I will never forget a conversation I had the day after the shooting:
Them: "I can't believe it. What kind of people must those boys have been?"
Me: "What kind of person am I? I can understand why they would do it. I can't say I haven't thought about it."

Incident #1: The Locker
    My locker was not a place of high social gathering. A few friends would stop by to chat between classes. However, many of the lockers next to mine were occupied by those of high social status. The athletes, the students whose parents made more money, their friends. The "popular crowd." All that the locker contained was my books and my jacket and those of my girlfriend, whom I shared the locker with. We kept no valuables in it. The inside door was covered in magnets and pictures- things that we liked and reflected who we were.
    Near the end of the year, the harassment had become close to unbearable. I was on the verge of breaking down on a regular basis. I fluctuated between wanting to force the perpetrators to suffer as I had and wanting to crawl into a hole and cry. I reported each incident as best I could, but that wasn't seeming to do anything. No actions were being taken, and few warnings were given. I felt as though reporting things was just a waste of time.
    One day, as I was returning from class to the locker, I could hear several students near it laughing. Curious to see what was so amusing, I quickened my pace. I soon learned what had made them laugh: our locker had been broken into, and all of the decor inside had been tossed about on the floor. The magnets were scattered, and the pictures torn and crumpled. One in particular, a drawing of a rose that my girlfriend had done for me, caught my eye. It was the only paper that was salvageable, and became a sort of symbol of our struggle. Knowing that becoming upset would not help, I simply picked up the items and took it all down to the dean's office. I reported the incident, like so many others I had seen, and again, nothing came of it. I forced myself to remain in control as other students taunted my girlfriend and I while we replaced our belongings. No one helped us. Teachers and administrators stood by and did nothing. No one cared.

Incident #2: The bus
    As members of the marching band, my girlfriend and I took several bus trips with the band to various competitions. It was October, and we were returning from a show at night. The bus was dark, and many people were talking or playing cards. Naturally, there were those couples in the back of the bus that were having a little more fun than that, but that wasn't unusual. She and I, on the other hand, were sitting sideways in a seat in the middle of the bus, my back against the window and her back against me. I had my arms around her waist, and my jacket draped over her, because it was cold. We were talking in hushed tones about various topics, as to not bother those around us.
    Approximately twenty minutes had gone by since we left the competition. Suddenly, two of the band parents, acting as chaperones, came up and pulled us from our seats. They forced us to each sit with a chaperone on the front of the bus. We were confused and scared. Neither of us had done anything wrong. The driver was looking at me in the mirror, and his face was stern. He was in his high 30's, I would guess, and he struck me as one of the "good 'ole boys": the kind that got together with their buddies and watched the game with some beers, told racist jokes, and ogled young women on the street. He asked me what we were doing, and I replied, "nothing."
    "Don't lie to me, young lady. What were you two doing?"
    "Nothing. We were talking."
    "I told you not to lie to me. We'll talk about this later."
    Without an explanation, she and I were forced to sit in the front of the bus, with chaperones, forbidden to speak or even look at each other.  About 45 minutes later, we arrived back at the high school. Jim, the driver, started asking me again what we had been doing. I again said, "nothing," with insistence. By now, my mood had shifted from confusion to anger. How dare he make us sit up here like criminals without an explanation? What right did he have?
    Jim then suggested that since this was a "delicate matter," we should go somewhere more private, since students were milling past us to get off the bus. We were escorted outside by the chaperones, and stood just outside the bus. The equipment trailer, which everyone passes through to get their uniform and instrument, was approximately 10 feet away. Students were walking by the three of us (the chaperones had left to help with equipment) as close as one foot away. Jim was easily heard by whomever cared to listen.
    "Now. I'm only going to ask you one more time. What were you doing on that bus?" His voice had grown angry. I could see my girlfriend trembling, and that served to enhance my growing anger.
    I spoke through clenched teeth. "For the last time. We were talking. That is all."
    "Well, someone reported that there were two girls making out on the bus. You wanna change your story now?"
    I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. "No."
   "Now, I don't have anything against people like you." Jim proceeded to lecture us about proper conduct on a school bus for some time, and eventually we were allowed to get our equipment and go inside. My girlfriend and I were both in tears, and many people asked us what was wrong. We gave little or no answer. There are not words for the emotions I felt. The injustice I had just been though was intolerable. I wanted to hurt people.
    Later, we were called into the marching band director's office to rehash the situation. He didn't see it as a "homosexuality thing," and wanted to address the band in a very politically correct manner. I, on the other hand, was certain that this was a matter of sexuality. The couple in the back of that very bus, I found out later, had been making out the entire ride home. No one bothered them. But I wasn't allowed to express that opinion. The band director gave his little speech, and several students came up to me later, telling me they were sorry about what happened. Some of them were genuine. But much of the sympathy that was expressed was not. I was bitter. The band members talked about the incident for months.
    I quickly discovered, via the band director himself, who had told the driver about us. I had been in classes with her, she had chattered on like we were friends. I decided one day that I needed to say something to her. She couldn't get away with that. Especially since she and her boyfriend were one of the couples that usually sat in the back- the ones that go unnoticed. I approached her between classes, and a look of fear was in her eyes. "Why'd you do it, huh?" That was all I said. She gave no response, and clung tightly to her boyfriend. I never got an answer, but she never looked me in the eyes again.
    Several of the students spoke with the band director about the incident afterwards. Many of them were students that knew us, or people that were sitting in the seats surrounding ours that October night. All of them said the same thing: we weren't doing a damn thing but talking.

Incident #1: The white board
    Many college students hang dry erase boards, known as white boards, from their doors for others to leave messages on. The board on my door has had several messages scrawled on it of a derogatory nature as the year has gone on. These messages include, but are not limited to:

• "AIDS cures homosexuality."
• "Ozzy Osbourne is the music of the devil."
• "God hates homosexuals."
• (Written on one of my friend's white boards) "No, Sam will not eat you out."
• "We don't like your style. Either you change it, or we will."
• "Why don't you get a real religion?"
• "If you don't believe in God, He can't save you from us."
• And then there's my personal favorite: "Does your mother know how much we hate you?"

Incident #2: Posters
    A girl I know had similar problems with her white board earlier in the year. Most of the comments she received were connected to the paraphernalia she displays concerning the pagan organization on campus. She reported the incidents as they occurred, and she also created several posters that requested that the perpetrators immature behavior cease. More than one of the posters were returned to her, affixed to her door. They were covered in blood.

Incident #3: Chinese restaurant
    I frequent a Chinese restaurant that is about 3 blocks from my dormitory. On a Friday night, I had headed down there to get dinner dressed in black chunky heeled shoes, baggy carpenter jeans, a black shirt, and a black artificial leather 3/4 length jacket. I ordered my food and leaned against the wall, waiting. Three males, all larger than me and donning shirts that identified them as athletes at the college I attend, started laughing and commenting on my appearance. They spoke of how I had an "attitude problem," and how I looked like I "need to be taken down a couple pegs." They surrounded me in a corner of the establishment, leaning over me, pushing me around and into the wall. The three spoke of how I must be a lesbian, dressed how I was, and how I looked like an "easy lay." They continued their act until the owner of the restaurant, a petite Asian woman, came out and tapped them on the shoulder, at which point they sat at a nearby table and continued to make comments until I left.

Resource articles concerning the Columbine incident:
The Cult of the Athlete
The Backlash of Columbine
More about the Backlash
Voices from the Hellmouth
More Voices from the Hellmouth
The Price of Being Different