Spotlight on History
May 4 has many heroes. Some villains, too.
By Roger Di Paolo
There are two days when I don’t want the sun to shine: May 4 and Sept. 11.
Blue skies and beautiful weather inevitably call to mind the national tragedies that occurred on May 4, 1970, and Sept. 11, 2001. The narrative for so many of us who recall those milestones often begins, “It was a beautiful day.”
And it was. Until it wasn’t.
May 4, 2020, marks the 50th anniversary of the day my hometown and my alma mater earned a place in history they never sought. The passing of a half-century has only enhanced its significance.
Forty years ago, when the events of May 4 were only a decade in hindsight, I wrote:
I can still hear the sirens.Their loud, high-pitched wail cut through the unearthly stillness of that cloudless May afternoon. By then, of course, it was over.
I remember being totally bewildered.
And scared to death.
I was one month shy of my 15th birthday on May 4, 1970. I am now one month shy of turning 65. A lifetime has passed since I was a freshman at Davey Junior High School.
May 4, 1970, is my hometown’s 9/11, a day that we reduce to emotional shorthand. It is impossible to forget, no matter how much time passes.
When I was growing up, when people asked my parents where we lived, they would say, “Kent. It’s near Akron.” For the past 50 years, people have not had to ask where Kent is located. “Oh, that’s where they shot the kids” is a familiar reply.
The “kids” — Allison Krause, Sandy Scheuer, Jeff Miller and Bill Schroeder — would be retirees about 70 years old today. They are frozen in time.
Living through May 4, as well as being a part of news coverage of it for more than 40 years, has sharpened my sense of perspective regarding what happened at Kent State.
Forty years ago, I wrote of being “scared to death” by what had occurred and shared memories of the chaotic scene as we were abruptly released from classes. I remember my mother being terrified as she drove from the school to our home, two miles away. And I remember my Dad saying how he came home from his law office in Ravenna, using “the back way” via Brady Lake Road, with a loaded pistol on his front seat.
What I realize now, however, is that the overriding emotion I felt that day was the most profound sense of insecurity I have ever experienced. It felt like the world was falling apart.
I covered the six-month effort to block construction of the Memorial Gym Annex in 1977. I firmly believe that the decision to locate it on the practice field where the Guardsmen gathered — not near it, as KSU spinmeisters insisted then — was a deliberate desecration of a national historic site, an attempt to bury history, literally.
The protesters lost their battle — the gym was built — but they won the war to ensure that May 4 would not be forgotten. The pushback generated made it impossible to erase history. Today, except for the glaring exception of the Gym Annex — I’ve never set foot in it (personal protest) — the site looks remarkably like it did 50 years ago. I hope I live to see the gym annex razed and the site fully restored.
A friend who is a Kent native observed recently that “nobody won” on May 4, 1970. Another friend has observed that the events of that day generated lingering PTSD, unresolved for 50 years.
True on both counts. There are no winners in a battle that left four young people bleeding to death and nine others wounded on a university campus. As for PTSD, name another day in the past 50 years, other than May 4 and 9/11, where the color of the sky comes to mind.
I was privileged to know most of the parents of the dead students. I remember the righteous indignation, the overpowering anger, of Arthur Krause, which hastened his premature death. I remember Sarah Scheuer and Doris Schroeder, two Midwestern moms who found a place in history they never sought. And I remember Martin Scheuer, who lost family members to the Holocaust and a beautiful young daughter on his wedding anniversary; a soft-spoken, gentle man whose eyes were filled with overwhelming sadness.
I’ve fielded telephone calls from those discontented with my May 4 writings over the years, including many from the “should have shot all of them” crowd. They’re still around, 50 years older and 50 years more bitter. As I told the few who would listen to me, I defy anyone to look Martin and Sarah Scheuer and the other May 4 families in the eye and tell them their children deserved to die.
I understand the feeling of those who contend that all involved with the events of May 4 were victims, but that does not erase the culpability of those who played a major role in making that sad day happen. History has villains as well as heroes.
I believe that Governor James A. Rhodes went to his grave with blood on his hands. A politician in the midst of a losing race for the Senate, he responded to the events in Kent recklessly, with neither caution nor understanding, opting instead to pour gasoline on the fire. His words at a press conference at the Kent fire station less than 24 hours before the tragedy, labeling demonstrators as worse than Nazis and vowing “to eradicate the problem,” remain unforgivable. Words matter, and in this case, his hateful rhetoric helped set the stage for what followed.
I believe, too that what happened on May 4 was murder. No matter how fearful the National Guardsmen were, no matter how large the crowd was, how many rocks were thrown, how many obscenities were uttered, M1 rifles were no match for what they faced.
I thank God for the courage of unsung heroes on May 4, such the students who did their best to keep the casualties alive in the aftermath of the most terrifying moments of their young lives, and the faculty marshals who tried to keep order. The courage of Professor Glenn Frank, a single righteous soul whose words of warning averted a further massacre, changed history. If there is anyone who deserves a memorial at Kent State, it’s Glenn Frank.
No community invites tragedy nor does it welcome being forever linked with it. Fifty years later, the people of Kent, like the people of Oklahoma City, Columbine, New York City, Boston and Newtown, all share an enduring pain that will never go away, a day that will resonate no matter how many years pass. And, for those who urge forgetfulness, remembering a tragedy is not celebrating it. History cannot be erased.
The poet Wallace Stevens wrote, “The wound kills that does not bleed.” The wound inflicted 50 years ago is not bleeding as it once did, but it remains. Scars don’t vanish completely. Time brings distance; healing is another matter.
After 50 years, the blue skies of May 4, 1970, remain an unforgettable memory, a reminder that, like the skies of 9/11, darkness can fall abruptly on a day that dawns crystal-clear.
Rest in peace, Sandy, Allison, Jeff and Bill. Forever young, never forgotten.
Roger Di Paolo is a Portage County historian, the former editor of the Record-Courier and a member of The Portager board of advisers. His column, Spotlight on History, regularly appears in The Portager.
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