This is the first of three reports on the Kent State Shootings. The next two will be posted later this week.
As I recall, May 4, 1970 was a cool, but pleasant day at Kent State
University in northeast Ohio. I wore a
light jacket and went to a student gathering on the north side of Blanket Hill, a
small rise at the south end of the Commons.
On the west side of the crest was Johnson Hall, a dorm where I
lived. On the crest was Taylor Hall, the
journalism/architecture building that was my home for the four years I studied
for my undergraduate degree at KSU.
On that Monday, now 42 years ago, about 100 or so people joined me on
the side of Blanket Hill, so named because romantic couples used the gentle
slope for evening rendezvouses. No one
in the small crowd at noon could know that one of this country’s most
significant events was about to take place.
While still a junior, I was also there as a reporter for the afternoon Canton Repository, where I was to start
an internship in another month. The
others were there out of curiosity or in response to a brief call for such a
gathering that appeared in the last paragraph of a front page story in the
student newspaper the previous Friday.
I had worked for the (almost) daily student paper – published Tuesday
through Friday -- for three years, but skipped this quarter because the editor
had lied to me. He asked me to be
managing editor and then simultaneously offered it to a woman on the staff
because she agreed to live with him during the semester. I clearly lacked the necessary charms, but
was not unhappy because the editor was perhaps the only conservative student on
campus.
He had declined to publish a special edition on that Monday, possibly
because his last attempt the year before had led to immense derision after he included
a cartoon that labeled anti-war protesters as rats.
As a result, little information was available to students when we met
on Blanket Hill.
Perhaps two dozen Ohio National Guard stood across from us on the
Commons. They were posed in a line in front
of the charred remains of an ROTC building (left) that had been burned down Saturday
night. That was the key event in the
preceding three-day uproar.
It had begun on Thursday night, April 30, when President Richard Nixon announced
on national television that U.S. troops had invaded neutral Cambodia, located
to the west of Vietnam. Our soldiers had
been battling Viet Cong guerrillas in a Southeast Asian war for most of the
1960s. On paper, the North Vietnamese
were fighting the South Vietnamese, but it was really the Communists against
the capitalists – the U.S.S.R. against the United States.
Since the Northern troops were entering South Vietnam via the Ho Chi
Minh Trail through Cambodia, Nixon chose to attack although only Congress was
accorded the power to declare war.
At Kent State the following morning, I joined maybe 15 people who
buried a copy of the Constitution in protest of Nixon’s decision. The mild protest on the Commons was led by a
bearded history graduate student. (I
went back later, but someone had already dug up the copy.)
I left Saturday after to spend the weekend with my girlfriend in her home in Parma,
a Cleveland suburb. That was after a
riotous Friday night when local officials closed the downtown bars that catered
to students. I don’t drink, but friends
told me about the broken windows and an overturned car. Apparently, the driver had tried to motor
through a crowd and ended up on his roof.
While staying at her parent’s house Saturday night, my girlfriend and I
were stunned to watch the news about the ROTC fire and to see pictures of
troops moving (right) onto the KSU campus early Sunday morning. The governor, Jim Rhodes, later better known
for his connections to the Mafia and to the Wendy’s hamburger chain, had
decided to order National Guardsmen, fresh from confronting Teamsters on strike
in Cleveland, to travel south to Kent.
They arrived exhausted and bivouacked in the gym, which had no curtains
and was overlooked by a women’s dorm.
They both kept each other awake for the rest of the night.
My girlfriend and I arrived back on campus late Sunday morning. Overhead, military helicopters kept close
watch on the campus. On the rear door of
our cafeteria I found a copy of the riot act, which banned large
gatherings. I did not see it posted
anywhere else on campus, and I looked.
Later, some students tried to march downtown and were turned back by
police firing teargas.
It was only noon or so a day later, May 4, when a National Guard jeep
carrying two people rode toward us. Up
to then, everyone was just chatting.
