Early Wednesday afternoon Wayne sent a text that was both alarming and funny.
“Your high school made the national news. Angels bunch of hid rats.” Which was then followed by four more texts: “Good” (twice in a row), “Hoodrata,” and then “Hoodrats.”
Once I grasped what he was trying to convey, my heart sunk. Although, I also sensed from his levity that it wasn’t too severe. Wayne has a pretty dark sense of humor but also a sense of decorum. I was pretty confident it wasn’t like the next Columbine had happened or anything.
Still, I immediately opened Safari on my phone and searched “East High Shooting,” which confirmed he was right. There had been a shooting incident at my alma mater! Say what?
And then it was my turn to indulge in some grim humor. I’d lost the unofficial bet we had about whose high school would be the first to have a school shooting, his (George Washington) or mine (East). He won.
Next, I went to YouTube and caught some of the press conferences just starting.
Two administrators had been shot during a pre-arranged and agreed upon pat down of a particular student, who fled and was on the run. That’s why it had made national news, I believe. It wasn’t a true “school shooting” as we’ve unfortunately come to know them. Rather, it was that a gun had been fired off in school and the shooter was at-large.
However, this time the shooting felt more personal. It had happened at my school. Well, my former one.
East High Memories
To this day I’m very grateful I attended my alma mater thanks to desegregation practices. It was 10 miles from my suburban home in southeast Denver. Near the heart of downtown in a magnificent old school building, which I grew to love but as a freshman was very intimidated by. How would I ever navigate my way through its halls?
But I did. And I learned how to set up my schedule, which they handled like college. (Or how college classes were handled back then.) You picked your classes, then went to stand in line to register for each one. If some were full, you had to regroup and figure out which ones to try next.
That caused me a breakdown the very first time I did it. I hadn’t counted on some classes being full and didn’t have a contingency plan during registration. I ended up crumpled on the floor in a corner crying as I re-examined the classes. But not before I humiliated myself begging my friend’s mom, who taught at Manual High, a nearby school ours shared classes with, to help me.
I was horrified back then when she refused, but to this day, I’m forever grateful she did. It was a lesson in being responsible and learning to problem-solve for myself. I would’ve learned nothing if she’d helped me —except how to be a crybaby to get help. That’s not an attractive way to go through life.
Anyway, my experience at East wasn’t perfect of course. The tears I shed during freshmen registration wouldn’t be the last that fell from my eyes within that school’s hallowed walls. There would be friend drama, boy heartbreak, and even a meltdown in Sophomore American History the morning my grandpa died and the weight of never seeing him again and worrying about my grandma suddenly hit me.
A Safe Place
But one thing I never shed tears for, never even worried about at all, was a school shooting. Did we have fights? I honestly don’t remember any. Maybe there were one or two, but incidents were quickly contained back then. For one, there was more authority. But even more important, we showed respect for authority.
But my school had known rough times. In the 70s knife violence was high. And our proximity to the “inner city” led to some gang concerns.
That was kind of the beauty of our school, though. We had rich, poor, middle class, black, white, brown, inner city, suburb, and country club kids mixing all together. We often topped both state academics and sports. And we all got along.
Not that we were all best friends. There were like 2,000 kids in school (or more) and about 500 just in my class alone. It was impossible to know everyone, and of course not everyone liked each other.
But, again, we respected each other. I remember watching teen movies where jocks bullied nerds, or mean girls tormented less attractive students. I could not relate at all. I was a fringe kid, devoid of belonging to any clique. I had friends, but I certainly wasn’t one of the popular kids, what I called the “E” kids. There was a giant letter “E” in front of our school. Our “elite” congregated there before school and during lunch and such.
So, sure, we had popular kids, but they meant no one any harm.
I was a misfit at best and an outsider at worst. And yet…I didn’t feel threatened or excluded. If anything, I was the one who excluded myself. It wasn’t until our 30th class reunion that I realized that, though when I wondered what I thought I was going to prove and to who upon showing up at a reunion. (A misguided goal influenced by movies for sure.)
Angels Amongst Us
Anyway, I watched the students dealing with the shooting at their school (our school) and instantly recognized fellow Angels. Not that I knew any of the kids on screen, or the ones giving interviews voicing their outrage about another school shooting that never should’ve happened because the “adult” lawmakers have their heads too far up their asses to make any meaningful changes to gun laws in this country.
No, it was more a look I remembered from my days there. You had preppy kids, regular kids, punk, Goth, skaters, jocks, and whatever it is they call different types these days. I can’t put it into words, but my heart swelled with recognition and pride. Especially when it showed a clip of a mass of them dressed in red and white, our school colors, marching to the state capital recently to protest another shooting that had also just happened and that had claimed the life of one of the school’s soccer players.
That’s the school I knew. Coming together when we had to, which was never for anything like shootings or our lives being threatened at the place we just wanted to get an education. Well, most of us wanted that. Some were there because society dictated that we had to be, and some were there for more social reasons. (Me, raising my hand. I was more concerned with developing relationships than schoolwork. Then Wayne came along and I wanted to impress him with my brains so I got serious about getting good grades.)
I have super fond memories of my time there. My only regret, as I wrote in an Instagram post about it, was that I didn’t get more involved in school activities or take advantage of all the incredible programs and teachers at our disposal.
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I’m so sorry that the student who had the gun and fired it had things going on in his life so serious that he felt the need to carry a weapon at all, especially to school. Also heartbreaking is that he felt the only way out was suicide.
And I hope the staff that was injured recovers. Both physically and emotionally.
Most of all my heart breaks for the traumatized students and faculty who now have to grapple with gun violence defiling their school. But, like that 14-year-old girl crying during Freshmen registration, I know what will happen.
This incident will shape them. It will mold some of them into taking action and instituting changes. After all, we didn’t chant, “East High Angels can’t be beat!” for no reason at school rallies and sporting events. (Not sure if they still do, but I have a feeling it’s an oldie but goodie that’s still around.)
Obviously, we don’t always win. We can be beat. But we don’t let it keep us down. Our wings may look delicate but they’re sturdy and strong. They lift us back up and help us fly on again when we’ve fallen. Not just while attending the school, but for the rest of our lives.
Revisiting East High
One of the things I loved most, besides catching up with my former classmates, was the tour of the school given by Richard Nelson, one of our teachers. Here are some of my favorite shots from that visit.
