According to Huerter, several of the individuals she interviewed pointed out that deans, assistant principals, and principals were “often, if not always, coaches, or had a coaching background. This feeds a further perception that athletes were given preferential treatment by those deans or APs.”
Students who weren't the main targets of the bullies did not always realize the extent of the problem. One former student Huerter interviewed “felt the cliques and bullying were just part of being in school. She doesn't believe that now.”
When this young woman's sister started at Columbine, she went from straight A's to failing. The family didn't know about it for months, until finally a physics teacher called. The girl reported being unhappy in Columbine's atmosphere, so her parents chose to enroll her in another school instead. There, “she is again flourishing,” and notes that kids at her new school are friendly regardless of what “cliques” they're in.
The older sister now works with teens from several different schools. “As they talk about their school experiences it has become apparent that bullying is not present in all schools—at least not to the degree she witnessed at Columbine,” Huerter noted.
As for students like Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, Huerter wrote that everyone she interviewed described the pair as “loners” and “often the brunt of ridicule and bullying. Although no one had specifics about when and the degree of bullying they received, most often it was about shoving, pushing and name-calling.”
Even those who associated with Eric and Dylan were punished. A female student told Huerter that she was talking to Dylan Klebold in the school hallway during her freshman year. “After their conversation was over, one of the notorious bullies slammed her against the lockers and called her a ‘fag lover,’” Huerter wrote. “Many students were in the area, but no adults. She did not report this to the administration. When I asked her why, she said that everyone told her ‘it wouldn't do any good because they wouldn't do anything about it.’”
Some kids take refuge from bullies through their schoolwork. This wasn't a solution for me.
I found myself at odds with the teachers on almost everything. I remember when we were studying the book Animal Farm, by George Orwell. The book deals with animals that rise up against their oppressive owner and take over their own farm. From there, they try to establish rules that give all animals equality, but the power-hungry pigs eventually take over until, by the end of the book, they are every bit as oppressive as the humans that came before them.
I felt that Orwell wrote the book as a criticism of socialism. However, our teacher at Columbine wanted us to look at it as “socialism gone wrong.” She argued that the entire book is great, up until the point where the pigs became dominant. In my opinion, the point of the book is that things went wrong the moment the animals opted for socialism, and we were being taught the exact opposite of the author's intent.
Ideally, in a place where free exchange of ideas could happen, I could have argued that point without fear of repercussions. Instead, I kept my mouth shut. I had already been taught what happens when students went against the flow at Columbine.
On test days in my American Civics class, those of us who finished early were allowed to use the rest of the class period for reading. One day, after I'd finished a test, I pulled out a copy of Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.
The teacher approached me and picked up the book from my desk.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“I don't like Ayn Rand,” she said. “I don't want her being read in my classroom.”
“You can't do that,” I said. I was actually laughing. I couldn't believe it. “You're going to take away a book in American Civics class?”
She responded that I was disrupting other students who were taking the test. I just shrugged, knowing I wasn't going to change her mind. A few days later, I got my book back. But I never forgot. For kids who wanted to think for themselves and go outside the lines, Columbine High School was not the place to be.
Because Eric was riding the bus with me every day, we hung out quite a bit during freshman year. I liked him; not only was he smart, he had a twisted sense of humor. He also had unique ways of showing off his feelings.
There was a girl named Tiffany Typher who rode the bus with us, and Eric took her to Homecoming our freshman year. Unfortunately for Eric, it wound up being their only date; she didn't want to go out with him again after that. Eric was pretty bummed out, because he had liked her a lot. So he decided to play a prank on her as revenge.
We decided to use some fake blood left over from Halloween to give Tiffany a scare. As the three of us were walking past Eric's house, I started talking to Tiffany to distract her while Eric set his plan in motion. Then, once he was ready, he let out a scream.
Both of us turned in time to see Eric lying on the ground with a bloodied rock in his hand. His head and neck were covered in fake blood, and he was no longer moving; it looked like he'd bashed his own head in.
For a few seconds I played along, acting all concerned for my friend. Then I couldn't hold it back anymore and I burst into laughter. Eric did too, chuckling hysterically as he picked his bloodied self up off the ground. Tiffany told him that he was extremely immature, and stormed off to her house. Needless to say, Eric wasn't any closer to getting another date with her after that.
We were an obnoxious group of kids sometimes. We liked to rebel against the establishment, against our peers, and against our parents. We found that there was an enjoyment to be had in doing things differently, and shocking people. Obviously I would never cover myself in fake blood today. But at the time, we saw it as a funny way for Eric to get back at one more person who had rejected him.
All of us were finding ways to rebel, whether it was our clothes, our music, or our attitudes. For me, it was reading. I would spend class time reading books I had brought with me instead of paying attention to the teacher. Often I would get yelled at in class for doing this, but I didn't care. Other kids would make fun of the fact that I carried books around with me; for a while, my nickname became “Books” instead of “Brooks,” as if reading for pleasure was somehow improper. I didn't care about that, either.
