It felt like death surrounded and threatened to suffocate us. Tom began saying he didn’t think he could go on without Dylan, his buddy. That morbid sentiment was one of the only things that could rouse me out of my near-catatonic state: How would I cope if Tom took his own life, too? After what had happened with Dylan, there was no way I could trust myself to take an accurate read on the emotional state of the other members of my family. For all I knew, Tom and Byron were actively planning their own deaths. The thought made me frantic.
I was having suicidal thoughts, myself. It was the most natural thing in the world to explore a way to silence the grief and guilt and shame I felt. But knowing those feelings were a normal response didn’t make them any less scary.
It was also normal for me to worry excessively about Byron, even if it was unhealthy. As soon as he left my sight, I felt anxious and abandoned. I could not let go of the fear that something horrendous was going to happen to him—or that, out of the depths of his despair over what Dylan had done, he was going to do something terrible to himself. This dynamic between us would intensify over the months to come.
Byron had lived a life touched little by loss: he’d only been to a single funeral in his life, for a Little League coach who’d suffered a sudden heart attack. Tom and I had both survived parents and other relatives, and we knew Byron was unprepared for what the next few days would bring. On the other hand, what preparation could there be? Byron’s first real experience of loss would be a catastrophe of such magnitude and incomprehensibility that all of us would spend the rest of our lives struggling to understand it.
• • •
I could not watch television or read the newspaper at Don and Ruth’s house, but I would peek through the cracks once in a while, as you would from a bomb shelter to confirm the utter devastation outside. And so I could not entirely avoid what every headline and front page and news crawl in the world was screaming: “TERROR IN LITTLETON. The two boys believed to have been the shooters, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, were students at Columbine High School….”
I became fixated on the picture that aired over and over: the most terrible school picture Dylan ever had taken, so unflattering that when he brought it home, I urged him to have it reshot. It made him look like the kind of kid teachers as well as students would find a reason to pick on—the guy you’d move your tray to avoid in the lunchroom. It didn’t look like him. Even in my near-madness in those early days after the tragedy, I knew how ridiculous it was for me to be upset that the media were using an unbecoming photograph of Dylan, instead of showing him as the nice-looking young man he had been. My son was an alleged murderer—and there I was, dithering over an ugly photo. It was a spectacular example of the tricks the mind plays when we’re juggling unbearable emotions. Absurd as it was, I wanted Dylan to be shown the way I remembered him.
Every channel ran graphic accounts of the carnage, and of the horrifying things Dylan and Eric had said and done. There were detailed descriptions of the weapons the boys had carried, and of the clothing they wore. There were diagrams of their movements through the school. In the absence of information, there was endless speculation as to the motives behind the attack.
Theories abounded, many of them conflicting, and each one of them more perplexing than the one before. The papers reported that Dylan and Eric had been goths. They’d been members of a death cult. They’d been sworn members of an antisocial clique at the school called the Trench Coat Mafia. They’d been spoiled, overindulged brats who were never taught the difference between right and wrong. They’d been gay. They had been bullied. They’d been bullies themselves. The attack had been cold-blooded, and planned for a long time. Alternatively, it had been impromptu: the boys had simply snapped.
Much has been written in the years since about the media coverage of the event—in particular about how quickly early misinformation about the boys solidified into received truth.
For me, listening to the flood of speculation felt like looking into a kaleidoscope. I was as hungry for enlightenment as anyone else; I had no idea anymore what to believe. As every new piece of information tumbled into place, each one uglier than the last, a different picture of my son came into focus. Invariably, that picture was of someone I did not recognize. When one of the component pieces was discounted, or determined to be false, the arrangement would shift again—and with it, the ground under my feet. To the rest of the world, these kaleidoscopic shifts probably made it seem like investigators and the press were closing in on a plausible explanation for why and how the tragedy had occurred. But each explanation took me further away from the boy I knew.
