My Columbine Birthday: April 20, 1999
"There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in..." Leonard Cohen "Anthem”
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s those idiotic birthday cards with a variation on the theme “Ha! Ha! Ha! You’re old!” They are usually decked out with a caricature of an elderly person, covered with more wrinkles than an overripe raisin. Perhaps that cartoon—which represents you—needs a walker. He/she has hair growing from places where you don’t want it, while hair disappears from places you’d rather have it. You know. All those dopey clichés associated with being “old.”
My grandparents all died within the age range of 65 through 70, during an era where anyone over 62 was dubbed as “old.” Living past 75 years back then was considered a remarkable feat. Not anymore. It’s all changed for the better. Our 21st century new “old” is a far cry from the 1960s old “old.”
When my mom turned 70, she said to me “I don’t feel 70.” “Mom,” I replied, “that’s what it feels like.” She lived another 13 years, and my dad checked out four years later at 90. Both of them outlived their parents’ by a couple of decades.
Of course, I’d be a fool to deny that I’m aging. I wish I had the hair that I did when I was 17 instead of my bald pate (actually I shave my head clean rather than turn what hair I have left into a combover of denial). I wish my legs could move a little faster when I’m running and my body would recover more quickly. So what? I take these and other physical changes for what they are: the natural progression of my body.
A timeworn saying says, “with age comes wisdom.” Here’s mine:
My 39th birthday was April 20, 1999. Thirty-nine is one of those weird ages. You’re not quite middle-aged, but you’re no longer the indestructible person of your twenties and thirties. You’re on the cusp of 40, a major demarcation line in life. So on April 20, 1999 I did feel certain pangs. I woke up that morning thinking “Omigod, I’m 39. How did I get to be so old?”
By day’s end, I was no longer complaining.
Late that morning, we were shocked to learn that utter horror was unfolding in Littleton, CO. Two gunmen were running rampant at the local high school, killing everyone they could. The story was on every television network, both broadcast and cable—a major media occurrence in 1999. Every station played the same video footage over and over again, like some kind of strange and bloody kabuki theater. Kids fleeing en masse from the school building. One boy, badly wounded and desperate to escape, falling from a broken second-story window. Teenagers wracked with sobs, hanging onto each other. Mothers and fathers in tight hugs with their kids. Other parents, faces emotionally torn apart, not knowing if their children were alive or dead.
When it was all over, 12 students and one teacher were dead. Another 20 students and one teacher were badly wounded. The two killers—students at Columbine High School—were also dead, having shot each other in a suicide pact following their mayhem. It was a planned assault by the pair. They were heavily armed with semiautomatic pistols and shotguns. The final death toll would have been higher if the killers’ propane-tank bombs had exploded.
The 12 murdered students were cut down before their lives really began. They would not have high school graduations. They would not have careers, children, grandchildren, or any of life’s wonderful adventures with all their ups and downs. They would not have the joy of growing old. The Columbine shooting ripped out our collective American heart.
I turned 39 that day. I’d gone to college and grad school, worked a few jobs, had some good bylines to my name, was married, owned my own home, laughed sometimes, and cried other times. The precious stuff we all take for granted. Those life passages that the murdered kids of April 20, 1999 would never have.
After Columbine I understood that I had no right to complain about getting old. I didn’t have the right to feel sorry for myself. These were just lazy privileges. That selfishness ended at age 39.
My birthday sometimes feels like a yin yang. I was born on H’tler’s birthday, something I turned from a point of insult into a joyous celebration. (See my previous birthday Substack). I’ve lived a lot longer than 12 Columbine High School kids who died on April 20, 1999. I’m one lucky guy.
So let’s celebrate my birthday and your birthday and all our birthdays to come. Let’s do it for the honored dead of Columbine. Let’s do it for the kids of Sandy Hook and Uvalde, and so many more slaughtered in school shootings—our cultural shorthand of death.
I’ll have more to say about that in a future Substack. But for now, let’s grow old together.
Remembering Cassie Bernall, Steve Curnow, Corey DePooter, Kelly Fleming, Matt Kechter, Daniel Mauser, Daniel Rohrbough, Dave Sanders, Rachel Scott, Isaiah Shoels, John Tomlin, Lauren Townsend, Kyle Velasquez
We all have those moments of unexpected personal reflection. Share yours in the comment section or on Twitter @RealArnieB. And be sure to check out my webpage: www.arniebernstein.com.