A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy(92)

I thought often in those days of a young woman I’d met while teaching in a program for at-risk young adults working to get GEDs. Over lunch, she’d told me a story from her childhood. A classmate kept stealing her lunch money. Tired of going hungry, she finally told her father, who threw her into an empty bathtub and beat her with his belt until she could not stand.

“Don’t you ever come to me because you can’t handle your own business,” he told her. She went to school the next day with a rake handle, which she used to beat the girl who had been stealing from her. Nobody ever bothered her again.

“It was the biggest favor he ever did me,” she said, openly amused by my shocked look and the sandwich I’d abandoned.

I had been appalled by the story; it haunted me for years. But as we headed toward the depositions, I thought a lot about what it meant to be a good parent. At the time, I’d judged her father to be abusive, but my student had told the story with love and respect. She believed her dad had parented her appropriately, and indeed he had prepared her for the rough environment in which they lived. Had I missed the point? Certainly I was in no position to judge. Perhaps all of us were doing the best we could with the experience, knowledge, and resources we had.

The only thing I knew for sure was that Dylan had participated in the massacre in spite of the way he had been raised, not because of it. What I didn’t know was how I could possibly convey this to the families of the people he had killed. Even if I could, it would never alleviate the magnitude of their suffering. Nothing would.

? ? ?

Our original statement of apology had been published in the newspaper, as well as the one we released on the first anniversary of the massacre. But whenever anyone we knew said anything to the press, the quote was taken out of context. We were threatened, and often felt afraid. Unfortunately, our inaccessibility and failure to speak up in our own defense had led people to believe we were hiding secrets.

I’d written those difficult letters to each one of the victims’ families. Then I had withdrawn to spare them the painful intrusion of hearing from me, even though I wanted nothing more in the world than a connection with them. I had spoken the names of their loved ones like a mantra every day, and yet the only points of contact between us came through our lawyers, or from reading about each other in the paper.

I wanted to bridge that distance. I knew from studying other violent incidents that it could significantly reduce trauma if the perpetrator’s family could sit down with victims to apologize in person, to cry and hug and talk. As impossible as it was to envision, acknowledging each other’s humanity seemed like the best course of action; as painful as that interaction would surely be, I craved it.

Eventually, I had to let that go. I was the last person who could ask for a meeting, and couldn’t run the risk of re-traumatizing someone by imposing myself. Each family’s recovery from loss is their own. I can only say here that if speaking with or meeting me would be helpful to any of the family members of Dylan and Eric’s victims, I will always be available to them.

We have had some contact with a few of the victims’ family members over the years, and I believe it was healing, for both parties. The father of a boy who died reached out to us about a year after the tragedy. We invited him to our home in December 2001. I was stunned by his generosity of spirit and found great relief in being able to apologize to him in person for Dylan’s actions, and to express our sorrow for his terrible loss. We wept, shared photos, and talked about our children. When we parted, he said he didn’t hold us responsible. They were the most blessed words I could have hoped to hear him say.

Around the same time, the mother of one of the murdered girls asked to meet. She was forthright and kind, and I liked her immediately. We both shed a lot of tears at that meeting, but I was able to apologize, and to ask questions about her daughter. I was touched she asked about Dylan and wanted to know who he was. A person of deep faith, this mother feels her daughter’s death was predestined, and nothing could have been done to prevent it. I have told her I wish I could agree with her. But I felt a great relief to meet her, and believe she took comfort from it too.

I received a lovely note from the sister of a murdered girl, who wrote that she didn’t think parents were responsible for the actions of their children. We also received a lovely, sad letter from Dave Sanders’s granddaughter. She said she did not hate us or hold us responsible. I treasured both those letters and returned to them time and again for solace.

Four years after the depositions, eight years after the massacre, I would meet another father whose son was murdered at the school. But at the time we were deposed, I had met only two people who had lost children at the school, and thirty-six families were making claims against us. As the day approached, I had no idea what to expect or who would be there when we faced each other in the courtroom.

? ? ?

Still struggling with fear, anxiety and feelings of craziness. There is no safe place to park my overburdened mind. I feel frightened, beaten, and on the brink of crossing over a line to madness and not coming back. I’m constantly aware of myself thinking about my state of mind, and about death. I was OK until these damn panics started. I was making it OK. Now I’m afraid I’ll never be OK again.

—Journal entry, July 2003



The pressure mounted as the date of the depositions approached. Over dinner one night, Tom and I had a long conversation about the afterlife.