My son was killed 30 years ago at Kent State
By Elaine Holstein

April 27, 2000

This week is the 30th anniversary of the killing of four students -- including my son Jeff Miller -- at Kent State University by the Ohio National Guard.

At a few minutes past noon on May 4, I am once again observing this anniversary -- an anniversary that marks not only the most tragic event of my life but also one of the most disgraceful episodes in American history.

Thirty years! That's 10 years longer than Jeff's life. He had turned 20 just a month before he decided to attend the protest rally that ended in his death and the deaths of Allison Krause, Sandy Scheuer and Bill Schroeder, and the wounding of nine of their fellow students.

That Jeff chose to attend that demonstration came as no surprise to me. Anyone who knew him in those days would have been shocked if he had decided to sit that one out. There were markers along the way that led him inexorably to that campus protest.

At the age of 8, Jeff wrote an article expressing his concern for the plight of black Americans. I learned of this only when I received a call from Ebony magazine, which assumed he was black and assured me he was bound to be a "future leader of the black community."

Shortly before his 16th birthday, Jeff composed a poem he called "Where Does It End?" In it, he expressed the horror he felt about "the War Without a Purpose."

So when Jeff called me on the morning of May 4th and told me he planned to attend a rally to protest the "incursion" of U.S. military forces into Cambodia, I merely expressed my doubt as to the effectiveness of still another demonstration.

"Don't worry, Mom," he said. "I may get arrested, but I won't get my head busted." I laughed and assured him I wasn't worried.

The bullet that ended Jeff's life also destroyed the person I had been -- a naive, politically unaware woman. Until the spring of 1970, I would have stated with absolute assurance that Americans have the right to dissent publicly from the policies pursued by their government. The Constitution says so.

And even if the dissent got noisy and disruptive, was it conceivable that an arm of the government would shoot at random into a crowd of unarmed students? With live ammunition? No way!

The myth of a benign America was one casualty of the shootings at Kent State. Another was my assumption that everyone shared my belief that we were engaged in a no-win situation in Vietnam and had to get out. As the body count mounted and the footage of napalmed babies became a nightly television staple, I was certain that no one would want the war to go on. The hate mail that began arriving at my home after Jeff died showed me how wrong I was.

To most people, Kent State is just one of those traumatic events that occurred during a tumultuous time.

To me it's the one experience I will never recover from. It's also the one gap in my communication with my older son, Russ: Neither of us dares to talk about what happened at Kent State for fear that we'll open floodgates of emotion we can't deal with.

Whenever there is another death in the family, we not only mourn the elderly parent or grandparent or aunt who has passed away; we also experience again the loss of Jeff.

Elaine Holstein lives in New York.


I have a son Jeff''s age attending college. The thought of what happened that day and the sight of this picture wounds me to the core. The thought that my country is responsible for this, the knowledge that Jeff will never get be any older or fulfill his dreams, sickens me more than I can say. But even more, the knowledge that we have learned so little from this, the thought that as a country we lie on the ground with him. Unable to get up, unable to attain our potential, unable to move past the hate filled rhetoric and crippling political discourse, we are still living in chaos and destruction.I pray that people look at this young man, and promise him that for his sake and the other, they will try to do better. Nothing like this should ever happen again.
The picture of Jeff Miller lying dead on the ground is one that is forever burned into my conscience. I was 12 years-old on May 4, 1970; growing up innocently in Valley Stream, Long Island, NY. Youthful innocence was lost on that day by the ugly, appalling, disgusting, murderous action of the Ohio National Guardsmen. In time I came to learn Jeff was from Long Island and is interred at Fern Cliff Mausoleum in Ardsley, NY - near my grandparents. In 2014 my fiancé and I vacationed in Canton and Cleveland, Ohio and were sure to visit Kent State to witness the site of the atrocities, now memorialized. Yesterday on the way home from Massachusetts we stopped at Fern Cliff to pay our respects to my grandparents - and Jeff. I wish there was more I could do. Jeff is remembered by me and is gone but never forgotten.

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White supremacist posters on campuses play on ignorance and fear within the very institutions that should be our...

Trump's politics are not the problem.

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).

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