May 4, 1970
Filed in: Schools
A pivotal point in my life
The bucolic campus was far different from when I left only two days before. On the streets were military tanks, soldiers marching, and later that night, there were helicopters patrolling the night sky with searchlights. My nightmare as a five-year-old that our army would shoot its own citizens was about to become real.
In 1954 I had awakened from a nap sobbing hysterically. My mother had assured me that what I dreamed could never, ever happen. And yet, fifteen years later, in May 1970, it was most certainly happening.
I was 20, in my junior year at Kent State University in Ohio. On Friday there had been a demonstration on The Commons outside my dorm, Engleman Hall, to protest Nixon’s decision to enter Cambodia. On Sunday, May 3, I’d returned to my dorm from Niagara Falls, New York where I’d spent the weekend.
I was terrified. I found my friends who filled me in on the events. There had been riots in the town: people damaging and looting stores, and the ROTC building, a wooden structure near my dorm on front campus, had burned to the ground.
Had I been on campus that weekend I would have had more time to process all those events. I couldn't stop crying; I was again that terrified five-year-old.
We were under Martial Law, which meant students could walk with only one other person, no more. A loud speaker warned the three of us going to the dining hall that we were breaking Martial Law. I felt I was living in an Aldous Huxley novel.
I had an organic chemistry midterm the next morning. I had grave concerns I would fail the test, given our frightening environment. I went to class, but I remember nothing of the test. After, I walked back across campus, in the direction of my dorm, to meet my friends for lunch. A large crowd was gathering on The Commons, certainly breaking Martial Law once again. The line of soldiers along the perimeter of my dorm all carried rifles and blocked all entrances to my dorm. Unable to go anywhere, I stayed at the back of the growing crowd. At one point I was interviewed on camera by CBS TV News. (It’s possible my comments were aired on national TV that night but I never got to see it. My first national TV appearance. Gone.)
I moved closer to Johnson Hall and Don Fickenscher appeared beside me. (I knew Don from Erie, our hometown, where I’d had a crush on him years before. I’d seen his photo in a friend’s yearbook and knew I had to meet him and did.) Around noon, the troops started advancing and throwing canisters of tear gas in an attempt to disperse the crowd. I experienced difficulty breathing and tears wetting my face.
I don’t recall if Don pushed me to the ground to get me below the acrid smoke, or if I tripped and fell. I badly hurt my left knee, but knew we had to run to stay ahead of the advancing troops. Don and I were separated because I couldn’t keep up with him. I was able to limp uphill to safety. About 12:04 there was a 13-second volley of gunfire. Those around me looked at each other in disbelief. We never thought the guns were loaded with bullets. Moments later I saw a soldier hobbling toward us, assisted by two others on either side of him, whose foot was bleeding badly. Later I understood that either he or another soldier had aimed at the ground, not at students.
Eventually I made my way to my dorm by a very wide route. Without knowing it, my route avoided the bloody carnage of dead and wounded students. When I did return to the dorm the residents who were in the lobby were surprised to see me. I learned my mother had called in my absence and someone had told her I was dead. My nickname at the time was Ande. News reports said that Allison and Sandy had died, not Ande, causing the confusion. (Allison’s room was directly above mine. No longer would I hear her footsteps above me.) My mother’s calm reply was that I was not dead. The phone lines were cut then so there was no way to tell family I was OK.
The university was closing. We all had to leave Kent, so I began to pack a suitcase. Suddenly Don was at my door, sobbing. I sat with him until he could tell me what he knew. His roommate, Barry Levine, was Allison Krause’s boyfriend and Don knew her well.
I had a 1964 Plymouth Belvedere, so I drove my friends to their homes in the Cleveland area. They and their luggage filled my car so I had little room for my own things. I stopped at a Cleveland hospital to have my eyes and knee checked. X-Rays showed no fracture. I don’t recall ever receiving a bill.
By nightfall I was mentally shattered so I drove to Hiram College where I had spent the first 18 months of my college days. The dorm mother insisted I stay overnight and her husband made a bed for me in his radio room. My “psychic” mother somehow knew where I was and magically knew the right phone number to dial.
My memory of the following days was hazy. I returned to Erie, and my mother decided we should drive to Lily Dale, a spiritualist colony in New York State, for a reading. I was first. The woman looked at me with surprise, and said: “I’m so glad you made it out alive.”
I stayed at my father’s house in Erie until school reopened in September, finishing my courses by correspondence. When I arrived, my father said something that changed forever how I felt about him.
“They should have shot you all.”
___________________________
This snippet is brought to you by: "Ohio" David Crosby and Venice
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=share&v=kInBqFUNnow&fbclid=IwAR2VBOJZDcaFYftgz6m2wMJdqPX1Xe7ul4yFlyfMWRkB5BDEHjRbQSjgl1I&app=desktop
The bucolic campus was far different from when I left only two days before. On the streets were military tanks, soldiers marching, and later that night, there were helicopters patrolling the night sky with searchlights. My nightmare as a five-year-old that our army would shoot its own citizens was about to become real.
