There were seven of us, spread out around the oval table. I couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time, sitting with a group of five other students each from a different grade level. Like the other students there, I had won a raffle, and so I got to have lunch with the principal, who, sitting square across from me with a beaming smile and an unshakable warmth, was Mr. G.
It’s funny, in my mind’s eye, he always looks the same, as if time does not age him the way it does the rest of us. He seems to have a permanent openness to his face, calling to mind the word ‘Jolly’ anytime I see him. As long as I’ve known him, there has always been this unrelenting kindness painted in his eyes, the effortlessness of which I still marvel at even now.
Our group spent the lunch chatting about small nothings, each of us sharing insignificant topics that he managed to make feel important. We shared our names and what grade we were in, offering up a fun fact about ourselves. And eventually, in the rise and fall of natural conversation made easy by Mr. G’s attentive presence, we found ourselves drawing. I’ve forgotten why, or who suggested it, but I know that upon request, Mr. G got us each paper and writing utensils, and we began to create each in our own unique way. I spent the first few minutes drawing animal doodles and miscellaneous objects until I paused, eyes taking in what the others were working on. When my gaze reached what Mr. G was making, I was quickly overcome by a curiosity that pulled me clean away from my own drawings over to his.
In a scrawling cursive, Mr. G had written his name on the folds of a blank piece of paper. He darkened the lettering with his pencil to the point that I wondered absently if the pencil’s tip would tear through the paper. It didn’t. Instead he folded it so that the blank patch of the page overlapped his name, and flipping the white sheet in some special way that always seemed to stump me, he started shading the upward facing blank space. I watched in awe as he folded again and repeated the process, unsure what to expect the final outcome to be. So when he laid his pencil down, flipping over the folds to reveal what had been left inside, I stared in wonder―I remember thinking for a moment that it must’ve been magic.
The words that he had written now appeared on a separate page, but somehow the letters were not backwards as I’d expect. It was as if they had been printed, not scratched onto paper, but pressed―our own real life copy and paste. Naturally I wanted to try, as did many of the other kids, so we spent the lunch practicing how to transfer doodles and words to different pages, Mr. G guiding us through our attempts. That moment left a lasting impression on me in the way that Mr. G gave something ordinary, the air of being magical.
For a little context, I went to Angell elementary school from the age of five to eleven, and although I can’t speak to the other elementary schools, in my heart, Angell is special. One of the main reasons for this is the people who give the building life. People like Mr. Vincenzo Gigliotti (aka Mr. G), who has served the Berkley School District for almost 30 years now. Founded on a positive mindset, uplifting spirit, and a love for education, Mr. G has fostered a supportive community in Angell that will be carried with each student as they move through the Berkley Schools until their graduation. Despite his major influence on the building, I get the feeling that he credits much of his success and the welcoming culture at Angell to others. While I agree that a culture is made by the masses, I also know that a strong and kind leader plays a huge role in which direction a culture leans. Fortunately, Mr. G is not only kind, but also reflective, both qualities visible in the improvements he has sprinkled throughout Angell.
One of my favorite additions was this event called “family circle” which started when I was in fifth grade. Before this we would have a frequent assembly called respect circle, where every class would meet in the gym and each teacher would present an award to one of their students. The award was typically given for things like an act of kindness, being on task or helpful, or for as the name suggests, being respectful. Eventually, respect circle inspired a new tradition, where students on the first Tuesday of each month would have “family circle”.
Since I was one of the older kids I got to walk down to the kindergarten hallway and pick up three kindergarteners before walking them to our family circle classroom. I had a diverse group of three; the little girl was always bouncy and excited, and one of the little boys was goofy and animated, while the other boy would just be excited to see me and would tend to stick close. During all of this, the song “We Are Family” would be playing on the PA, and in those moments of picking up my kindergarten buddies while other students did the same, a simple contentment would spread through me. Respect circle highlighted and awarded the little things, serving as a reminder that even small acts can amount to large impacts. But I hold a special fondness for my family circle, because it was there that I felt truly connected to every aspect of Angell. From the place to the people, there was an unmistakable sense of community and belonging that lived in those brief moments. Even now, after so many years, the Angell I hold so dear in my memories still feels like home, and that is because of Mr. G and the value he has put into building an inclusive community.
At Angell, there was a distinct feeling that it was not only a safe and welcoming place, but also fun. And Mr. G was never one to shy away from the fun-filled festivities Angell would host. In fact, when I was on the smaller side, maybe seven or eight, I was walking outside for recess, and as I reached the blacktop my eyes were pulled to one of the basketball hoop poles, where Mr. G, happy as ever, was held up by tape which was wrapped securely enough for his feet to wiggle mid air. Some of the kids in front of me reached him first, and once they did he would talk with them as if he were standing, not defying gravity. They’d giggle at his casualness through it all, and go on talking to him excitedly, sharing a laugh that he’d easily elicit.