Early on, I flinched from the news coverage about Columbine because it was wildly inaccurate, or reporting things about my son I could not bear to hear. I now flinch because, as an antiviolence activist and brain health advocate, I understand how frighteningly irresponsible much of it was. We now know that press coverage with excessive details—fetishizing what the killers wore, for instance, or providing precise accounts of their movements during the crime—inspire copycats, and give them a blueprint upon which to model their own plans.
At the time, though, the contradictory reports and the inaccuracies served to fuel my desperate hope it was all a terrible misunderstanding. If they’d gotten this fact wrong, or that one, then perhaps all of it was false. As I would come to learn too well over the weeks, months, and years to follow, the mind plays tricks to hold itself together when under tremendous strain. Ordinarily logical to a fault, I spent those early days clinging to any shred of hope I could salvage or manufacture, no matter how irrational or far-fetched.
The first and most widely spread inaccuracy was the characterization of the boys as “outcasts.” This startled me, although it shouldn’t have: as I was to learn, it is a commonly held (and even more commonly reported) misconception about mass shooters.
It was true Dylan had always been reserved and self-conscious; he never liked to be the center of attention, or to stand out from the crowd in any way. It was also true he had grown more reserved as he entered adolescence, although he was never the ostracized, friendless, antisocial stereotype offered up by the media. Throughout his life, Dylan was quick to make and keep good, close friends, both girls and boys. During his high school years, our phone rang to the point of distraction with invitations to go bowling or to the movies, or to play fantasy baseball. If the media could be wrong about Dylan’s social status, my broken mind reasoned, there was still the possibility it was all wrong—that the reporters and police had their facts mixed up and Dylan was a victim, not the agent, of violence.
It was also reported that Eric had been Dylan’s only friend, which wasn’t remotely true. We’d frankly discouraged the relationship after the two of them had gotten in trouble together the previous year, and Tom and I had been pleased to notice Dylan keeping his distance. At the time of his death, I’d definitely have named Nate as Dylan’s closest friend.
Similarly, when the media identified Dylan and Eric as swastika-wearing haters, I felt strangely buoyed; there was simply no way this part of the reporting could be right. I had been raised in a Jewish home, and our own family had hosted an informal Passover seder two short weeks before. As the youngest, Dylan had read the Four Questions at the celebration. I had spent my career as a teacher and an advocate for people with disabilities, and Tom and I were both lifelong proponents of tolerance and inclusion. Neither of us would ever have tolerated any hate speech or anti-Semitic imagery in our home or on Dylan’s clothing.
Again and in the same vein, I focused obsessively on the contradictory and changing numbers—how many hurt, how many dead. If the authorities still weren’t sure about fatalities, what else might they be wrong about? Much as I was riveted to those tallies, I did not yet—could not—translate the numbers into what they really meant: children and a teacher who had been violently and permanently torn from their families and robbed of their lives, of their futures. I wanted the number of fatalities and injur
ies to be small, as if that would make Dylan’s actions seem less awful. I hope I do no dishonor to those who died and were injured or traumatized that day, or to their families, by being truthful about this. It would be weeks before the veil lifted and I would cry for Dylan’s victims. We all grieve first for the ones we love, and Dylan was my son. And I still didn’t believe he could really have killed anyone.
I might have been eager to avoid the full truth about the degree of Dylan’s involvement, but the complete denial insulating me in those early days was not sustainable. The magnitude and severity of the attack crashed over me with every headline and every call from our lawyer, newly overwhelming me each time. In addition to the fifteen who had died, twenty-four individuals were being treated for injuries at local hospitals. The status of the severely injured children was updated constantly. If they survived, they would likely sustain permanent disabilities as a result of their injuries. I had spent the latter half of my career working with students with disabilities, so I knew very well what that meant.
