When we search our children’s rooms or read their journals, we risk that they will feel betrayed. However, they may be hiding problems they cannot manage by themselves.
When Dylan was asked by the counselor to talk about his family relationship, he said it was “better than most kids’.” He said Tom and I were “supportive, loving, dependable and trustworthy.” In response to the question “What impact has this [arrest] had on your family?” Dylan answered, “A bad one. My parents were devastated as well as I.” And to the question “What have been the most traumatic experiences in your life?” Dylan responded, “The night I committed this crime.”
After interviewing Dylan and our family, the writer of the treatment status report concluded, “Based on history, it does not appear treatment is indicated.” Despite this, when we finally met Dylan’s Diversion counselor in March of 1998, it was the first thing I asked: Did she think Dylan needed therapy? When Dylan joined us, she asked him if he thought he needed a therapist, and he said no. I was a little disappointed she didn’t give us more guidance—I already knew what Dylan thought. But Dylan kept assuring us he’d simply made a stupid mistake. “I’ll prove to you I do not need to see anyone.” We agreed to monitor the situation, and to change course if necessary.
Diversion took up a lot of his time that year. Dylan was provided with counseling, anger management training, and an ethics class. He was required to participate in community service activities as well as making restitution payments to his victim, and he was tested for drug use on a regular basis. We felt the gravity of the punishment would help Dylan to understand the seriousness of his offense.
Unfortunately, Dylan’s and Eric’s Diversion appointments were often scheduled together, and they saw each other at school. Though the boys did not talk about the arrest, their friends knew they were in serious trouble because their activities were so restricted. When Judy Brown heard Eric and Dylan were in trouble with the law, she assumed it was for the threats Eric had made against her son, Brooks.
Eric had a website, filled with hate speech and violent imagery. He made specific threats against Brooks, going so far as to include the Browns’ telephone number and home address. I did not learn about Eric’s website until the afternoon of the attack on Columbine High School. But Dylan had known about it—and, the day before he and Eric were scheduled for their Diversion intake interviews, he’d told Brooks. In the hallway at school, he’d slipped Brooks a piece of paper with the web address on it, warning him not to tell Eric how he’d found out.
This, to me, is striking—another one of Dylan’s attempts to extricate himself from the relationship with Eric, or at least to call attention to the severity of Eric’s disturbance. Everyone knew Brooks was close to his parents, particularly to his mother; Dylan had to assume Brooks would tell Judy about the site immediately. That is precisely what happened, and the Browns did go to the police. An investigator drew up an affidavit to search the Harris home, which was never shown to a judge. After Columbine, that paperwork disappeared.
Not knowing about Eric’s website is a huge regret, and it emphasizes how important it is for parents to share information with one another, though the conversation might be uncomfortable. It’s understandable Judy didn’t come to me about the website: when the two boys were arrested, she believed the police had finally taken action. She had no idea Eric and Dylan had been arrested for a theft that had nothing to do with Eric’s threatening behavior—just as I had no idea Eric had threatened Brooks or anyone at all until the afternoon of the tragedy, when Judy Brown was standing in my driveway and fifteen people were lying dead in the school, countless others injured and traumatized.
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The limitations we placed on Dylan after his arrest felt restrictive to him, and he was short-tempered with us. Since there had been no indication on the Diversion screening of any psychological problems, we tolerated his irritability and tried to keep him engaged in family activities as much as we could. As always with Dylan, there were enough good times to keep me hopeful. For all the unpleasantness and disagreements in those months, there were many times when we got along and enjoyed each other’s company.
When Dylan asked me what I wanted for my birthday at the end of March, I said I’d like some time alone with him. He took me out for breakfast. I tried to get him to talk about himself, but Dylan answered my questions as briefly as possible, then asked me about my job and my life. He was so adept at listening that I did not see how skillfully he turned the focus of the conversation away from himself. Before our pancakes were cold, I was babbling about my artwork, my job, and my dreams for the future without recognizing how deftly he had shielded his inner life.
By the close of Dylan’s junior year, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Dylan spent afternoons and evenings at rehearsal for a school production of Arsenic and Old Lace. We began to talk about his life after graduation. He felt burned out and didn’t want to go to college, but we encouraged him to think about it, and a few days later he agreed to come with us to the high school to look at college resources. Dylan was smart, but he hadn’t been truly motivated by what he was studying since he’d left the gifted program. I felt sure he’d flourish at college, with more freedom to discover and pursue his passions.
On April 20, exactly one year before his death, he and Tom went to their first baseball game of the season. The following week, Tom and I went to see Arsenic and Old Lace. Dylan’s contribution to the performance was flawless. Though I cannot say he appeared completely happy, he seemed more balanced, as if he was trying to get past the mistakes he had made.
That spring, we had the worst argument we ever had during his lifetime. It happened on Mother’s Day, the last Mother’s Day we had together, and it still hurts me to remember it.
I can’t remember exactly what set me off. I was heartsick about the disastrous year I’d had with both my kids, angry about Dylan’s continuing negativity and bad attitude, and quietly hurt he had forgotten Mother’s Day. When I confronted him about his attitude, I had the feeling he was responding, not to me, but to some inner joke. It seemed disrespectful.
Fed up, I got in his face. I shoved him against the fridge, pinning him there with my hand. Then I waved my finger and gave him a real mom lecture. I didn’t yell, but there was authority in my voice as I told him he had to stop being so crabby and selfish. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Dylan. It’s time for you to think about the other people in this family. You need to start carrying your weight.” Then I reminded him he had forgotten Mother’s Day.
I dug my hand hard into his shoulder while I lectured. Until the day I die, I will never stop wishing that I had pulled him toward me instead of pushing him away.
Finally, in a soft voice that carried warning power, he said, “Stop pushing me, Mom. I’m getting angry, and I don’t know how well I can control it.” That was all it took; this wasn’t my parenting style. Appalled that the conflict had progressed this far, I backed off. It was the worst confrontation we’d ever had, in seventeen years.