ONE

        Our Victory Bell tolled Assembly. The Bullhorn of a National Guard Officer roared the Riot Act as a Company of gas-masked Guardsmen marched up and over Blanket Hill descending to the athletic field below. Then the Guardsmen turned, kneeled, and aimed M1's at us.
       "One Two Three Four - we don't want your fucking war!" we chanted.
        The sound of exploding gas grenades echoed overhead. Metal canisters trailed dazzling white plumes against a cloudless Ohio sky. A Sergeant raised a pistol and fired a shot into the air. The tolling Bell hesitated. In the silence a Meadowlark could be heard. On the fourth day of May, 1970, we were young, confident, alive chanting: "One Two Three Four - we don't want your fucking war!"
        Applause and jeers mocked the Guardsmen. The guns, but not the bell remained silent. The soldiers huddled around the Sergeant awaiting orders.
        We cheered as the formation turned from the parking lot and retreated up Blanket Hill taunted by our derisive laughter. Waving a black flag one student danced a comic jig. Others, fingers upraised, saluted obscenely, chanting:
       "One Two Three Four - we don't want your fucking war!"
        Other disinterested students strolled to their next class untroubled by bayonet jabbings, clouds of tear gas or shouted obscenities. They saw nothing more threatening than Guardsmen shoving demonstrators into their dormitories. As the gas dissipated fear subsided. Flag-waving students shouted: "Pigs off campus! Pigs off campus!" Marching past the pagoda on the crest of Blanket Hill the Guardsmen moved beyond range of our rock-throwing arm. As they departed we turned away and glanced at our watches.
        12:23 P.M. Time to wash tear gas from our eyes and return to class. Our business here is learning. Not war. Arriving at the Pagoda on the crest of Blanket Hill the last rank of Guardsmen halted, turned, and with one step back towards the students fired steel-jacketed bullets at the crowded parking lot three hundred yards away. Kent State's "Free Fire Zone." In thirteen seconds four lives were wasted, one student crippled and eight wounded. All shot in the back or side.
        A cloud covered the sun as the Guardsmen retreated beyond sound of our cries abandoning on the blood-stained ground one dead, three dying, and nine wounded. Ignoring our casualties, the soldiers marched off over the crest of Blanket Hill once known only as a trysting place for young Lovers.

THREE

And what is the other side of my story? What did the National Guardsmen see and think and feel when mocking laughter and mindless fear catalyzed confrontation into tragedy? Can anyone understand May 4th 1970 without viewing that incident through a clouded eye shield, cheeks rubbed raw by skin tight gas masks? Without choking, gasping for breath, who can pass judgment? Deliver a fair verdict to a Jury of twelve good citizens? And the accused? Weekend Warriors. Factory workers. Truck drivers. Blue collar Tradesmen struggling to keep in formation, hearts pounding in response to the incessant tolling of an inciting Bell . The Guardsmen kneel and aim at the parking lot as human targets three hundred yards away appear in their gunsights.
        What are our citizen soldiers waiting for? What is happening? Tension builds. Orders are given. Rifles lowered to port-arms, the Guardsmen turn and march up Blanket Hill. "Jack and Jill climbed up the hill" a Trooper recites to muffled laughter. "Jill fell down and broke her crown" another replies, his voice distorted by a mask filtering out fumes but not the sour, acrid taste of tear gas.
        Enraged. Insulted. Humiliated. The Guardsmen maintain discipline. Silence. What they really want is to go home.
        Perspiring, frightened, they perhaps recall: - "Thou Shall Not Kill!" as blurred distant images scream obscenities at them. On the crest of Blanket Hill, at the Pagoda, the Guardsmen turn and take one step back towards the students and open fire. Without a word of command the platoon turn, aim, and shoot live ammunition at human targets hundreds of yards away. From that day forward images of the dead are embedded in memories. Dark red blood staining the parking lot. A young girl collapsing like a deflated bag of flesh. A student pleading "No! No!" his face shielded behind upraised hands. A supplicant at prayer. Only on this day no prayers are answered. Not for a fatal thirteen seconds. Not ever.