My mind reeled. How could there be no way to press a reset button, to live the last weeks of Dylan’s life over again, to change the outcome of that life, to stop what had happened? I ached for the other parents grieving their own children and praying by hospital beds, and had to constantly remind myself no magical thinking would rewind the clock. Not only was there nothing I could do to stop it: now that it had happened, there was absolutely nothing I could do to make it better.
All I wanted to do was to hold my son—and then to have one more chance to stop him before he committed his final, terrible act. The loop in my brain ran constantly, always starting and ending in the same place: “How could he have done this? How could he have done this?” We were left to face the catastrophe Dylan had left behind, without the only person who could possibly shed light on what had happened, and why.
• • •
Although Don and Ruth could not have been more hospitable, they were beginning to look almost as exhausted as Tom, Byron, and I did. It’s natural to want a break from even the most charming and welcome houseguests, and we were hardly that, although we did try to stay out of their way as much as possible, and to minimize the burden of our confusion and grief. I knew Don wanted to watch news coverage of the tragedy; I also knew I could not bear to hear it, and so I spent more and more time in the basement. Years later, Byron admitted he’d hidden behind a shrub outside of their house so he could have a place to cry without being seen.
When we had parted with our new attorney the night before in the parking lot of the convenience store, we had scheduled an appointment for the next day: he wanted us to come to his office to meet his staff. Our neighbors and close friends Peggy and George urged us to come to their home after the appointment with our lawyer. I said we would, after I got my hair cut.
Left to my own devices, I wear a man’s flannel shirt and jeans, and can count on one hand the number of manicures I’ve had. Early in my working life, though, I’d realized that if I had a good haircut, regularly maintained, I could look tidy and professional without having to fuss—indeed, on most mornings, without even having to resort to a comb. So I scheduled a standing monthly cut-and-color appointment. I regarded it as a necessary grooming chore, like showering or brushing my teeth. That month, my standing hair appointment fell on the day after Columbine.
I decided to keep it. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to the outside world; I wasn’t thinking about anything. A haircut was the last thing in the world I wanted, but then, so was choking down the bowl of Cheerios Ruth had insisted I eat earlier in the day. Keeping the appointment, I reasoned, would get me out of Don and Ruth’s house for a while, allowing them a modicum of privacy and recovery time away from us. Also, it required nothing of me except sitting in a chair. I wasn’t up to much, but this I thought I could handle.
More important, it would make me presentable. I grew up with the understanding that personal presentation is a way to show respect. I might be most comfortable in jeans and an old T-shirt, but I dress up to go to the theater out of admiration for the performers. I wouldn’t dream of wearing sweatpants to temple, or to church. Over the next few days, we would have to have a funeral for Dylan, and I did not want to look like a scarecrow when I said good-bye to my son.
Tom drove us to Gary Lozow’s office, where we met his staff. So it was that we sat with a table full of attorneys even before we had made funeral arrangements for our son. Looking back on it now, I realize we probably could have refused to discuss legal matters until after the funeral, but we were stunned into helplessness. This juxtaposition of legal and personal affairs was to become a pattern in our lives after Columbine, and one we would negotiate over the years to come. The need to tend to legal concerns shadowed our grief—always. Fortunately, we had found an ethical and compassionate lawyer, who genuinely had our interests at heart.
At the meeting, Gary summarized the legal aspects of our situation: no lawsuits had yet been filed, but they were imminent. I sat there, numb, while the lawyers talked over my head. Still in shock, I could barely understand what was being said, and I simply couldn’t rouse myself to care. They were acting as if my future was at stake, but as far as I was concerned, I had no future. My life was over.
Leaving the meeting, I asked Gary about my hair appointment. Unconsciously, I had already begun to ask for his input on the most minor decisions, realizing I had no idea what the right thing to do was, and no barometer for how I should behave. I was still in zombie mode. He told me gently, “I think you should do whatever you would normally do. That’s what will help.” So I called my hairdresser and asked her if she could move my appointment to the evening, so I could see her after all her other clients were gone. She agreed.
