Raising a generation of informers

The date was April 20, 1999. Reports were trickling in about a shooting at a high school in Colorado. It was my sister’s birthday, but we had celebrated together on the previous weekend for both of our big days. She took the day off to view the tulips in the Skagit Valley. Jeanette hated the fact that she was born on the Hitler’s birthday. Her only consolation was that her birth was at least four weeks premature. And now this. I left her a message on her answering machine not to turn on the news when she got home.

Eight years ago, our house was a busy place, often packed with friends of our two sons. John was 16, and Joe was almost 14. Lenny and I spent a lot of time feeding and supervising, and we were privy to many of their discussions. Ok, we eavesdropped, something I highly recommend to parents of teens. We had a hot tub on a deck outside the dining room, under a bedroom window. Whenever we wanted to know what was going on in our kids’ lives, we merely went to our room and opened the window. When the jets were running on the tub, they fairly shouted to be heard. Having to launder extra loads of towels was a small price to pay for this insight.

In the aftermath of the recent murders at Virginia Tech (which happened on my birthday this time), NBC had a segment on one of the magazine shows about how to survive a school shooting. I think I can tell you with certainty that there is no child in high school, junior high, or college who has not already thought through this scenario. After Columbine, the kids talked a lot about “what I would do if…” They discussed lockdowns, defending themselves, and playing dead. Their usual bravado was kept in check by understanding the speed of bullets. In their deepest conversations, they talked about shooters and targets. There were kids that they considered unstable, and other kids who were likely to provoke them. The kids who were provokers were disdainfully referred to as “pop-offs,” because they lacked sensible restraint.

Some of the first footage of the evacuation of Columbine High School showed a group of students running from the building with hands behind their heads. One of the boys had to keep reaching down to pull up his sagging pants so that he could run. When I saw him, I realized that I knew these kids. I didn’t know their last names, but I knew them. They were the same generation as my children. They had names like John, Joe, Brandon, Thad, Nick, Cameron, Michael, Steven, Chris, Leah, Katie, Megan, and Lexi. It might have been due to the inevitable maturation process, but we noticed that any residual innocence and optimism of childhood were snuffed out. And two years later on September 11th, their discussions became political. Any flame in their hearts was either fanned into patriotism, or drowned in cynicism. They talked a lot about profiling, about suspicions, and about how to go about their lives without constant fear.

Over the years there has always been a stigma attached to being an informer. Consider the negatives associated with being a “rat,” “snitch,” “fink,” or “nark.” Even the unattributed “source” sounds suspect. It seems that there were plenty of people who, at the very least, “brought up concerns” about the shooters at Columbine and Virginia Tech. Could it be that this generation will consider it a virtue to report someone who seems unstable without seeming racist, discriminatory, or judgemental? Perhaps, but this will happen only if someone takes the information seriously, and if there is a will to take action instead of looking the other way.