FOUR

Kent State's red brick campus lacked the "Ivy League" look of prestige Academia. When our Senator remarked Ohio's religions are patriotism and football, we applauded his candor. And when bumper stickers proclaimed "Keep America beautiful, cut a Hippie's hair" this imperative was soon replaced by "Kill a Commie For Christ!" inscribing 58,268 names on a remarkable Memorial on the shores of the Potomac .
        Forensic Archives also reveal facts. At the Portage County Morgue the taped voice of a Coroner recorded undeniable Truth.
       "Allison B. Krause. Female. Age 19. Penetration of the left lower lobe of lung, spleen, stomach, duodenum, liver and inferior vena cava caused by a 30-caliber military type bullet fired from a distance of 343 feet fragmenting after penetrating the left upper arm and entering the left lateral chest. Massive hemorrhage the cause of death."
        "Sandra L. Scheuer. Female. Age 20. Bled to death from a military type bullet fired at a range of 390 feet. Projectile entered the left front side of neck exiting on the right front side severing the jugular vein.
        "Jeffrey G. Miller. Male. Age 20. Instantly killed at a distance of 265 feet. A military type bullet entered his mouth and exited at the base of the posterior skull."
       "William K. Schroeder. Male. Age 19. On the ground, dead, at a distance of 382 feet. Facing away from the gunfire, fatally wounded by a military type bullet entering his back at the seventh rib with fragments exiting above his left shoulder."
        The Coroner also noted an M1 bullet fracturing three vertebrae paralyzing Dean R. Kahler from the waist down.
        Eighty rounds of steel-jacketed bullets in thirteen seconds. A military response to a peaceful student demonstration.        
        Nine survived wounds to again watch the black squirrels frolic on Blanket Hill. They heard again the tolling of our Victory Bell wondering why it did not toll for me and thee. And grateful for a future that included wives children and careers, these nine remembered the four who never lived to be twenty-one.

FIVE

        On the Oval Office wall a polished brass clock chimed Time's relentless syllable. Unredeemable Loss. Tonight, seated in a reclining chair at the fireplace, note pad on his lap, pen poised, Our President hoped to write an explanation for tragedy.
        Tomorrow's statement required eloquence. Compassion.
        He knew about death. Staring into the fireplace he recalled his brother's funeral, the family at the grave, his arm around his father's waist to support an old man's unbearable pain. In a baring of love and grief father and son swayed back and forth over the pine casket, a sharing of sorrow forever recalled as his Rite of Passage into manhood.
        But yesterday's events were no ritual, no transition to adulthood. Perhaps yesterday's tragedy was inexplicable? Four dead. Nine wounded. One crippled. Throw one stone. Then another. And another. Violence grows. Anger explodes. Death becomes inevitable.
        Moving pen across paper he began writing. Dissatisfied, he tore the page from the pad crumpling it into a ball. Again he wrote. Dissatisfied, he crossed out his words with a pen slash. Then an appropriate thought. He printed in large, block letters:
       "WHEN DISSENT TURNS TO VIOLENCE IT INVITES TRAGEDY"

       

SIX

        "Turn on, tune in, and drop out," a Professor at Harvard University said. And a bearded Beatnik Poet preached: "Incoherence is superior to precision; ignorance is superior to knowledge; the exercise of the mind and the imagination is a form of death and sordid acts of violence are justifiable a long as they are committed in the name of instinct."
        And addressing parents of the despised middle class the popular Poet threatened: "We will get you through your children."

SEVEN

        Addressing a wildly cheering audience, the assassinated President's brother said: "What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness, but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country be they white or black."
        The Presidential candidate continued, warning about "The mindless menace of violence which again stains our land and every one of our lives. No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero, and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of the people."
        And finally the Candidate pleaded: "Let us dedicate ourselves to tame the savageness of man and to make gentle the life of this world. Let us dedicate ourselves to that, and say a prayer for our country and our people. Surely we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen again.
        Some men see things as they are and say, 'Why?' I dream things that never were and say Why not?'"

