One of the biggest improvements would simply be to refrain from jumping to conclusions, especially by oversimplifying root causes. School shooters don’t kill people “because” of violent video games or techno music, and people don’t die by suicide because they’ve lost a job or been dumped by a girlfriend. Many articles I read in the wake of Robin Williams’s death expressed shock that a man so wealthy and beloved could feel he had nothing to live for. Of course, money and popularity don’t protect people from brain illness any more than they cause it.
When we oversimplify the cause of a suicide, we create risk by suggesting that a romantic rejection or a setback at work is a reason to consider death. A firing or a breakup might contribute to someone’s despondency, but people get dumped and fired all the time; these events by themselves cannot explain why someone dies by suicide. Similarly, violent video games have been shown to desensitize kids to the reality of violence, and they are likely particularly dangerous for vulnerable kids who are struggling with brain illness or other cofactors. But school shooters don’t go on rampages because they played Grand Theft Auto or Doom.
It’s my hope the recommendations I have made here won’t be seen as pro-censorship or a threat to free speech, but as a call for ethical reporting. (In an act I respect greatly, the novelist Stephen King asked his publisher to withdraw his novel Rage after a number of school shooters quoted from it.) The iconic Columbine photograph is a still from the surveillance tape showing Dylan and Eric in full paramilitary garb, brandishing their weapons in the school cafeteria. Whenever I see it—especially when it accompanies an article that purports to be taking a more constructive approach—I have to stop myself from throwing the magazine across the room.
Certainly there is precedent for changing the way the media report events with an eye to the greater good. A good reporter would never dream of publishing a sexual assault victim’s name, or specific troop movements. Perhaps it will soon become similarly unthinkable to publish a killer’s mug shot over the number of people he killed and injured in bright, blood red.
Some news organizations have begun to listen. In 2014, a conservative Canadian network made the decision not to name or show a photograph of the perpetrator who shot five police officers, two fatally. The editorial they ran explained the decision: “It’s easy to report on the life of the killer, to scour his deranged Facebook page, to speculate about motive, but doing so could actually encourage the perception that his heinous acts are somehow justified.” I don’t feel as strongly about hiding the names of the killers as many media analysts do; I’m happy to leave that recommendation to someone better qualified. However, it’s notable that the station’s in-depth coverage of the event was in no way compromised because they did not report those details.
In many countries in Europe, national news councils monitor coverage and penalize infractions. This is probably impossible in the United States, and may not be desirable (although I wish there had been an avenue to discipline the National Enquirer, which published leaked crime-scene photographs from Columbine, including a photograph of Dylan and Eric dead in the library). There are conversations happening in the best newsrooms every day about sensitivity and contagion and trauma. I believe that, in time and with education, news agencies will adopt these guidelines voluntarily, for the simple reason that it is the right thing to do. In the meantime, when you see coverage you feel is irresponsible, you can (as I do) write an e-mail to the news organization, or make your objections heard on social media.
The fear of contagion was the main reason Tom and I fought so hard to keep the Basement Tapes sealed, but it was not the only one. Aside from whatever destructive behaviors another alienated kid might learn, I was horrified to think the friends and families of people who had suffered losses might be re-traumatized unwittingly, simply because they happened to be flipping through a magazine in a grocery store line, or sitting underneath a television at a sports bar.
I was also concerned that releasing the tapes would continue to feed the comforting fantasy that evil will present itself in a way only a fool could fail to recognize. For me, the tragedy at Columbine was proof of how dangerous this fantasy can be. When you watch Dylan on the videos, you think: That kid is insane, practically boiling over with rage. He is planning to commit real violence, and to die by suicide. Those parents must have been complete idiots. There’s no way they could live in the same house with that person and not know he was dangerous.
All I can say is it’s what I would have thought, too.
There was no way to release the tapes responsibly. Nor was there a convincing reason to do so. An army of professional investigators and psychologists had studied the tapes, and they had been unable to reach agreement regarding why Dylan and Eric had committed this atrocity. What on earth was the general population going to learn?
I often think it would be far more instructive—and frightening—to show the video we took of Dylan on the afternoon of his prom, three days before the massacre, smiling and playfully tossing tiny snowballs at his dad behind the camera. To my mind, the expertise with which desperate people can mask their true feelings and intentions is the far more important message.
The tapes stayed private. Conspiracy theorists raged, but there was no cover-up. There just wasn’t anything worth seeing.
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My relationship with Dylan in my head and heart has changed. I’m so angry with him right now. I wonder what I did as a Mom to make him feel so hurt, so angry, so disconnected.
—Journal entry, October 1999
Leaving the sheriff’s office after seeing the Basement Tapes, I was in a whole-body state of shock. In the parking lot I staggered toward the car, slurring my words like a drunk. The horror of what we had just heard—not to mention that the tragedy could have been so much more severe, and the violence perpetrated so substantially worse—practically brought me to my knees.
In the days and months after that meeting, my entire world broke open all over again. Viewing the Basement Tapes finally forced me to see my son the way the rest of the world saw him. No wonder they thought he was a monster.
There’s a miniature gyroscope in each one of us, searching for equilibrium and maintaining our orientation. For months after seeing the Basement Tapes, no modulation was possible. I could barely tell which way was up.
Once I emerged from a state of shock and started to feel something again, I was consumed with fury. I was reeling from what Dylan had done to so many innocent people, and what he might have done to so many more. I had kept his loving memory alive in my heart all those months, but he had destroyed that memory, and everything else. At Thanksgiving, the only thing I could think of to be thankful for was that the bombs hadn’t gone off. Dylan’s empty chair was a reminder of the other families, mere miles away, with empty chairs of their own. I held Byron’s hand while he graciously gave his thanks for the food and for us, but there was no possibility of further conversation, or of eating more than a perfunctory bite. When Byron excused himself from the table after a miserable fifteen minutes and stood up to carry his dishes into the kitchen, Tom and I both started crying.
My digestive issues worsened that fall. When my annual gynecological checkup rolled around, my doctor was genuinely freaked out by the way I looked and sounded. I’d known him for years; he’d delivered Dylan, in fact, and I’d been pregnant at the same time as his wife, so we’d been in the same new baby care class. As a medical professional and as a friend, he was adamant: I needed to find a therapist.