So at first glance, I was one of those guys.

I went to school in a relatively cold environment, so coats and jackets weren’t that unusual well into April. I wore a lot of black, and had a small circle of friends. Folks probably thought I was kind of an oddball. I also had a long jacket.

When Columbine happened, I had no idea until I went into school. Waiting at the front entrance was the principal, who immediately guided me into her office and told me to give up the jacket or I would be immediately suspended from school. When she told me I’d get my jacket back at the end of the day, I gave it up without much of a fight.

What she didn’t know was that the jacket had a lot of emotional value to me - it was my grandfathers old bridge coat, an old uniform jacket from his time in the service. It was warm, comfortable and I loved the hell out of it.

When I came back at the end of the day, somebody in the office had run a pair of scissors through it, shredded the damned thing and poking it full of holes.

She taught me something that day, though probably not what she intended: people with even the tiniest bit of authority over you are not your friends. They don’t have your best interests in mind.