EIGHT

        David Constant, Attorney, here. Alive and well. A survivor who can not forget. Call me - "A Rememberer". After all, memories are what we are. So we must take good care of them.
        Listening to my windows rattling in the wind, the nights are long, the pillows hard. Blankets slide to the floor. Expanding steam hammers radiators. To float free of early morning despair I imagine myself weightless, hovering above my bed. I fly to the far corners of the room searching for intruders. Voices that are no dream.
       "I wanted to live," Sandy whispered as her luminous body floated by, auburn hair framing a pale oval face. Lustrous eyes glowed in the shadows. "I wanted to live," she said, "A life worth living."
        My heart stuttered a wordless reply.
        Outside the window a leafless oak tree creaked. Upstairs a radio blared the Grateful Dead's latest hit. In the street a car back-fired. I heard the strident tolling of a bell; the agony of shrieking voices. With the bilious taste of dread in my mouth I shuddered at my vision of Blanket Hill populated by ghosts.
       "How could they forget?" she said. "How could they forget how we died?"
        Phantoms danced across my walls. My mind climbed topless mountains, filed briefs with High Courts, argued, deposed and pleaded, my heart freighted with remorse. I reached out to touch haunting faces, apparitions, never silent shades. Heard voices I could not deny.
       "It was a lovely day," she said, long tapered fingers brushing hair off her face. "A lovely day. Spring. Before the summer's heat. Mud hardened on the walkways. The foliage green. What joy to be alive breathing the goodness of the earth."
        She held my hand. I felt a happy regret. Our love. "I'm sorry," she said, "sorry we waited. Now we will never know what our lives would have been."
        My heart stopped. She leaned over and kissed me. Gentle as a memory. "We would have had a good life. I know that. That day. Thinking about our future."
        I opened my arms. Embraced air.
       "Where are the men who killed me?" she asked. "Why was it allowed? I wanted to be a teacher. My parents were proud. A daughter at University. Who would have guessed they'd fire guns we put flowers into? Who would have thought something bad could happen?"
        I pressed RECORD, heard the whirr of audio tape unreeling a cassette, watched blinking red lights fail to capture her words. Fated to do battle with Time I determined to resurrect the past.
        I recall high ceilings, wall-to-wall carpets and oak study tables in the library. Sanctuary from boisterous dormitories. I remember portraits of University Presidents on the walls. Weary students pillowed on their arms, napping. Lights dimmed at closing as we crowded the doorway, opening book bags to a cursory glance or an indifferent wave of the Monitor's hand.
        That was when first we met. She, at the check-out desk, hair pinned back, teasing wide-set eyes. A Mona Lisa smile in washed Jeans and baggy wool sweater. Her eyes avoided mine when she turned and stared at my bookbag. She startled me with a laugh.
       "This belongs to you," she said, holding my bookbag by frayed shoulder straps. "I found it under the table, next to my chair." Zippers closed, L.L.Bean logos discolored, our bookbags were identical. I opened the zipper and reached into the one she claimed.
       "Please!" she said, "that's mine."
        I pretended not to hear. Removed a hairbrush.
        Sparked by delight her full-throated laugh startled the Monitor. He looked up. "Please!" he whispered pointing to the "Quiet" sign on the wall. "This is a Study Hall."
        We exchanged bookbags. Suppressed laughter.
        Outside the Library she smiled and said. "I know what was is in your bag."
        My mind did inventory. Sweatsuit. Socks. Jockstrap. "I work-out every evening."
       "I know. That's how I knew it was yours."
        Her look taunted me. I declined embarrassment. "One size fits all, you know."
       "Really?"
       "Take my word for it."
        What begins in delight can end in wisdom. If you have luck. And we had the good fortune of attending classes each day and in the evening, Study Halls, movies, or romancing on Blanket Hill. Tomorrow seemed a good idea. Careers. Marriage. Family. Yes. The Future promised opportunities denied our parents. We had Luck. And I have a story to tell. A story worth writing. Worth the agony and the sweat. The human heart in conflict with itself.
        My imaginings built dreams. Evoked Apparitions. Welcomed by my lonely heart, Ghosts reopened ancient wounds. Sorrows festered and spread gangrene-like through my soul. I walked the knife-edge of madness. Raised my arms in prayer unable to grasp the image of God. I asked for strength and found weakness, infirmity, poverty of spirit receiving nothing I asked for - but everything I had hoped for. Despite all obstacles, my unspoken prayers were answered.
        How?...Why?...I do not know. Perhaps I should remain mute before the wonder of my story. After all, there is no limit to the stars. And so I tell of memories I am possessed by.
        Our together time began in expectation and traversed high promise with no happy ending except she revealed to me the mind behind teasing eyes. She followed the injunction to go forth and bring light to the world; to be "A Servant Candle" assuring the beauty of her better self lived on in minds she touched with fire.
        The incendiary flame of language. The fire in words.
        Enthralled, she reached into memory. Her voice plaintive.
       "I loved teaching deaf kids", she said. "How eagerly they learn to speak. Each word a miracle. They're not dumb. Deaf, yes. But not dumb. Never dumb. Smartest kids I ever met. Don't know why they are called dumb when they learn so fast. All it takes is patience and six lollipops. Just six. Ah ay ee ii oo uu. A different color for each sound. Like Red is always Ah. Green is Ay. And so on. Touch a different lollipop to their tongue to teach each sound and it's a miracle how they put sounds together to make words. And the first word they speak is like Christmas morning. Pure joy".
        A crimson dawn tinted the sky. Her eyes teared.
       "There are some words I would never teach. Never. Words like kill."

