I had forgotten today was the anniversary of Columbine. Eleven years to the day. I remember when it happened, still very clearly. I remember going home after school as I always did, and turning on the TV to this tragedy that I don't think my teenaged mind fully appreciated. I remember the next day in History class, the teacher discussing with us the counseling services available, the popular girl in tears.
And I remember the aftermath.
I was firmly in the social outcast caste in high school - not a loner, but close enough by many standards. An average student(thanks to laziness, not lack of ability), a gamer, a punk. Not an overwhelming group of friends, never went to a party, had a date, went to prom, or even kissed a girl. I wouldn't say I would have been friends Eric Harris or Dylan Klebold(I had to Wiki the names), but the intersection of interests would have had us at least acquaintances, I believe.
I remember my school's reaction. Security personnel were hired, a security booth built(originally an old box office window for the school plays?). And the sudden severity events were treated with. Bomb threats that would basically close the school for hours on end(we were still expected to wait on the football field for the bomb-sniffing dogs to give the all-clear). I even remember one student, who I was not particularly fond of, getting expelled for bringing a knife to school.
I remember the media's reaction. Marilyn Manson was no longer a harmless evil, but had corrupted these children! Video games were training our kids to fire guns! I still don't understand how moving a mouse(the games targeted - Doom mainly - operated with the left hand on the keyboard to move the character, and the right hand on the mouse to 'look around') was good experience for actually holding, arming, and operating a live firearm, but then, I have never held, armed, or operated a live firearm. If you wore a trench-coat, you were to stop! If you sat alone at lunch(poor Neil), you were definitely plotting something sinister! We were to dish out a hefty load of blame for this tragic event, but not to try and understand it. Blame the video games, blame the music. Don't try to understand how these kids were able to get their hands on these firearms and explosives. Don't try to understand how they were bullied mercilessly, day after day. Don't try to understand the cries for help. And certainly, above all, don't try to understand them!
I remember my family's reaction. The discussion I had with my aunt, a teacher and a very liberal feminist(indeed, partially to blame for my own feminism). The mere idea of trying to understand the rationale behind the shooting was just incomprehensible! Eric and Dylan were evil, and they were made evil by violence in the media.
I don't think I can remember a single moment of any birthday party I had before I was 18, but I can remember all of those events with crystal clarity. Such a tragic event, that left such a lasting impression on me, surely must have left an impression on everyone. Surely, we learned something from this.
January 14, 2010 showed us all that the answer was emphatically 'no'. We remembered, but we didn't learn. Phoebe Prince, and indeed, every school-aged child who has committed suicide in recent months, stands as testament to that.
We still do not take this seriously as a society, except for times like now where an ugly event gains national media attention. As adults, it is so easy for us to tell teenagers and children to grow up, get tough. To us their problems are petty, meaningless - what does the fact that Jenny called you a name matter compared to the fact that I can't afford to pay the bills?! But it does matter. It means all the world to them, and the second worst thing we can do is denigrate their problems, their fears, their trials. The worst we can do is say we understand. Their problems are unique, just as they are. You can remember being bullied every day(I do!), but that doesn't mean you understand what it is like for your kids.
I remember being a kid, being a teenager. I remember those days I contemplated suicide. I can look back on it now, and declare it all so trivial, but I remember when it was everything - the pain, the loneliness. I remember every time I was beat up, every name I was called, every rejection I faced. And I remember what I wanted, above all else, was for someone to listen. Just listen. Not judge, or criticize. Not react, or trivialize. Not even to speak. Just care. And listen.
I think it's only fitting to end an entry inspired by Columbine with a quote from Marilyn Manson, when asked about what he would say to Eric and Dylan, but should be applied to any teenager:
I wouldn't say a single word to them. I would listen to what they have to say, and that's what no one did.