought in saws to cut out the old one, where so much of the tragedy took place.
Columbine broke the mold in regard to law enforcement's response to emergencies. Then-Governor Bill Owens set his Columbine Commission to review law enforcement's handling of the crisis. Their findings revealed school authorities and law enforcement officials were uncertain whether they could share what they call "red flag" information with one another. This information now flows freely between institutions.
DeAngelis was active before the tragedy. He rarely missed lunch duty and went to as many school activities as he could, but the principal now encourages his teachers to be just as visible. He's put programs in place for juniors and seniors to mentor incoming freshmen. He has installed a "Safe to Tell" box where students can anonymously report concerns.
"I think what has happened since the tragedy is that now we try to make contact with all the kids," DeAngelis says. "When you have a large student population, the key is to recognize that there are leaders out there who go unnoticed by the faculty. As principal, I know where to go to get the answers I want to hear, but you better find out what's happening with kids who are disenfranchised and ask them what they think we can do differently."
WE ARE COLUMBINE
Six weeks before the 10-year anniversary, Clement Park's Columbine Memorial is quiet. But soon, the $1.5 million tribute to the 13 victims will be overrun with tourists taking photos beside the Columbine High School sign. DeAngelis and his staff will close the school for administrative training in an effort to protect a student body that grew up in the shadow of Columbine. Unfortunately, they are well aware of what time of year it is.
At 5 pm on the 20th, survivors and parents of the victims will gather with current students and faculty at Clement Park's amphitheater for an hour of remembrance. The school choir will perform. Doves will be released. DeAngelis will say a few words and quietly hope this anniversary will mark an end to the tourists and media inquiries. He hopes his life can return to some semblance of normal. He hopes to finally marry his high school sweetheart.
After the tragedy, DeAngelis received 4,000 letters. Some offered support, many were angry, and some even threatened his life. His counselor advised him to put the letters away. "By reading them, you're only hurting yourself," he said.
By 2002, DeAngelis' first marriage was ending. His wife had moved out, leaving their Highlands Ranch home empty except for the box of letters. "One night, I started reading them, and one of the first cards I opened was from my high school sweetheart," he says. "She had sent me a card in 1999 telling me that I was in her thoughts and prayers. I called her mother, who was still living in the same house, and we reconnected."
She became his support system, and following his divorce, the two spoke frequently over the phone. When her father passed away, DeAngelis saw Diane Meyer for the first time in 30 years. The couple was engaged Christmas Eve of 2003, and DeAngelis says they'll marry soon. "She's putting a little pressure on me," he says, smiling.
In 2000, he promised the class of 2002 "” freshmen at the time of the shooting "” that he would be their principal until graduation. In 2008, he made that same promise to the class of 2012. When he finally does retire, he'll have spent more than half his life in service to Columbine. It will be tough to leave that all behind. "With everything that has happened, there is still not a day I do not want to be at that school," DeAngelis says.
And when he leaves, his hope is that community members know he did the best he could. He wants them to know Columbine High School was like a second family. He'll remember the students, staff members, parents, and community members that have had an impact on his life. "I hope I touched their lives in the same way," he says.
On the morning of April 17, DeAngelis will call his annual Junior-Senior Prom Assembly, in which he will stress the importance of making safe decisions over prom weekend. He'll also address the anniversary. He says he won't go into a lot of detail about the tragedy, but he'll let his students know they're not in it alone. He'll tell them he's there for them. "We are one large family," he'll say to the students in attendance. "We are Columbine."
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