This banner hanging from an occupied college building somewhere exemplified the attitude of students in the days after the Kent State shooting. |
Note: Versions
of this memoir have appeared twice before around the anniversary of the Kent
State shootings. But believe it or not,
it is back due to actual popular demand, or at least one request.
May 4th is a date fraught with
significance in American
history. On this date in 1886 a mass protest meeting in Chicago’s Haymarket Square was attacked
by a phalanx of police. A bomb was thrown. Eventually the leaders
of the labor and anarchist movements
were hung and May Day became International Labor Day in their
memory.
On May 4th 1961 the first Freedom Riders set off from Washington,
D.C. split between two coaches, a Greyhound and a Trailways.
The plan was to ride through the South through Virginia, the Carolinas,
Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, ending with a rally in New
Orleans, Louisiana. The aim was to desegregate public
accommodations in the South. Ten days into the trip, after several ugly
incidents, the buses were attacked outside of Birmingham by Ku Klux Klan led
mob attacked and severely beat the
riders and set fire to the buses. The attack drew national attention and
the ride was completed by more volunteers.
Three years later again in bloody
Birmingham, the third of four marches of the Children’s Crusade of high
school and even younger students was met by the fire hoses and the clubs and dogs of Bull Connor’s infamous police.
Organized by the Rev. James Bevel of the Southern Christian Leadership Council (SCLC) the marches were
called after older protestors were repeatedly arrested trying to register to
vote. Scenes from the attacks on TV helped build sympathy in the North
for the Civil Rights Movement.
But for folks of my generation, May
4, 1970 will always be the day when Ohio
National Guardsmen opened fire on student anti-war demonstrators on the campus of Kent State University killing 4 and injuring several. The
shootings sparked a nation-wide wave of campus protests.
What follows is an account of my own
small part in those events, as best as my poor memory can reconstruct things
more than 40 years later.
***
I must have been at my brother Tim’s (later known as Peter) apartment on Sheridan Road near the Morse Ave. Beach when we got the news
of the shooting. Oddly, unlike other Great
Events, I can’t fix in my mind the moment I heard the news. Rather
than hop on the L to get to my own
school, Columbia College, a small
communications college located on a few floors of a commercial building at Grand Ave. and the Inner Drive north of the Loop,
my brother convinced me to go with him as his friends to his campus, Kendall College in Evanston. Kendall was then a small, private two year college
mostly drawing students from the northern suburbs. Neither the school nor
my brother was particularly politically active. Tim was the center of
acid dropping spirituality and the self-appointed guru to a circle of acolytes,
many of them fellow students at Kendall. He said he left the Revolution to me.
When we arrived on campus, students
were in full possession of the buildings and the administration was nowhere to
be found, although some faculty was on hand mingling with the students.
There was no police presence; it was as though the administration had simply
abandoned the school to the students.
Some folks had gone over to join Northwestern students at barricades
erected on Sheridan Road. Others
milled about trying to figure out what to do. One student was working a Ham Radio and gathering information
from actions at campuses across the country. We soon realized that this
could become an asset.
Phone connections were somehow made
with students from campuses across the Chicago area and we fed them news
gleaned from the Ham operator. Not all of that information was reliable,
some turned out to be wild rumor, but enough was good so that it became
apparent that we were part of a spontaneous nationwide student strike that was growing by the hour.
Besides participating in the phone
network, I started posting the news on large sheets of paper, updated regularly
throughout the night to keep students informed. I called them the Joe Hill Memorial Wall Posts and had
about a dozen of them lining hallways by the time the night was over.
There were also informal discussions
all night. I was considered a real live “activist” because of my
connections with the Industrial Workers of
the World (IWW) and my input was probably given more credence than I
deserved. By morning I had agreed to return to campus later and set up
some educational programs, which I did do, although Kendall never became a hot
bed of radicalism.
In the morning, running on
adrenalin, I headed down to Columbia. Columbia was a commuter school
specializing in communications and the arts—broadcasting, photography, theater,
dance, and writing. With no one living on our non-existent campus, I was
not sure what I would find. There were no classes but it wasn’t exactly a
strike either because the administration was totally supportive of the student
cause and offered the facilities of the school free to the movement.
I headed down to the print shop in
the basement, where I worked as one of two printers. We ginned up our
little A.B. Dick 360 and Multilith 1250 offset presses and were
soon turning out hundreds, even thousands of flyers, posters, handbills and
other material advertising actions across the city and region.
I have no recollection of how, but I
was selected as one of two representatives from Columbia to a city wide student
strike committee. I believe it was Wednesday when a couple of hundred
folks met at the Riviera Theater in Uptown to plan coordinated
actions. The meeting was a perfect example of sometime chaotic
participatory democracy, but a consensus was arrived at to have a unified, city
wide march and demonstration downtown on Saturday. I was named to the
demonstration organizing committee with students from University of Illinois Circle Campus, University of Chicago, and Roosevelt, among other schools.
Many of the others members were in SDS.
Others were Trotskyites, who made
something of a specialty of organizing big demonstrations. There was a
sprinkling of Anarchists as well. But the ideological wars that wracked
campuses were suspended—mostly—in the face of the common emergency.
Another meeting the following day was held at Circle Campus.
Again, I have no memory of how, but
I was selected to try and negotiate with Chicago
Police in what most felt was the vain hope of avoid an attack by
authorities the day of the March. Given the background of the Police Riots against demonstrators
during the 1968 Democratic Convention,
at protest marches connected to the trial of the Chicago 7, and the virtual street warfare around the Days of Rage in October ’69 there was
little reason to hope for a better outcome.
Late Thursday afternoon I was
escorted through an eerily quiet Police
Headquarters to the office of Deputy
Superintendent James Riordan. I believe I may have been taken through
a route intended to keep rank and file police from seeing that the brass was
meeting “the enemy.” Riordan was cordial. We shook hands. We
both clearly understood the potential volatility of the situation. I told
him that organizers intended an entirely peaceful march and pointed to some
earlier mass marches that had gone off without a hitch. I also pointed
out that there had been no significant acts of violence on any of the Chicago
area campuses even at Northwestern with its barricades the first night or the
building occupations at other schools. I said that we would have marshals
to keep our demonstrators in line and moving and to discourage break away marches.
Although others were trying to obtain a parade permit, I said that we intended
to exercise our free speech rights and march with or without a permit.
Riordan said he understood and said
that the police did not want to provoke a confrontation and would be as
“restrained as possible.” I told him that we expected police would line
the rout of march, but that putting those officers in full riot gear or having
them stand with batons conspicuously exposed might be provocative under the
circumstances. Riordan made no explicit promises but indicated that if we
kept our people in line there would be a kind of truce. I got the
distinct impression that higher-ups had already decided to try and avoid more
bad national press,
All during this period, although I
was known to be a Wobbly, I was not
acting in any way as a representative of the union. I did inform the Chicago Branch of developments and the
branch decided to participate in the march. That Saturday rather than
joining other “leaders”—and I use that term in the loosest possible manner—in
the front of the march or joining with Columbia or Kendall college contingents,
I marched as a rank-and-file member of the IWW behind our black and red
banner. Although riot equipped police were on hand, they were kept
largely out of sight. Officers lining the route wore standard blouses and
soft caps. Their batons were kept under their coats. The march and
rally went off without a serious hitch or any violence, which is more than can
be said of marches in other cities.
Later, I reported on the events in
the pages of the Industrial Worker.
Your comment about your brother leaving the Revolution to you struck home with me.
ReplyDeleteYour comment about your brother "leaving the Revolution to you" struck home to me.
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