I was once asked in class to write something memorable about my childhood. I wrote about the moment I first read Atlas Shrugged. I identified with the idea that “Each man must live for his own sake, not sacrificing others to himself, or himself to others.”
We were individuals, all of us, and we were proud of it. Other kids tried to make us feel ashamed for feeling different. We never did. Their words hurt us, and we lived in constant fear and hatred of our tor-menters. But we were proud of who we were. When it came to getting through the day, that made all the difference.
6
troubles
FOR YEARS, MY PARENTS URGED ME TO FIND SOMETHING I COULD BE passionate about. I'd always tell them that I was passionate about computers and about books, but that never seemed to get them off my back about the constant string of C's and D's that I brought home from Columbine.
Whenever I found something really interesting at school, though, I threw myself into it. There were two things that fit this description for me at Columbine: the theatre program and the debate class.
My dad encouraged me to join the debate team. At first it just seemed like another class, so I thought, “Why not?” and signed up. But once I arrived, I discovered that I loved it. I loved being able to debate in a situation where the other person can't just say, “You're an idiot,” and walk off. Instead, the two of you have to continue until the judges say you're finished, and then afterwards they tell you, “Okay, you were right and you were wrong.” The judges don't know either of you, so their decisions are based solely on the arguments you presented.
I enjoyed that so much. When you argue with people in real life, no matter how rational you are, generally the other person says, “Well, kiss my ass, I know I'm right,” and then walks off acting like he won. In debate, we actually had to
prove our points.
Not only that, debate allowed a student to constantly improve. After a debate, the judges will fill out a form telling you everything that you did or didn't do right, and generally they will give you helpful hints. Also, during my freshman and sophomore years, I would approach the kids who did really well during competitions and ask them for pointers. All through high school, I did better at each tournament because of what they taught me.
Being in debate class automatically meant I was on the debate team. The competitions would take place on weekends, at locations all over Colorado. My freshman year, we took first place at the Jeffco Invite for Lincoln-Douglas Debates, which was an incredible feeling.
Lincoln-Douglas debates are the perfect exercise for the analytic thinker. For each issue I was assigned, I would have to prepare arguments for either side. I wouldn't know which position I would have to take in the debate until two minutes before the round. That's tough, because it means that even if your personal opinion falls on one side of an issue, you have to be able to argue the other side convincingly enough to defeat the person who is arguing the side that you agree with. It was exciting. It reinforced the idea that there is more than one way to think, and more than one side to any issue.
For someone like me, the debate team was a godsend. The only thing that matched it was drama class.
I didn't get along with most of my teachers, but it's amazing the power that a positive, caring teacher can have. My best experience with such a teacher was Sue Caruthers, Columbine's drama teacher.
Mrs. Caruthers—or “Mrs. C,” as we usually called her—ran the most fulfilling extracurricular program I've ever been a part of. There were three different drama classes: Beginning Acting, Intermediate Acting, and Advanced Acting. I entered the classes with my friend Zach Heckler, and both of us were immediately hooked.
In drama class we learned how to design light plots, run a soundboard, or help with set design. We also performed small scenes in class to polish our acting skills. The idea was that students in this class would go on to participate in the Columbine theatre program, whether as actors or as tech crew members. Students would focus in one area or another, but most of us would do a little bit of everything.
The very first play I worked on was Get Smart, during the second semester of my freshman year. I played a student, and I had two lines. But I was also working as an assistant stage manager, and I helped build the sets. I loved the program, and participated in it all four years at Columbine.
Unfortunately, being an actor gave the bullies all-new ammo with which to target me.
Imagine seeing an attractive girl in the hallway who's in one of your classes, but who you've never really had the chance to talk with. Somehow, you get into a conversation with her. She seems nice, and you like her, and she's laughing and you're starting to get hopeful. Then a couple of football players come around the corner and say, “Hey, what the hell are you talking to her for, faggot? Do you actually think you have a chance with her?” And then they pick you up and push you into a locker, and you look like a pathetic weakling in front of the girl you were trying so hard to impress.
Such things were commonplace at Columbine. If a guy was acting in the Columbine drama program, he was immediately labeled a “drama fag.” Not only was he not playing sports—which was what all normal guys were supposed to do at Columbine—but he was into that fine arts crap! The bullies found whatever weakness they could and went after it. I was a wuss because I wasn't in sports. I was gay because I liked theatre. Then when I was in debate, it was like, “Ooh, you must be smart, huh huh huh.” Apparently, they thought calling someone “smart” was an insult.
