For Connor: Family and friends share memories of Connor Daniels, as he would’ve graduated from East this year

He always took the third one.

During their family’s sacred weekly tradition of Waffle Sunday, now-freshman Caroline Daniels remembers how her brother Connor would always offer the first, crispiest two waffles to her and her brother Nathan — every time. That’s just the kind of person Connor was.

“He was always just such a great brother towards me,” Caroline said.

While Caroline remembers his generous spirit, his parents, Jen and Kevin Daniels, remember Connor for his goofy but wickedly smart personality. His best friend senior Spencer Collins remembers his quick wit and quirky love of puns. And his other best friend, senior Luke Kounkel, remains inspired by his creativity and passion for writing.

Connor took his own life in seventh grade on March 23, 2018. Family, friends, teachers and classmates who loved Connor remember his unique personality and selfless character through their memories of him now — the year he would’ve graduated from East. 

Connor was quiet, but brilliant. 1320-on-the-SAT-as-a-seventh-grader brilliant. Able-to-multiply-242-times-38-in-his-head-as-a-first-grader brilliant. Casually-rattling-off-astrophysics-facts-as-a-seven-year-old brilliant. His parents were always so proud and in awe of Connor’s intelligence, wit and humor. 

“I was just so lucky to be a dad to such an exceptional child,” Kevin said.

Before they moved from Texas to Kansas, Jen and Kevin once walked down to his elementary school to check in on him at recess. At first, they were concerned and saddened by what they saw — their son walking laps alone, not talking to anyone. When they asked him about it that night, Connor replied that, yes, he had friends, and that what he was doing was writing a book in his head.

“He was comfortable being with friends, and comfortable being alone,” Kevin said.

When the family moved to Kansas at the start of Connor’s fourth grade year, they were really worried that it would be very a big change for the kids, and if they’d be able to fit in. All the kids had really known to that point was life in Texas. 

But Connor quickly found a few really incredible friends — Spencer Collins and Luke Kounkel. The three instantly became inseparable. 

“One enduring memory I will cherish is the image of Connor and Luke walking slowly around the court during a practice at basketball,” their basketball coach Steve wrote to be read at his memorial service in 2018. “They are oblivious to the ball and chaos and coaches. They are engrossed in deep conversation, comfortably enveloped in their friendship and some great idea.”

After-school time and weekends for the trio were spent with hours-long trampoline sessions, PC gaming marathons and endless conversations about ideas for books Connor was planning to write — only interrupted by one of his signature cheesy puns. Spencer remembers once when he said that puns were the lowest form of humor. Without skipping a beat, Connor coolly replied “Then poop jokes must be #2.”

“We spent so much time doing stupid little things together,” Spencer said. “It’s those little things I miss the most.”

Despite Connor’s affinity for video games, math and science, his true passion was reading. His parents attribute it to his insatiable curiosity. He read whatever he could get his hands on — usually in a day or two. Jen recalls one time she literally watched him walk into a light pole while walking home from school, keeping his eyes glued to the book.

After his passing, his parents wanted to make an impact in the community, but didn’t know how. Originally, they planned to donate to a suicide prevention charity, but it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like Connor. Then they thought of Operation Breakthrough, a youth outreach organization Jen found out about from meeting the president and CEO at a Corinth fundraising event. Both of them agreed that contributing support and books to low-income youth fit his generous, kind soul. 

With the help of Operation Breakthrough and their family friends who organized it, they raised over $35,000 to donate to the organization and founded Connor’s Corner, a mini-library area in the Operation Breakthrough facility made up of donated books. Jen and Kevin regularly throw parties at their house, inviting neighbors and collecting books for Connor’s Corner.

Today, you can find a few thousand books in the corner of Operation Breakthrough, ready for anyone to read.

“It’s rewarding, but sad,” Kevin said. “We love helping people and we love that it’s making an impact, but at the same time, we hate the reason why.”

Despite the positive impact their efforts with Operation Breakthrough had on the community, it’s still a painful reminder of Connor’s death. It’s hard, Kevin says, seeing people Connor’s age prepare for graduation and knowing he won’t be tossing his blue cap in the air with his classmates.

Around this time of year, they remember him in the little things. They see him in the color blue — his favorite color and the stunning color of his eyes. And they remember him whenever someone cracks an awful pun. Caroline remembers him on Waffle Sundays, and his parents think of him every time they see the family of cardinals in their backyard. 

“I realized that I really do want to celebrate Connor,” Jen said. “To celebrate him every day and in any way I can. Whether that’s by telling terrible jokes, listening to truly terrible music on the radio, wearing the color blue or making myself a triple-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

It gradually gets easier, but the pain is still there. Nevertheless, he will always be a loving big brother and son, a friend to Spencer and Luke and a member of the class of 2023. But it’s how Jen explained it to Caroline the day Connor passed away: 

“It’s like when you smile when a tooth goes missing,” Caroline said. “It will never really feel the same. But you get used to it. Over the years, the pain went away more. And I don’t think about it as much, but when I see things that remind me of him or a kid at work that looks like him, it makes me reminisce for a little bit and then it passes. Now I’m not as angry at him or sad. It’s always gonna be there, but it’s less painful to think about.”

To donate to Operation Breakthrough in Connor’s name, visit operationbreakthrough.org, navigate to the “donations” tab and leave Connor’s name in the note.