On this day 15 years ago–half a lifetime ago now–I was taken out of class, interrogated, and ultimately suspended for a week, over what I would call “thoughtcrime” if I didn’t associate that word with the sort of mouth-breathers who unironically use the term “sheeple.”
Long story short, I was falsely accused of planning to shoot up the school. This was the direct result of paranoia surrounding the one-year anniversary of Columbine. This would become one of the defining events of my life.
The “evidence” against me consisted of hearsay, grossly misinterpreted minor details, and what amounted to profiling: they never found any guns or bomb-making materials or detailed school schematics and plans for murder because there fucking weren’t any. The school administration at the district office, where I had to attend a two-part hearing to see whether I’d be kicked out permanently, deliberately skewed everything to make it appear as though I had no thoughts or interests beyond violence and murder. Imagine being barely 15 years old and having adults who hold direct power over your life and future argue over a conference room table about whether or not you are, in fact, a monster that needs to be Dealt With.
My charges were “making threatening remarks about school safety” and “possession of a weapon on school property.” The latter was the result of the campus cop finding a paring knife in my backpack. (Note that the class I was initially pulled out of was an art class. In which we were using class-provided X-Acto knives.) Although, for obvious reasons, I told no one at the time, I had this in my bag because of a boy in my acting class named Tyler, who would “jokingly” hit on me, put his arm around me against my wishes, etc. when people were around and then mutter violent threats when no one else was within earshot: this sad little knife was my last resort in case he actually did “try anything.” (In retrospect I’m appalled at how massively fucked-up that entire situation was.) It didn’t occur to me to tell an adult because it would be his word against mine and, seeing as he was a generic preppy type (he would later be nominated for Homecoming King), he would absolutely escape punishment and possibly escalate his treatment. As a wee true-crime aficionado, I already had him pegged as the Ted Bundy type. And in an absurd twist, he would later end up dating the lying little cunt who had reported me to the administration in the first place.
My lawyer was ultimately successful and, after my week-long suspension was over, I was “allowed” to come back, upon which I had to refute various asinine rumors about what had happened multiple times a day every day. And I was still a target: about a month after that, a friend of mine dismembered a Britney Spears doll at lunchtime, and I was called to the office and “gently” interrogated. (If you think that’s absurd, you should read a laundry list of the supposed “evidence” against me during my hearing.)
For some time I’ve wanted to write about this experience, and how it’s affected my adult life, in long form. Perhaps this year will be the time.