Columbine students quickly found their roles and stuck to them. I found my role in the theatre; so did Zach Heckler. And when sophomore year rolled around, Dylan joined us. Dylan hadn't taken drama class like we had, but he had an interest in working technical stuff behind the scenes, so Zach showed him what to do. It didn't take long for Dylan to become a sharp soundboard operator.
Besides theatre, though, the rest of our activities weren't so good. As freshmen and sophomores, we were already into drinking and smoking and would get trashed at each other's houses, or even in the light booth during plays. Dylan, in fact, earned a nickname based on his favorite drink: VoDkA. The name would stick for years.
While speech and drama gave me something to sink my passion into, they didn't solve the problems I was still having at school—or with my parents.
My grades at Columbine were as bad as—if not worse than—my grades from junior high. It wasn't because I couldn't do the work. It was because I didn't do the work. My grade point average got a boost from classes I enjoyed, like drama and debate, where I got A's. But in some other classes, like math, I was bored out of my mind and tuned things out. I did well on tests, but my grades still suffered because I didn't do the homework.
I didn't see a point in it, didn't want to waste my time on the busy-work that constituted most of our assignments. There was no reason to do it other than earning a grade, and I didn't care about the grade. I would only do homework if I thought I would get something out of it.
This attitude drove my parents crazy. They tried everything, from grounding me to speaking with my teachers, to trying to help me with homework. They also offered to let me change schools, since they knew I was unhappy at Columbine.
Part of me wanted to get out. The problem was that all my friends were at Columbine. I didn't want to leave them behind.
Of course, I was still very much into the punk and alternative crowd, and my parents didn't approve of that at all.
My parents never really understood why I hung out with some of the kids I did. I tried to explain that it was because they were the most independent kids in the school.
However, many of my friends in the punk crowd didn't come from very stable home environments. A few of them were pretty messed up. They would talk all the time about the problems they had at home. I wanted to fit in with these guys. So I started exaggerating my own problems. I would play up the pressure my parents put on me to get better grades. We were fighting all the time, and venting about those fights to my friends only aggravated my feelings.
I felt my parents weren't attempting to understand me. Instead, they were trying to “fix” me—to get me back to the way I was in grade school, before all of the crap with CHIPS and the junior high bullies and other unpleasantness. But you can't always fix other people. They have to fix themselves. My parents kept trying to push me back to what they saw as the best sort of life for me. When I would rebel, they would try to fix me more, and in turn I would become even more rebellious. It was a terrible spiral.
I would run away from home a lot, staying at my friends' houses in an effort to keep away from my parents. I resented them for pushing me to “buy into the system” and start getting good grades, or conform to what everyone thought I should be. They seemed to want me to play the game. I didn't want to do that, so I dropped out of the game altogether.
I had my driver's license by the end of sophomore year, so I was one of the first kids in my group of friends to have a car. Obviously this made me pretty popular as a ride-giver. My dad had given me an older car to drive, and, like a lot of kids when they first get their license, I treated it with no respect at all.
One time, after I'd been grounded, I left with the car anyway and picked up a few of my friends. My dad came looking for me, and pulled up next to me ordering me to go home. I refused.
“Go home right now, Brooks!” my dad shouted.
Since his car was sitting in front of mine, I threw my car into reverse and floored the gas. I wound up driving backwards through our neighborhood at what I can only describe as a ridiculous rate of speed; I'm lucky I didn't kill myself and everyone else in the car. Eventually I got myself turned around and sped away, and my dad decided we were going so fast that he wasn't going to bother chasing us.
I went through a pretty rough time, where I pushe
d my parents to the absolute limit. Today I realize how much they must have loved me, to put up with me through all of that.
Loving, involved parents are so important for a kid. I fought with my parents over some of the stupidest things. I feel really bad about that now. Because I know, today, how much they shaped me. And in the years that would follow, they would become a strong anchor that got me through my troubles with Eric and Dylan.
Eric never followed the rest of us into the theatre, or into any serious pursuit of extracurricular activities at Columbine. He remained engrossed in his computer. That was his outlet for the frustrations of school.
Eric and I were still riding the bus home together at the beginning of sophomore year, before I got my car. He lived close by, and the two of us would go over to his house and play video games.
One thing Eric was really into was coding levels for Doom II. That was one of the great things about Doom II. With most games, once you beat all of the levels, that's it; there's nothing left to do except play the levels you've already beaten, and that can get boring. But with Doom II, you could buy a Doom editor that would actually allow you to design your own levels of the game, program them with as many enemies as you wanted, and then play them by yourself or with friends online. It was possible to program in your own types of enemies and your own sounds, move things around in existing levels, or build entire new worlds from scratch.
Eric loved the challenges the editing program presented. He loved programming and figuring out how to do things like matching textures or de-bugging a new level. He also liked creating challenges for his friends to beat. So when he created a new level, he'd invite me over to his house to give it a try.
No Easy Answers Page 6
