You all know what Neil Young had to say about it. Here's what Holly Near had to say, which you may not have heard:
And here's what Chris Butler, of Tin Huey and The Waitresses and so much more, had to say:
i've been asked to post the text of my May 4th speech, so here 'tis:
<Doctor…thanks for seeing me on such short notice. And I’m sorry I’m late.
“You mean late again, Mr. Butler? Shrink 101: Chronic tardiness is resistance. I only see you once a year, and you’ve never been on time. You’re obviously conflicted about wanting to be here…”
NOOOOO! I’m not conflicted at all. I KNOW I don’t want to be here. But…it always gets bad about this time of year. The anger. My anger. I’m globally grumpy most of the time anyway…but come May 4th ?…well, at least I have a clear reason to be pissed off.
“So it’s Kent State again?”
Yes. Kent State. Where I majored in Ducking.
“You’re using humor to avoid facing your feelings again, Mr. Butler. I felt we made good progress working thru those issues last year. And the year before that…and the year before that…”
Well so did I…but it never sticks. So here I am. Again. 44 years later…
“Ok…let’s talk about it, then.”
No…that’s the point! I want to stop talking about it. I talk about it too much. I think about it too much. I write songs about it. I write stories about it. I want closure. I want resolution. I want justice. It shuddah been done a long time ago. I know this is not healthy.
“Well, Mr. Butler, the symptoms of PTSD are long-lasting and very difficult to treat…”
I know all about PTSD. I’m a fucking poster boy for PTSD. I had PTSD before you shrinks even had that name for it.
“This is always about Jeff Miller isn’t it? That friend of yours who was killed?”
Yes. Every year, I start having this mental conversation with him…or try to…[chuckle]…he was a such goofball…!
“What do you say to him?”
I tell him that I remember him, but that after all these years, he’s becoming more and more of a phantom…slipping farther and farther back in the rearview mirror. That I’m sorry that the wrecking ball of age is starting to knock out chunks of memory…his memory. That I now have to struggle to remember him. At the time, we were just living, a normal friendship, having fun, not thinking that it was anything special, so those neurotransmitters in my brain didn’t stamp our shared experiences as anything significant.
“What do you remember…”
I remember the day I said yeah, you can borrow my drum set. That I’d just bought an old Gibson bass from Tom Kriss of The James Gang for sixty bucks, and that I was more interested in learning how to play bass like Phil Lesh from the Grateful Dead than the drums like Keith Moon of The Who. We’d get stoned, and play along with Live Dead for hours. His roommates were saints – they never complained. And that when the FBI impounded everything in their house, that it took me months to get my drums back. And that they never returned the floor tom. That I filed a Freedom of Information Act request to try and locate it, which was ignored, of course. It’s probably still in the basement of FBI headquarters in Washington DC. With an evidence tag on it. And that Jeff, I still have your vinyl copy of Live Dead. With the green Warner Brothers label. And I have your sweater, the one I borrowed one night ‘cause it was to cold to walk home in just a sweaty t-shirt.
“Keep going.”
OK. Jeff – thanks for coming to the play I was in. Wasn’t it cool? I got to pantomime an autopsy on a cadaver, and reenact the Kennedy and King assassinations! That play was my alibi for the whole weekend - between 7-8:30pm, I could account for my actions. When the FBI questioned me about you, they had a copy of the show flyer the cast had put up around campus as promotion that read “The Serpent…is coming May 1-4”. They didn’t believe it was the title of the play. They were sure it was proof that the whole weekend was some sort of student-led, pre-planned conspiracy. You and me, we know that wasn’t true, ‘cause at 10:30am on Monday May 4th, we were at the meeting in The Hub where the politicos voted NOT to form a steering committee, NOT to organize anything.
“Is that when you last saw him?”
No. Jeff – the plastic bucket I brought is for soaking bandanas against the Guard’s tear gas is out of water. I’m going over to that dorm to refill it. Wait here…I’ll be right back. I never saw him again…until seeing his high school picture on the 6 o’clock news. I didn’t know he’d been killed.
I’m so confused about all this…still. I want to forget May 4th ever happened, but then again…I never want to forget it. It’s too important. Too significant. I think, every generation must have has its own collective trauma to deal with…and I guess this is mine, no matter how much I don’t want it. I ducked, he didn’t. I feel like I’ve been living the last 44 years on borrowed time – that I have to make the most of every second, do the best I can at everything and do the least harm. You’re just going along and then BLAM…something happens and you’re sent ricocheting off in all sorts of wrong directions, and for the rest of your life. Or right directions for the rest of your life. I dunno…
“Mr. Butler, you may not feel like it…”
then I won’t…
“…you may not feel like it, but those are good values…you’ve done pretty well. I’m sorry, but our time is up. The reality you need to accept is that you are never going to forget this event. That you will have to work thru it again and again, but getting to the other side will get a little easier each time. To everything there is a season, and when it’s time to mourn, it’s time to mourn. That’s just the way it is…or, just the way your “is” is.
Doctor, You know that arcade game with the giant claw that reaches down to grab a toy? I want a giant claw to reach into my brain and scoop out every last bit of it.
Mr. Butler…and then…who would you be? See you next year?”
See you next year…
-30->