Later in the evening, Tom dropped me off at the salon, and went to our friends’ house to wait. My hairdresser was cordial but visibly uncomfortable. We didn’t know each other well. It was my first attempt at trying to look and act normal for someone outside my inner circle of family and friends, and I saw immediately it was hopeless. I had thought getting a haircut would require little of me, but even that minimal social interaction was leagues beyond what I could manage. I wished I could put the poor woman at ease, but I understood she wouldn’t ever be able to see me as a normal human being after what Dylan had done.
The darkness outside the large storefront windows left me feeling terribly exposed; I could barely make eye contact with the bedraggled, haunted creature staring back at me from the mirror. My hairdresser chatted nervously as I cowered under the glaring fluorescent shop lights. In the course of conversation, she mentioned that one of the victims’ mothers had been to the salon for her own hair appointment, earlier in the day.
That stunned me. I might have been sitting in the same chair where that other mother had sat—perhaps under the same stained plastic cape. The thought of the two of us performing this perfunctory grooming task in order to get ready for our children’s funerals touched me and horrified me in equal measure. For a split second, I felt as I had in our driveway, like I was part of a community of people who were grieving.
But then it became intolerable, the sorrow my own son had caused another mother. I wanted to feel close to her, and I did, but I was the last person on earth she would allow to offer her words of comfort, and the sense of isolation and grief and guilt following so quickly on the heels of that sense of connection devastated me.
I practically dissolved in gratitude when my friend Peggy and her daughter Jenny arrived—a surprise. They’d left Tom with Peggy’s husband, George, so the men could talk. It was humiliating to be seen in such a pathetic position, my wet hair plastered to my face while I slumped over, almost too weak to sit up in the chair. My friends could see how hard I was working to keep myself together, and the two of them held my hands and kept up my end of the conversation with the hairdresser while I struggled imperfectly to hold back my tears.
I finally got out of the chair with my hair still
wet, as I always did. As I went to pay, I remembered my cash supply was limited: the Browns had lent us some money to walk around with so we wouldn’t have to reveal our identity through checks or credit cards, but I was loath to spend any of it before I knew when we’d next be able to get to the bank. So I asked if my hairdresser would allow me to mail her a check instead of paying cash as I usually did.
The subsequent silence startled me; I sensed mistrust in her hesitation. Then she summoned her courage and explained it was the salon’s policy to request payment at the time of service. A flush of shame crawled up my throat as I fumbled with the bills and paid her. I was not the person she knew before the tragedy; I was the mother of a criminal now. Dylan’s actions had changed who I was to others, as well as to myself.
Still preoccupied by my dwindling money supply, I was caught off guard when my hairdresser asked if it was okay to tell people she’d seen me. I flashed on that other mother sitting in the salon chair, and the fleeting moment of connection I’d felt with her over the simple grooming ritual we’d shared. Foolishly, I told the hairdresser it was okay to talk about my visit. Perhaps she would be able to create a bridge between me and the community ripped apart by my son.
Those were still early days, and it frankly did not occur to me that she would talk to the press. She gave an interview that night. It was a generous gesture, an attempt to help us: she described my shock and grief, my insistence that we hadn’t known anything about what had been planned. But the story took off, and suddenly I was Marie Antoinette, getting in some self-indulgent “me time” while parents grieved over children lying dead in the school. The story got national attention, and I got hate mail from as far away as Texas.
This narrative fed into a story the media had already been cultivating: that Dylan was a spoiled brat raised by negligent, self-serving parents. News reports focused on Dylan’s BMW—never mind that Tom had picked it up for $400, vandalized and virtually undrivable, so he and Dylan could fix it up together. Aerial shots of our house made it look like a massive compound but didn’t mention it had been a handyman’s special with a mouse problem we’d gotten for a song because of its neglected condition.
Mother's Reckoning : Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy (9781101902769) Page 6