“On May 4, 1970 the Ohio National Guard opened fire into a busy college campus during a school day. A total of 67 shots were fired in 13 seconds. Four students: Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, William Schroeder, and Sandra Scheuer were killed. Nine students were wounded.” may4.org
On a warm spring night 40 years ago, my friend Dave and I sat in his car overlooking a college campus in our hometown. Clear to our view was a large banner stretched across a campus street reading “To a Guardsman it’s a Kent,” a takeoff on a cigarette slogan that was now an ironic statement on the tragic shooting at Kent State the previous week.
The shooting at Kent State, by under-trained, over-armed, badly commanded Ohio National Guardsmen had taken the lives of four college students and further galvanized the youthful population against the war in Viet Nam and the military-industrial complex that seemed to support it. Soon after, colleges across the country, including Syracuse University, went on strike and many closed early to avoid further unrest.
Dave and I sat there — each 23-years-old and pondering the future, the present, and the events of the week that had just passed. Our demographic circumstances may have mirrored most of the population except for a particularly interesting irony. Not only was I a graduate student at Syracuse University, but I was also a member of the New York State National Guard. Dave was a graduate of Cornell University and in the process of a courageous, and eventually successful, refusal to take that “one step forward” that precedes the United States Army’s swearing-in ceremony. I had said “yes” when given the opportunity to avoid the draft by joining the National Guard, and Dave had simply said “no” to the draft board.
And, regardless of our particular position, we were pondering the whole thing, neither with much of substance to contribute, since no one really understands history when you are in the middle of it, and we were definitely in the middle of it. I came to understand years later, that something isn’t history until someone writes it down and reflects on it from some future date. Current news reports do not constitute history, because they are simply information. It seems to become history when sufficient time has passed for enough books to be written that are considered worthy of labeled history books.
In probably the only serious conversation Dave and I have had in our more than 50 years of friendship, we were unable to come up with anything of substance about the shooting, about the war, about what was going on in our world.
I had no clue as to my role in society; Dave had no clue as to his. We were just friends in the midst of a weird situation in a society in turmoil. I was opposed to people being opposed to those in the military who had no voice in their role. I was opposed to the idea that I might have to someday raise a weapon in combat, but understood that, despite the unlikelihood of it, it could come to pass. I was opposed to the war, but was wearing the uniform of my country in an attempt to serve my country on my own terms.
Dave was opposed to the war and opposed to serving in the army that was fighting it. Dave understood the possible consequences of the decision he had made. We both understood the other’s decision. We both understood that neither of us really understood much of anything about any of it.
And we decided that since no one else seemed to understand it and that since there was nothing we could do about it, that we should just carry on with whatever it was we were trying to accomplish with our lives. And so we did.
Eventually, the Kent State tragedy became history, the Viet Nam War, my military career and Dave’s successful avoidance of the draft also became history. But as is the case with many important periods in history, and many important events in life I didn’t “get it” for a long time — but on May 4th, 1994, I got close — and I wrote it down:
Memorials
I walked across the peaceful lawn
In Washington, D.C.,
To the monument for the fallen
And touched the names of those who died —
Victims of war —
And the names touched me back.
I walked across the peaceful lawn
In Kent, Ohio,
To the monument for the fallen
And touched the names of those who died —
Victims of war —
And the names touched me back.
Fifty-eight thousand entries
carved in the black granite ledger.
Page after cold dark page, the roll of warriors sacrificed —
Cold to my touch — dark, dead.
Which one took my place?
Four entries
carved in the black granite ledger.
Four cold dark pages, the roll of children sacrificed —
Cold to my touch — dark, dead.
Which one took my place?
Herm Card, May 4, 1994
(This poem, and many more, by many poets, can be found at the the May 4th Memorial website: http://dept.kent.edu/ksumay4/welcome.htm)
