Mark McKillop

It wouldn't be my father if he didn't make me do something I had no interest in, but I did it anyway, even in his death.

So here you go, Dad:

Mark Daniel McKillop was born on September 27, 1953, in Brooklyn, New York, to parents Robert and Dolores (née McAllister) McKillop. He was the middle child of three boys, and there was never a moment of peace when he was around.

With a penchant for defying authority, Mark grew up in Hauppauge, New York. When he walked across the stage in 1971 to receive his diploma from Hauppauge High School, the staff and administration-along with probably the whole town-cheered with relief, happy to finally see him go.

Drawn back to the energy of New York City, he began a life of remarkable range-serving as a firefighter with the FDNY in the South Bronx and even contributing as a writer for Saturday Night Live.

After marrying his second wife, Kathy, his journey then led him to Texas by way of Houston, where he earned a degree in education from the University of Houston. There, he made his mark as Student Regent and became a familiar figure across campus. For more than twenty years, Texas remained his home-though his Brooklyn accent stayed ever present.

Mark devoted much of his professional life to teaching. He began in the English Department at Jane Long Middle School and later served students with special needs at Beck Junior High School. His dedication continued through roles at Alief Elsik/Hastings teaching English as a Second Language and briefly at the Juvenile Justice Center working with incarcerated youth.

Above all, his greatest accomplishment were his children. He was the proud father of three biological daughters and one son: Colleen, Caitlin, Kathryn, and Daniel. And he was the proud grandfather to 9 grandchildren.

In his eyes, we could do no wrong; we were all his pride and joy, whether we felt it or not. Well, except for that time one of us accidentally spilled chocolate milk in the back seat of the car during a scorching Houston summer and let their brother take the blame for nearly a decade. Eventually, Catholic guilt got the best of them, and they confessed (Danny, please let it go-I mean, it's Dad's obituary).

They say to never meet your heroes, and they're right. Because heroes pass, and mine did in the early morning hours of March 13, 2025, in the comfort of his own home. He was surrounded by his wife, Nancy, their two adopted children-John and Madison.

A man who didn't want the red carpet rolled out for him, he requested a simple cremation, wishing for part of his remains to be placed with his late father, so they could be reunited at last. He probably wouldn't have wanted this obituary written, but he isn't here to yell at me about it.

Even though I wish he were.