In 1954 I had awakened from a nap sobbing hysterically. My mother had assured me that what I dreamed could never, ever happen. And yet, fifteen years later, in May 1970, it was most certainly happening.
I was 20, in my junior year at Kent State University in Ohio. On Friday there had been a demonstration on The Commons outside my dorm, Engleman Hall, to protest Nixon’s decision to enter Cambodia. On Sunday, May 3, I’d returned to my dorm from Niagara Falls, New York where I’d spent the weekend.
I was terrified. I found my friends who filled me in on the events. There had been riots in the town: people damaging and looting stores, and the ROTC building, a wooden structure near my dorm on front campus, had burned to the ground.
Had I been on campus that weekend I would have had more time to process all those events. I couldn't stop crying; I was again that terrified five-year-old.
We were under Martial Law, which meant students could walk with only one other person, no more. A loud speaker warned the three of us going to the dining hall that we were breaking Martial Law. I felt I was living in an Aldous Huxley novel.
I had an organic chemistry midterm the next morning. I had grave concerns I would fail the test, given our frightening environment. I went to class, but I remember nothing of the test. After, I walked back across campus, in the direction of my dorm, to meet my friends for lunch. A large crowd was gathering on The Commons, certainly breaking Martial Law once again. The line of soldiers along the perimeter of my dorm all carried rifles and blocked all entrances to my dorm. Unable to go anywhere, I stayed at the back of the growing crowd. At one point I was interviewed on camera by CBS TV News. (It’s possible my comments were aired on national TV that night but I never got to see it. My first national TV appearance. Gone.)
I moved closer to Johnson Hall and Don Fickenscher appeared beside me. (I knew Don from Erie, our hometown, where I’d had a crush on him years before. I’d seen his photo in a friend’s yearbook and knew I had to meet him and did.) Around noon, the troops started advancing and throwing canisters of tear gas in an attempt to disperse the crowd. I experienced difficulty breathing and tears wetting my face.
I don’t recall if Don pushed me to the ground to get me below the acrid smoke, or if I tripped and fell. I badly hurt my left knee, but knew we had to run to stay ahead of the advancing troops. Don and I were separated because I couldn’t keep up with him. I was able to limp uphill to safety. About 12:04 there was a 13-second volley of gunfire. Those around me looked at each other in disbelief. We never thought the guns were loaded with bullets. Moments later I saw a soldier hobbling toward us, assisted by two others on either side of him, whose foot was bleeding badly. Later I understood that either he or another soldier had aimed at the ground, not at students.
Eventually I made my way to my dorm by a very wide route. Without knowing it, my route avoided the bloody carnage of dead and wounded students. When I did return to the dorm the residents who were in the lobby were surprised to see me. I learned my mother had called in my absence and someone had told her I was dead. My nickname at the time was Ande. News reports said that Allison and Sandy had died, not Ande, causing the confusion. (Allison’s room was directly above mine. No longer would I hear her footsteps above me.) My mother’s calm reply was that I was not dead. The phone lines were cut then so there was no way to tell family I was OK.
The university was closing. We all had to leave Kent, so I began to pack a suitcase. Suddenly Don was at my door, sobbing. I sat with him until he could tell me what he knew. His roommate, Barry Levine, was Allison Krause’s boyfriend and Don knew her well.
I had a 1964 Plymouth Belvedere, so I drove my friends to their homes in the Cleveland area. They and their luggage filled my car so I had little room for my own things. I stopped at a Cleveland hospital to have my eyes and knee checked. X-Rays showed no fracture. I don’t recall ever receiving a bill.
By nightfall I was mentally shattered so I drove to Hiram College where I had spent the first 18 months of my college days. The dorm mother insisted I stay overnight and her husband made a bed for me in his radio room. My “psychic” mother somehow knew where I was and magically knew the right phone number to dial.
My memory of the following days was hazy. I returned to Erie, and my mother decided we should drive to Lily Dale, a spiritualist colony in New York State, for a reading. I was first. The woman looked at me with surprise, and said: “I’m so glad you made it out alive.”
I stayed at my father’s house in Erie until school reopened in September, finishing my courses by correspondence. When I arrived, my father said something that changed forever how I felt about him.
“They should have shot you all.”
___________________________
This snippet is brought to you by: "Ohio" David Crosby and Venice
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=share&v=kInBqFUNnow&fbclid=IwAR2VBOJZDcaFYftgz6m2wMJdqPX1Xe7ul4yFlyfMWRkB5BDEHjRbQSjgl1I&app=desktop