From the issue dated May 12, 2000
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Student Journalists of 1970 Return to Kent State 30 Years AfterBy PHILIP W. SEMAS
Kent, Ohio
Coming back to your alma mater for a reunion is usually a pleasure, a
chance to share fond memories. But for former student journalists who
returned to Kent State University last week, the moment was bittersweet.
This is Kent State, and this reunion was held 30 years after May 4, 1970, when National Guardsmen fired into a crowd of student demonstrators, killing four, putting one in a wheelchair for life, and wounding eight others. And because these alumni were journalists, most of them were at the scene, witnesses to a historic event that shattered their lives. "May 4 is the day that my carefree college days came to an end," says Myron Kukla, who helped organize the reunion here. He was so distressed in 1970 that he and his wife moved to Canada, where they lived for several years before returning to the United States. He came back to this town some years ago, but never even set foot on the campus. It wasn't until 1995, on the 25th anniversary, that he returned to Kent State. For many of the former student journalists who were here, this was their first time back. It wasn't easy. One even made a test trip to Kent last fall, to see if he could really do it. "There's a lot of anxiety" among the alumni, says Hal Greenberg, another of the organizers. "And trauma. Bitterness. Anger." Mr. Greenberg has been back to the campus many times -- one of his sons is also a Kent State graduate, and another is a senior -- but he still feels the effects of May 4. The Sunday
Organizing the reunion was no easy task. It took more than a year of tracking people down, writing letters, and sending e-mail messages. It also required overcoming resistance. Several alumni wrote back that a reunion was a "crazy idea" and they "would never go back there," says Mr. Kukla. He says a psychologist told him that reaction indicated that some were still suffering from "survivor syndrome." But more than 75 of them did come, wandering into Taylor Hall, which houses the journalism school and where most of them worked on the student newspaper, The Daily Kent Stater, or the yearbook, The Chestnut Burr, named for a common campus tree. Taylor Hall is also next to the parking lot where the four students died. They found themselves suddenly in demand, speaking on panels and talking to reporters, including this Chronicle editor, who covered the aftermath of the shootings 30 years ago. Among themselves, however, they seemed almost reluctant to talk about the event that unites them, preferring to share memories of pizza joints and the crazy things they did at the Stater before May 4. When they were asked, however, the memories poured out. "When the tanks rolled in, I suddenly sympathized with the Vietnamese." "It was the first time white kids knew what it was like to be black." "The blacks knew it wasn't a game. They stayed away." "It was the last nail in the coffin of idealism." "Those times destroyed us." "Every day of my life, I think about this," says Bob Carpenter, who worked for both the student and local radio stations. "I had more fear on this campus than I had in Vietnam," where he served two tours of duty in a noncombat role. For some, just being from Kent State had a lasting effect on their lives. Wally Smolinski, who graduated in 1970, moved to Colorado and tried to get a job on a newspaper. As soon as potential employers saw Kent State on his résumé, they said "we'll get back to you," he says. They never did, so he went into the restaurant business and then real estate. He never worked as a journalist again after May 4. Many others stayed in journalism. Today they include editors, reporters, and photographers on newspapers from Florida to California, and at least one nationally syndicated cartoonist. One source of lingering anger for some alumni is that no one was ever called to account for the events of May 4. Not the guardsmen who fired. Not their superior officers. Not the governor of Ohio, James A. Rhodes, who ordered the Guard to Kent and then came here the day before the shootings to call the protesters "worse than the Brownshirts and the Communist element." A presidential commission did find that the shootings were unjustified. But a local grand jury, incredibly, indicted 25 demonstrators and no guardsmen. The guardsmen were brought to court on federal civil-rights charges, but the trial ended when the judge ordered their acquittal. The wounded students and the parents of the slain sued but lost. The journalism alumni "fall into two camps" on the issue of accountability, says Mr. Kukla. "Some wish that some court somewhere had done something," he says, but others "know who was responsible." For many, that person is Mr. Rhodes, even more than the guardsmen who fired the shots. "If I had 100 T-shirts with a bull's-eye and Jim Rhodes's picture on them, I could sell them here today," says Mr. Greenberg. "Many of us don't eat at Wendy's. You know why? Jim Rhodes is a stockholder." The journalism alumni aren't the only ones who have had trouble coming to terms with May 4. For years, the university struggled with how to deal with having been the site of such a historic, emotionally charged event. A memorial to the slain students was not built until 1990, and only last year were markers placed on the four spots in the parking lot where the students died. Until then, cars still parked there. But the university seems to have accepted May 4 now. This year, in addition to the usual candlelight vigil the night of May 3 and student-organized commemoration on May 4, the university held a two-day symposium, with well-known speakers like Kathleen M. Sullivan, dean of the Stanford University law school, and the New York Times columnist Anthony Lewis talking about freedom of expression. This year, for the first time, all of the wounded students and relatives of the four who died attended the memorial events. At a news conference, family members and university students praised the current university administration. "It's ironic, but I've actually been looking forward to coming back," said Joseph Lewis, one of the survivors. For the journalism alumni, too, May 4 is about more than anger and sadness. Many fondly remember what faculty members did. Professors prevented what could have been an even more horrible bloodbath by persuading the students to disperse. And with the campus shut down, professors helped them complete their course work, often holding classes in their homes. Chuck Ayers, a cartoonist for The Daily Kent Stater, was an art student in 1970, but all of his supplies were on the campus. He called Richard Bredemeier, director of student activities and one of a few administrators who had been let back onto the campus. Mr. Brademeier brought Mr. Ayers's supplies. "Without the faculty and administrators we dealt with, I don't know what would have happened to us," says Mr. Ayers, who went on to be an editorial cartoonist for the Akron Beacon Journal and now draws a syndicated comic strip called Crankshaft. The Kent State alumni are also proud of the journalism they produced in 1970. In their early 20's or younger, they were at the center of one of the biggest news stories of the 20th century. They believe they performed admirably. One student photographer, John Filo, won a Pulitzer Prize for his image of a young woman crying in anguish over a fallen student. Another, Howard Ruffner, took many of the photographs used by Life magazine. He felt bad, he says, about photographing students mourning the fallen. "It was as if you were stealing something from them," he says. But he was working for Life, so he kept taking pictures. Bob Carpenter recorded the gunshots and many of the other events. He supplied audio to radio stations and networks around the world in the hectic hours following the shootings. "We were all young journalists who had the world at our doorstep," he says. "We did the best with what we had. I'm proud of what we did." At least one of the wounded students agrees with him. The Guard and state authorities tried to cover up what happened, says James Russell, but "all of those students with their cameras proved them wrong." Nonetheless, one bit of journalistic frustration lingers. Because the university was shut down immediately after the shootings, The Daily Kent Stater never published again that semester. "We never got to tell the story," says Mr. Greenberg. Last week, 30 years later, they told it. http://chronicle.com Section: Students Page: B2
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Copyright © 2000 by The Chronicle of Higher Education