Robby Stango, for example, was a 15-year-old freshman at Kingston
High School in upstate New York in May 1998 when school officials were
alerted to a poem he had written for a class assignment. Titled "Step to
Oblivion," the poem is about a divorced man who decides one night to jump
off a cliff and end his life. "Here I am/Standing here on this gloomy
night/Minutes away from my horrid fate," the verse begins. The precipice
is only seven feet high, however, and the man survives the fall. "Maybe
my prayer was answered/Or it could have been just luck/But I was given a
second chance at life," the poem concludes.
Despite its positive ending, the verse convinced school officials
that Stango was headed for trouble. Although the teen was seeing a
counselor at the time about problems he was having at home, he didn't
pose a danger to himself or others, according to therapists familiar with
his case. Yet the school discovery of the poem set off a chain of events
that resulted in Stango being forced, against his mother's wishes, into a
rive-night stay in a psychiatric ward. Alice Stango has since filed a
lawsuit against the school district and the county.
It was also writing assignments for English class that got
eighth-grader Troy Foley, from the California coastal town of Half Moon
Bay, in trouble. In an essay titled "The Riot," Foley, then 14, wrote of
a kid who is so enraged with school rules, especially the ones forbidding
him to wear a hat and drink soda during class, that he incites a student
riot that ends with the principal getting bludgeoned to death. Two weeks
later, Foley handed in "Goin' Postal," an equally violent tale about a
character named Martin who sneaks a pistol into school and kills a police
officer, the vice principal and principal. Though he had no history of
violent or even disruptive behavior, Foley was suspended for five days
for making a terroristic threat. Foley's mother, assisted by the American
Civil Liberties Union, managed to have the record changed to state that
Foley was suspended for two days for using profanity in school
assignments. Foley has since skipped high school and is enrolled at a
two-year community college.
Parents and lawyers of both boys contend that the schools
overreacted in these cases, punishing children whose only crime was a
vivid imagination. But even if that's so, it leaves an important question
unanswered: how do principals and teachers know when a violent story or
remark signals a real threat? Those who turn to psychological research
will find only equivocal answers at best.
"These things may be indicators, and they may not," says Kevin
Dwyer, Ph.D., president-elect of the National Association of School
Psychologists. "To try to predict an individual's future behavior based
on what they say or write isn't really possible." His view is shared by
Edward Taylor, Ph.D., professor of social work at the University of
Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and an expert on childhood mental illness.
"I don't know of any study that has empirically examined whether the use
of violent language in creative writing can actually predict those who
are going to commit a crime," declares Taylor. Such language so permeates
American popular culture, he notes, that its use doesn't necessarily
indicate a predilection for the use of force.
Mindful of the complexities involved in predicting which students
will become violent, many school districts are attempting to circumvent
the threat entirely by altering their physical landscapes. Located in the
small town of West Paducah, Kentucky, on the banks of the Ohio River,
Heath High School was dragged into the national spotlight in the winter
of 1997 when 14-year-old Michael Carneal gunned down classmates, killing
three girls. The school quickly convened a security committee, which
authorized a $148,000 security plan.
Today, Heath requires visitors, teachers and students to wear
identification tags around their necks at all times, like soldiers. It
has students sign consent forms authorizing staff to rummage through
backpacks and cars for weapons; each morning before entering school,
students line up to have their bags searched. Heath also has hired a
uniformed, armed security guard. Officials have prepared should a weapon
slip by security. They've purchased two-way radios for staff members to
wear on their belts, in case they need to communicate during an attack.
And they've placed emergency medical kits and disaster-instruction
manuals in each classroom.
The new environment at Heath High School dismays many parents and
students. "They made my son sign papers so they can search his
possessions, his locker, anything, anytime," says one unhappy parent.
"From what I understand, the Constitution is still in effect. I don't
like the idea of my child going to school and having school officials
search him at their discretion. They're trying their best, but they don't
seem to be getting it right."
Heath's principal Bill Bond defends the measures. "We have
restrictions on everything we do," he points out. "I've never thought
about carrying a bomb on an airplane, but I pass through airport security
just like everybody else. The very concept of security is always going to
reduce freedom. That is a trade-off people have been dealing with since
the beginning of time."
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