Dear reader, I am about to tell you a lie.

On Dec. 14 of last year, something terrible happened. In Newtown, Conn., a man named Adam Lanza killed 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School, after having shot his own mother at home.

I wish I could say that this was a lie, but it wasn’t. It really happened. The lie is yet to come.

The tragedy has continued to fill the news even now, over a month since. Stories of heroism, of terror, of kindness toward strangers in need — all have been repeated endlessly. Images of grieving parents have been burned into the social consciousness. The debate over gun control and over how best to prevent another Newtown rages stronger than ever — so they say.

Yet the feeling that wells up in me now is not terror, or fear, or even sadness. It is deja vu.

I remember that on Aug. 5, 2012, Wade Michael Page, a white supremacist, shot several people in a Sikh temple in Wisconsin. I remember more: countless nameless stories of violence and discrimination in the wake of 9/11, against Muslims or anyone who might be mistaken for one.

I remember that on July 20, 2012, James Holmes — emulating the Batman villain, the Joker — killed 12 during a midnight premiere of “The Dark Knight Rises.” I remember most of all his brilliant orange hair as he sat in a courtroom, looking dazed and confused.

On Jan. 8, 2011, Jared Loughner shot congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords at a meeting held outside of a Safeway store. I remember this event more clearly than most, due to Giffords’ occasional appearances since the shooting, each time having recovered a bit more.

On Nov. 5, 2009, Nidal Malik Hasan, an Army psychiatrist, killed 13 people at Fort Hood. I can remember nothing more than this, try as hard as I might.

And no, I have not told my lie yet.

On April 16, 2007, Seung-Hui Cho killed 32 students and faculty at Virginia Tech, and on April 20, 1999, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold killed 13 at Columbine High School. The names of both schools have become synonymous with gun violence, but the burning fervor both initially inspired has dimmed to mere embers.

And then, in 1998, in Springfield, Oregon, Kip Kinkel killed his parents after his father threatened to send him to a boarding school. Then he walked into Thurston High School, armed with over a thousand rounds of ammunition. He killed Ben Walker and Mikael Nickolauson, injured many, many more, and was only stopped when he had to reload his weapon.

But I do not remember that. I was only in middle school when the Thurston shooting happened. I had to search just to find a picture of him, to know what he looked like, to know the names of his victims.

The only things I remember were the names: Kip Kinkel, Thurston, Springfield — all repeated endlessly. Names, especially Kip Kinkel, that sounded too silly to be spoken with such constant, deep seriousness in those first weeks after the shooting.

The weeks turned to months, the months to years, the years to a decade plus a little more. Kip Kinkel is rarely mentioned anymore. The stories, the images and the debates have vanished from the news, except for the occasional remembrance that becomes more and more occasional with each passing year.

And I still have not told you my lie. Here it is.

Don’t worry. We will not forget about Newtown. We will not forget about the lives that were lost.

It will be different this time.

Joe is a graduate student in Mathematics. He can be reached at [email protected].