Aside from that sticky situation, he was never embarrassed or too uptight to put on a goofy costume. For every fun-run, he was there, decked out in a superhero outfit or some other themed costume, cheering kids on from start to finish of the 5k. He’s been pied in the face and has dyed his hair colorful; he’s been dunked into a water tank and has camped on Angell’s rooftop; and of course he’s been taped to a pole, mummy-style. The intention behind each of these acts of silliness has always been about reminding kids that ‘Angell is a fun place to be!’ and that it’s important not to take ourselves too seriously when instead we could just have a laugh.
Fun isn’t limited to those wild adventures though, it also shows up in the way Mr. G carries himself, and how it feels to be on the receiving end of his joyfulness. There is just something about him, as though he has an innate ability to slow down and just be present in the moment. Any time you see him, he embodies happiness―or maybe contentment is a better word―and he has this inviting cheerfulness that just makes you want to be around him.
Even now, so many years later, I can still recall those brief hallway passings, where he would stop what he was doing just to ask about my day. No matter where he is or what he’s trying to manage, he always takes the time to make it known that you belong, and you matter. Being around Mr. G, I’ve gotten to witness the impact that being kind can have on people. It was from watching him that I observed how something as small as an inquiry about someone else, or offering a smile to brighten someone’s day, can make all the difference in showing people that they matter.
I recently learned about Mr. G’s mother and the influence she had on his pursuit of an educational career. When he told me that watching his mom’s great affinity for empathy as she worked helping others break away from the cycle of abuse was what inspired him to try and be someone like her, someone kind, empathetic, and full of love, it suddenly made a lot of sense to me why Mr. G has always prioritized being such an attentive principal. Despite an initial perception that ‘cheerful’ is just who he is, his compassion and consistent smile, his habit of whistling whenever he walks through the hallways (an affinity for which he inherited from his Dad), and his open demeanor that is always inviting, are all done with the understanding that how we treat people matters.
Growing up we’re told about the importance of treating others with kindness, but to truly learn something like that it takes more than just words. Having a role model like Mr. G to embody those words has been one of the greatest gifts I could have as a student. I truly can’t think of a better person to emulate how to be a good human, and I’m sure that’s because he had some pretty good mentors of his own in his Mom and Dad.
If I had only one word to describe Mr. G, the one I’d use is magical. After being around him for even a short time, I always end up feeling lighter and more hopeful. Being able to evoke that feeling from others, that is a quality that I consider to be no less than one of magic. On June 13, Mr. G will be leaving Angell, possibly walking out its doors for the last time. Accompanied with his departure is the loss of a great leader in the Berkley community; however, his legacy will remain. That legacy, which Mr. G has demonstrated each day, is simple but profound: how we treat people matters. Creating a space and culture where people feel safe, welcomed, and seen, matters. So I try to carry a piece of that legacy with me anywhere I go, because if I can be for one person what Mr. G has been for hundreds, I’d consider myself a success.
In terms of retirement plans, he’s opted to keep the possibilities open. With a side business called MeetSquad for running gymnastic meets as well as a few mentor role opportunities, there is an excitement that comes with looking to the future, even if it is shared with some sadness for letting go of the past. Every year when we finally reach these last couple months of school, there is a surreal realization that another year has passed; a new class has graduated; some of the adults we hold dear are retiring; and at the same time, mixed in with all those endings there are beginnings. A new year, a new senior class, new staff and adults to impact students’ lives, and new kindergarteners walking into an elementary school for the first time. Often, the ending of one chapter is the start of another. But I suspect that the underrated middle of our stories, the parts that contain all the memories and lessons we’ve gained over the years, are what make goodbyes so bittersweet, and hellos so exciting.
So Mr. G, when I asked what you were going to miss most about Angell, you answered without hesitation that you were going to miss the people. The staff, the kids, the community.
I have witnessed your appreciation and gratitude for others since I was a little girl, and I want you to know that there is an abundance of people who carry that same gratitude for you. It is in no small way because of you that so many students were gifted elementary years to reminisce fondly about now. When it came time for our fifth grade class to graduate, you were the one to be standing there with your reassuring presence as you sent us off to the next phase in our lives―I believe now it’s our turn to do the same.
I am one of the many to be deeply appreciative for all that you have done, Mr. G. I hope retirement treats you well, and you are able to continue your cooking (not baking!!) escapades with all your newfound time. You will be forever loved by those who have walked through your halls and those who have received your joyful smile.
Thank you for everything, and happiest of retirements to you.