Suddenly things got quiet and serious.
A Guardsman in the jeep stood up and read something to us. I presume it was the Riot Act, which would
have required us to disband. However, I
did not hear what was said. The wind
blew away any words.
A few people tossed pebbles at the jeep, which caused the driver to
scurry back to his side of the Commons.
There was a brief delay while an ambulance took away a Guardsman who had
collapsed. That was a strange
foreshadowing of what was to follow.
I glanced around and was amazed to see that the Commons had turned into
an amphitheater. What must have been
thousands of people standing 6 to 10 deep had gathered in a semicircle in back
of the Guard and were watching the few hundred of us on Blanket Hill.
Finally, after the ambulance left, the Guard knelt down and fired
teargas at us.(left) At first, the wind
carried it away, but the breeze shifted.
I discovered that while teargas burns, its effects are quickly
dissipated with cold water. We found
plenty of water in Taylor Hall bathrooms.
The guard then split into two units: one marched to the east of Taylor
Hall; the other, the west side. We
followed. They re-formed on the paved
parking lot behind Taylor and then marched to the end of the soccer practice field
that abutted the parking lot and the gym. The topography today is different.
At the end of the field, the Guard spun and knelt again. They pointed guns at us, but did not
shoot. Students whispered that the Guard
had no more gas. A few students threw
pebbles retrieved from a gravel parking lot across the street to the east. They didn’t come close to the Guard at that distance.
Finally, the Guard began to move again.
Wearing gas masks, they marched into the crowds of students. They were
yelled at, but not touched. No one could
throw a stone – despite later FBI claims.
There were too many students, and there was no room anyway.
The Guard started back along the west side of Taylor Hall, heading
toward me. I retreated to the sidewalk
between Johnson and Taylor. I was
standing with Bob Pickett, then vice president of the student body. I heard what to me sounded like fireworks and
asked why anyone would set off fireworks.
Bob was not so naïve. He immediately
recognized gunshots and left. I stayed.
The Guard had fired (right) into the thinning crowd, killing four students and
wounding nine others. I heard shouting
and watched the Guard resume their march down the hill. I grabbed my dorm-mate’s coat, trying to get
him out of the way. Bill was taking a picture of the Guard. I told him they couldn’t tell the difference
between a camera and a gun. Later, Bill
said he got a good picture.
I was later immortalized – albeit at a distance – in the Scranton
Commission report of the Kent State shootings, photographed yanking at Bill’s
coat.
I did not know exactly what happened, although I could hear people
shouting angrily and see a variety of people, most notably Geology Prof. Glenn
Frank, trying to get people calmed down. Some people tended the injured. (left)
There had been other volunteers who had served as peacekeepers
throughout the weekend, but with little success. This time, they seemed to gain the upper
hand.
I went into the student newspaper office and called the Repository. I told whoever answered what I understood had
happened, and then the line went dead.
Later, the city editor told me they had decided they’d wait for the
Associated Press rather than listen to some “hotshot reporter.”
That ended my chance of an international scoop.
As we waited, we saw the Ohio State Police arrive. The crowd melted away. The National Guard may have been thought of
as toy soldiers, but no one wanted to fool around with the police.
Wednesday: Aftermath
Friday: Long-Term Impact
Long-time
religious historian Bill Lazarus regularly writes about religion, religious
history and, occasionally, American history.
He holds an M.A. in journalism and an ABD in American Studies. He also speaks at various religious
organizations throughout Florida. You
can reach him at www.williamplazarus.com.
He is the author of the famed Unauthorized Biography of Nostradamus; The
Last Testament of Simon Peter; The
Gospel Truth: Where Did the Gospel Writers Get Their Information; Noel: The Lore and Tradition of Christmas
Carols; and Dummies Guide to Comparative Religion. His books are available on
Amazon.com, Kindle, bookstores and via various publishers. You can also follow him on Twitter.