NOTE: I graduated the University of Virginia on June 7, 1970. Recently I was interviewed by two UVA students – Anya Karaman (A&S, 2020) and Caro Campos (A&S, 2022) - who were helping to curate an exhibition for Alderman Library on that transformative time of protest and change known now as “May Days 1970”, a story that has always been part of my historical self. Thanks to them, I know how it became an operative part of my core identity.
Writers are always told “write what you know” and I know, I got arrested fifty years ago on May 9, 1970, a month shy of graduation from the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.
Back then - a half-century ago (words that seem impossible to accept) – times were complex, confusing, even desperate. Still deeply affected and confused by three assassinations in a five-year period – John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy – icons all, The Grounds[i] already in turmoil about Vietnam, had just begun to enter the social reality of the twentieth century. Integration had started. Coeducation was coming. On the cusp of everything, we were on the verge of anything.
To a great extent, my day in the slammer started December 1, 1969. That evening, we fraternity brothers were nervously transfixed by the television watching the first draft lottery for military service in Vietnam, as ghastly a game format ever was. A group of serious looking old folks sat at a long table facing the camera. Next to them was a smaller desk. Stationed upon it was a bingo ball mixer filled with blue capsules. I’m sure there is a technical name for that device, but it doesn’t seem important now and I sure as hell didn’t care then. We all knew that resting within it was the answer to a dreaded question - who would live and who might die? Another old guy turned the crank to spin out our future, and a plastic ball was pulled out at random. In it was a piece of paper listing one of the 366 days of the year representing every draft age man born on that day.
September 14th was the first date announced. None of us. The second was April 24th, my birthday. I have no memory of my response at that moment, but by the end of the night, we all had our numbers and knew what graduation actually meant. The war had always been an ominous presence in our lives. Now it was real. And it was close. Just as we do now for COVID-19, every night then on CBS, the great news broadcaster Walter Cronkite, totaled up the daily deaths and injuries in Vietnam presenting us with increasing cumulative numbers for that tragic war. It was the prism through which we saw almost everything.
Over the next five months, life at the U included petitions, rallies, demonstrations, new political parties, coalitions – serious, intense, sometimes abrasive, but all relatively benign and civil. I remember being cautiously welcomed into homes of pro-Nixon “townie” families willing to talk with antiwar students. Although both sides were direct and impassioned, the evenings always ended with dessert, coffee and expressions of thanks. We agreed to disagree.
Starting April 30, 1970, our lives changed. President Nixon announced an “incursion” into neutral Cambodia in an effort to stop North Vietnam from moving war supplies into South Vietnam. Many Americans and all of my closest friends knew this was a significant expansion of US military power. Those draft numbers loomed even larger, a sense of nervousness hung over The Grounds and life seemed to explode in every direction.
Four days later, students at Kent State were murdered by National Guard troops and our growing sense of despair morphed into anger and fear. Everyone learned the lyrics of Neil Young’s song “Ohio”, created as a result of a searing image on a magazine cover - two students, one murdered and one kneeling hysterically by her side:
Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are cutting us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?
The following day, more demonstrations, more petitions, more teach-ins, a march on Carr’s Hill, home of University President Edgar Shannon, ending in an “occupation” of Maury Hall, the ROTC building. After that, more of the same, this time including a “Honk For Peace” in front of the University. And then an evening strike rally led by William Kunstler and Jerry Rubin, another march on President Shannon’s home, a second taking of Maury Hall. There was more, much more.
On May 8, another “Honk For Peace” began in the late evening. This time, the situation had changed dramatically. Over the previous few days, the presence of police became larger and more pervasive. There were no confrontations nor were any planned, at least among students. Earlier that day, based on a rumored story, several friends jumped into my car and drove to University Hall, UVA’s basketball arena. We were shocked to discover that the rumors were true. The parking lot was filled with police cruisers and a vehicle that looked akin to a Brink’s bank truck. Policeman in many different uniforms were everywhere. They wore riot helmets. They had dogs. We were scared and worried but also believed that we would never provide a reason for them to invade The Grounds.
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