NINE

        I prayed for a FADE OUT but only a blurred DISSOLVE filled my TV screen. Gunshots. Screams. Sirens. Out of the monitor's clutter emerged an image. A voice. Not what I expected. Not ghostly.
       "Where have all the flowers gone?" Allison asked as I pressed the MUTE button. Her image persisted wearing a black dress with a high white collar and long sleeves. She seemed so alive. Same eyes, mouth, lips. She even smiled a little. "Now I know what that song says," she said, her eyes points of light in the shadows. Her face glowing. "I know why we sang that song. Why I remembered the words as my heart slowed until I had no pulse with a fist pounding my chest and someone I didn't know pressing his lips to mine with that final kiss that gives no pleasure. The Kiss of Life they call it but that's not what kisses are for. I want someone I love to kiss me goodbye. Not a stranger."
        My finger pressed the OFF button. Allison would not disappear.
       "Felt like a truck hit me when that bullet ripped through my arm and lung. Shattered my spleen. Massive hemorrhage the Coroner said. Dead on Arrival." Her lips moved silently. D.O.A. "My God we screamed. My God!", she said, touching my cheek. "You learn to love life when you're dead. Trees budding in spring. The summer's heat. Fall colors. Faces. My parents. Friends." Her eyes darkened. "There's no love here, you know."
        The screen blurred. I wanted no more. I turned and walked to the kitchen. Bright shiny control knobs on the white enamel stove caught my eye.
       "Please," I whispered. "You're history." I grasped a knob. Hesitated. Leaning against the stove. A statue carved in ice.
       "You look awful", she said.
       "Go away," I shouted, thinking: One turn of the knob and she's gone.
       "You've lost weight."
       "Yes," I said, my fingers touching the promise of that black knob. "There's nothing more to talk about."
        She watched me turn the knob. What is death like? I wondered.
       "After thirty years?"
        Turning the knob to OFF I said: "I've questioned everyone."
       "Not everyone".
       "Everyone who would talk," I said, recalling those who maintained a silence more incriminating than words. The silence of consent.
        She began to sob.
        I fled from the kitchen. Her voice pleading: "Don't look at my autopsy pictures and what the Coroner did to determine how I died. Stupid. Worse than when I was shot. Treated me like I was nothing but a piece of meat."