SUSAN KLEBOLD - SHAME AND HUMILIATION https://facebook/FrankSomervilleKTVU/photos/a.394744753922191.92927.162404453822890/788909337839062/?type=1&theater This woman looks like she could be anyone. Her name is Susan Klebold. And that is her son on the right. His name was Dylan Klebold. And he and Eric Harris were responsible for the Columbine High School massacre on April 20, 1999. 12 students and one teacher were killed. A number of other people were injured. Every time we do a story on a school shooting, I always wonder what it must be like to be the parents of a killer. How do you deal with that? And what do you say to all the families of the victims? Susan Klebold has now decided to write a book about her what happened and her “indescribable grief and shame.” This isn’t the first time she’s spoken. A couple of years ago she wrote a long article for “O” Magazine. And I just read it again. She is brutally honest about the massacre and what her life has been like since then. I’ve condensed her story quite a bit, but it’s still pretty long. Its just not easy to shorten something, when the person is pouring her heart out. So make sure you have a moment when you read it. I think you will find that its worth your time. Here now is Susan Klebold’s story in her own words: Just after noon on Tuesday, April 20, 1999, I was preparing to leave my downtown Denver office when I noticed the red message light flashing on my phone. It was my husband calling. His voice was breathless and ragged, and his words stopped my heart. Susan—this is an emergency! Call me back immediately! When (I called him back) my husband picked up the phone, he shouted, Listen to the television!—then held out the receiver so I could hear. I couldnt understand the words being broadcast, but the fact that whatever had happened was big enough to be on TV filled me with terror. Were we at war? Was our country under nuclear attack? Whats happening? I shrieked. He came back on the line and (said) hed just learned there was some kind of shooting at the high school…gunmen in black trenchcoats were firing at people…and Dylan and his friend Eric hadnt been in class that morning…and no one knew where they were. My office was 26 miles from our house. All I could think as I drove was that Dylan was in danger. Maybe he was lying in the school injured or dead. Maybe he was being held hostage. How could we think for even a second that Dylan could shoot someone? Shame on us for even considering the idea. Dylan was a gentle, sensible kid. No one in our family had ever owned a gun. How in the world could he be part of something like this? I do not remember how or when, but sometime that day it was confirmed that Dylan and Eric were indeed perpetrators in a massacre at the school. I was in shock and barely grasped what was happening. News coverage announced a growing tally of victims. Helicopters began circling overhead to capture a killers family on film. Cars lined the road and onlookers gawked to get a better view. By Dylans senior year, he had grown tall and thin. His hair was long and scraggly. He was quiet. He grew irritated. He was pensive. One day in April I said, You seem so quiet lately—are you okay? He said he was just tired. Early on April 20, I was getting dressed for work when I heard Dylan bound down the stairs and open the front door. Wondering why he was in such a hurry, I poked my head out of the bedroom. Dyl? All he said was Bye. The front door slammed, and his car sped down the driveway. His voice had sounded sharp. I figured he was mad because hed had to get up early to give someone a lift to class. I had no idea that I had just heard his voice for the last time. In the weeks and months that followed the killings, I was nearly insane with sorrow for the suffering my son had caused, and with grief for the child I had lost. Much of the time, I felt that I could not breathe, and I often wished that I would die. I got lost while driving. When I returned to work part-time in late May, Id sit through meetings without the slightest idea of what was being said. I cried at inappropriate times, embarrassing those around me. Seeing pictures of the devastation and the weeping survivors was more than I could bear. I avoided all news coverage in order to function. I was obsessed with thoughts of the innocent children and the teacher who suffered because of Dylans cruelty. It was impossible to believe that someone I had raised could cause so much suffering. But while I perceived myself to be a victim of the tragedy, I didnt have the comfort of being perceived that way by most of the community. I was widely viewed as a perpetrator or at least an accomplice since I was the person who had raised a monster. Through all of this, I felt extreme humiliation. For months I refused to use my last name in public. I avoided eye contact when I walked. There was no way to atone for my sons behavior. For the rest of my life, I will be haunted by the horror and anguish Dylan caused. I cannot look at a child in a grocery store or on the street without thinking about how my sons schoolmates spent the last moments of their lives. Dylan changed everything I believed about my self, about God, about family, and about love. I think I believed that if I loved someone as deeply as I loved him, I would know if he were in trouble. My maternal instincts would keep him safe. But I didnt know. And my instincts werent enough. And the fact that I never saw tragedy coming is still almost inconceivable to me. I only hope my story can help those who can still be helped. I hope that, by reading of my experience, someone will see what I missed. Susan Klebold Despite what her son did, it’s hard not to feel for Susan Klebold. And I will assume if you want to hit “like” that it means you are thinking the same thing. And if you’d like to read the entire article here’s the link: oprah/world/Susan-Klebolds-O-Magazine-Essay-I-Will-Never-Know-Why
Posted on: Sat, 27 Sep 2014 22:02:37 +0000
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