A daughter's fear awakens her father's memories of May 4.
Parallels

By Michael Viteritto


Every year, thousands of tourists visit the nation's historical battlefield sites. Some people are true scholars trying to fit the scenario found in the history book or follow some long dead soldier's diary entry to the actual ground on which he walked. Others go to places like Gettysburg and try to absorb history by walking along the paths or through orchards that once served as cover between two opposing forces. They say if you try hard enough, you can faintly hear the cannon and hear the air crack with musket fire. Many walk along the picket fence and say, "Here is where many people died. Why did it happen?"

Those were also the words when my daughter, Ale, and I stood on the knoll overlooking the Commons at Kent State University. I was pointing to the place where the National Guard fired weapons into a crowd of students, non-students and what were later to be identified as "outside agitators." Once again, I was telling her what happened at this conservative Midwestern university on May 4, 1970. I recounted how I witnessed an event (or shall I say tragedy) some say ended the '60s - the years of demonstrations, antiwar, peace and flower children.

to the past
Ale knew the story. She grew up with it and had been here before. My daughter asked a lot about what that day was really like and if I was scared. I told her that at the time of the event too much was going on to be scared. That emotion wouldn't set in until later -when the numbness started to wear off.

Then the full effect of the situation began to set in. I asked myself, what has really happened and why, or how could it be. There were no answers. All I could do was recount the events and facts as I knew them and according to what I saw with my own eyes.

So why bring her here? The scene of my traumatic experience, the shooting, the dead, the wounded, the crying. The empty feeling didn't end there. This was a place of lost dreams, of "should haves" and "but if I's." It was not as if I was sending my daughter off to the fields of my past triumphs. There was no long list of Kent State graduates in the Viteritto family.

One reason was that I had told Ale years ago she could be eligible for a grant given to children of alumni that waived out-of-state fees. However, I told her she could go to college where she wanted, even if it was more expensive. I wanted her to understand that.

Ale understood and wouldn't say, "You made me go here!" Even now, years later, I do see some homesickness and hear the occasional, "Why am I so far away?" But Ale chose to attend Kent State. All seemed well - until that December. One night a call came, "Hi, Ale, I'm surprised to hear from you during the week. Is everything OK?"

"Dad," she whispered, "they found someone shot at the plaza in front of the library." Then there was silence. Shock! I couldn't believe my ears. What was happening? Immediately in my mind I saw guns firing, soldiers, armed personnel carriers and barbed wire. All the remnants of May 4, 1970. "Dad," she said, "we're all afraid to go outside." "Well, just sit tight and stay in the dorm, and don't go to class tomorrow," I instructed her.

Now it finally dawned on me how my parents must have felt when they heard about the shooting 25 years ago. More than 400 miles away, what could a parent do? How could I protect my child?

It might have been her on the cold concrete in a pool of blood. I was helpless and felt very inadequate in my words of assurance that all would be well.

The next day, another call came. It was Ale again. All was quiet on the Midwestern campus. Nothing was in the newspapers here in New Jersey, though. I thought it was typical. The school was trying to keep things quiet.

Then a graduate student was wounded after her class one night. Next, windows were shot out in a building near the campus. All at night, in the darkness, "something evil this way comes."

My daughter wanted to come home (I would too). But was it safe to even go outside? The FBI was called in to help investigate. Tensions were mounting, and I received a letter from the president of the university. What should I do? Miles away, was I just to sit at the phone? God forbid!

The phone rang. What news of evil doing would be reported next? Shots were heard, followed by sirens and yelling. Then silence. "Dad," Ale said, "it's all over."

A lone gunman was killed by police in a gun fight during the night in the backyard of a fraternity house.

A lot of things seemed over. My feelings and deep ties to Kent State had seemed to wane. Why did I send her there? Vanity? Whatever it was, there is now a distance, a separation from the sense of belonging I once felt.

Man is a total sum of his life's experiences, and so it is with me. There is a bittersweet taste in my mouth when someone mentions Ohio. A smile comes to my face only because my daughter is there. And, of course Michael Jr., age 3, still has to go to college...

- Michael Viteritto lives in North Caldwell, NJ., and works for the Nutley School District. He is an adjunct professor of English at Passaic County Community College and Hudson County Community College.