April 2003                                             The Megaphone                                                  Page 2

May 4, 1970

OHIO NATIONAL GUARD KILLS FOUR KENT STATE DEMONSTRATORS screamed headlines all over the country.

Whenever another May 4 approaches, my mind is drawn to that Monday many years ago. It is a day I will not, cannot, forget.

Those were different times. The late sixties and early seventies were traumatic and eventful. American life was in turmoil. Anti-war and anti-government protests were weekly, if not daily, occurrences.

I was not an activist. I was a young mother with a son in kindergarten. I was at Kent State University in northeast Ohio to earn my degree at the School of Library and Information Science.

I recall that weekend well. Although there had been demonstrations on the Kent campus on Friday night, for me it began with a personal annoyance. My bicycle had been stolen. It was not an expensive bike. The chrome fenders and handlebar brakes gave it an undeserved costly look. When I learned Saturday morning that the bike was missing, my son and I walked all over campus looking in the student lots, for I was certain a college student had taken it. We did not find it. When I went to the campus police with the bike’s serial number, they all but yawned in my face, expressing great indifference to my loss. Perhaps they had other things on their minds.

Rightly so, for that night my sister, a newspaper editor in Elwood, Indiana, telephoned me. “Jean. Look out your window. Do you see smoke? The students at Kent just set fire to the ROTC building.” She had read the news over her newspaper’s wire service. Yes, we could see smoke.

Kent ’s mayor and other municipal officials decided to ask Ohio’s governor James Rhodes to call in the National Guard. The men did not have far to come. They had been on duty because of a truckers’ strike, necessary because snipers would attack trucks from highway overpasses. The men, most hardly more than boys, were already tense and tired and armed with M-1 military rifles.

The next day, Sunday May 3, we had heard that students, generally acting obnoxious and breaking windows, had rampaged through downtown Kent. Not exactly true. An anti-war demonstration had taken place that evening with rocks thrown, tear gas sprayed, and arrests made.

On Monday, May 4, around 10 a.m., I walked to my classes in what was then the old library. I passed by Taylor Hall, a new building with a large bell near the door, handy to call the students to a rally. Yes, there was to be a rally at noon, and yes, the authorities had forbidden a rally. As I said, I was not an activist, and how I knew that, I am not sure. Everyone just knew it.

A few minutes past noon, the entire campus buzzed. Something had happened.  Officials in each building were notified to lock the doors to keep traffic on campus to a minimum. I was locked in the library for over two hours. When they finally let us go, I walked carefully home, continually looking over my shoulders. The usually busy paths were now empty. There was an eerie silence.

I arrived at Silver Oaks apartments to find that my son was OK, safe with the young woman downstairs who babysat with him each day when he returned from kindergarten. We also learned that the city of Kent school officials had sent all the students home early. We heard on the radio that four students had been killed, including a J. Miller.

Once upstairs in our own apartment, my son and I pushed the couch in front of the picture window because I had also heard that snipers were shooting from rooftops. This turned out to be just a rumor although we found out later that a stray bullet had pierced a window in one of the other buildings at the Silver Oaks apartment complex. I gave my son some games and toys that would keep him busy . . . away from the windows. I poured some strong, ammoniated cleaner into a bucket and began to scrub the wax off the kitchen floor. The oven would be next. A frantic relative in Berea, Ohio, finally was able to get a telephone call through about 4 p.m. to learn that I was safe. . . nervous, but safe.

The city and campus shut down. Schools were closed. The college students were sent home. On Tuesday, we could look out our windows to see them carrying bags to the edge of campus where their parents were allowed to pick them up. The town had been virtually blockaded. “To keep out troublemakers and outside instigators,” the officials later explained.

Rumors flew. There had been a gun battle. (Not true. The only ones armed with anything other than rocks were the members of the National Guard.) Of the four students killed, two were young women. Both were pregnant and crawling with infestations. (Not true. Just someone’s prejudicial idea to justify the shootings.)

With the campus closed, all classes had to be finished off campus. My classes met at various professors’ homes in the town. It was long, sad month.

I learned what had happened from the newspapers and later, the historians. Four students had been killed, and nine wounded. Some had been demonstrators; others bystanders. The rally was part anti-war, part anti-local authority, the students resenting a military presence on campus. Many demonstrators thought the Guard carried unloaded weapons. The demonstrators advanced on the Guard with obscene words and gestures, and armed with rocks. As the Guard was confronted, they backed up until many reached a fence. They felt trapped and threatened.  Someone panicked and began firing. There was never an order to fire. The students eventually dispersed within the hour by faculty marshals who persuaded them the to leave the area. The shooting lasted 13 seconds. Official reports concluded that the action was unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable.

One year later, on May 4, 1971 , a memorial service was held. The guest speaker was Jesse Jackson. He tried to get the audience going, to clap rhythmically, as he led a chant. We did not. We were a somber group, remembering a tragic day on an American campus.

Written by Jean Taylor Rodgers, when her name was J. Miller

Class of ‘57