Jeffrey Glenn Miller, 20, of 22 Diamond Drive, Plainsview, L.I died at Kent State thirty five years ago May 4, 1970. He was killed by a single bullet to the mouth, a bullet shot from the gun of an Ohio State National Guard soldier. That bullet killed a boy and his hopes, but brought a nation to life, to remember what hope is. Hope must survive rage. I remember now the boy from Diamond Drive.
Just off Manetto Hill Road, Diamond Drive runs right alongside the Northern State Parkway and in sight of the Long Island Expressway. Jeffrey Miller, a graduate of a Plainview high school never came back to his Diamond Drive.
Jeffrey lived down the block from the Schiffmans, around the corner from the Brickmans and the Schettinis. He looked west for his chance to see Manhattan, the place of Long Island dreams, just a road away. When he woke up on the morning of May 4, 1970 at Kent State he could not have known he would end up on a far different road. I remember now the boy who never grows old. I remember now the boy from Diamond Drive
My town had two high schools then, one new, the other not so old, rivals in all things trivial. That day students from both schools counted Jeffrey Miller as their own. Jeffrey Miller belonged to his parents, to these students and their age. He belongs now to the ages. When Jeffrey Miller fell, he stepped up out of time, the time measured by mere clocks. He forever belongs to a different time. And the students who gathered at the high schools on the fields looking west over the Hempstead Plains on May 4, 1970 knew what time that was. It was time to rage, and somehow hang onto hope. They came to remember the boy from Diamond Drive.
My father Charles Mattingly was a member of the school board of Plainview Old Bethpage, Central School District Number 4. Jeffrey Miller’s mom worked for the school district in Plainview, his dad worked on lynotype for the New York Times. The school board met that day to discuss that day’s events and what it might mean.
What mean times those were. Rage on all sides might defeat hope for all. My father came home. He shook his head and said some things could not be done. I remember the way he angled his head. He just looked away, his hands on the kitchen counter, the veins rising on the back of his hands, his fingers resting on the kitchen counter like a piano he couldn’t play. He said it again. Some things could not be done. Neither my father nor his thirteen year old son could believe what had been done, me more loudly than him, until his gaze told me silently, but loudly to shut up. I remember now that loud silence, how it fell between me and my father. I remember now the boy who would never grow to be a man. I remember that boy from Diamond Drive.
Candles were lit that night with the hope small candles have. Hope is a flicker in a candle, an ever wavering flame in the heart. The next day many high school students walked out. My father raged. He believed in education and its importance. He was of an age where routine was a way through tragedy. To break routine, to stop education would be to let tragedy seep in and in a small way win. In education was hope. The students would need the teachers, he said. They would need their teachers that day more than ever. My father would not believe the students would leave class. My father could not believe some students would show up only to leave.
Those students left in order to remember. Together, yet each in their own way, these students would not forget what rages in the heart and might kill hope, the strength of those still young. The students would remember the boy from Diamond Drive.
All these years later I remember now the boy from Diamond Drive, Jeffery Miller who grew up along the Northern State Parkway, in sight of the LIE overpass over Manetto Hill Road. Jeffery Miller would have taken Manetto Hill Road to get to his high school, a high school in a town where students graduate with hopes. I see hope now on Manetto Hill as I remember the boy from Diamond Drive
My old high school rests now on Manetto Hill, on a rise above the Hempstead Plains. On a clear day you can see the Manhattan skyline distant, a place for Jeffery Miller a far road, a far hope away, now and always. I can never forget the boy never to be a man from Diamond Drive.
Thanks for that.
Posted by: blue girl | May 04, 2005 at 08:03 AM
Oh the gods. I forgot what day today is. Thank you, Heretikal one.
Posted by: Tild | May 04, 2005 at 08:10 AM
Bushmerica has all the fact links you could want on this and more here
Posted by: The Heretik | May 04, 2005 at 08:14 AM
Remember this day all too well. Thanks for posting on it so beautifully.
Posted by: Idyllopus | May 04, 2005 at 08:57 AM
Thanks for reminding me.
Posted by: Amanda | May 04, 2005 at 08:57 AM
I remember the Long Island boy. Seems like only yesterday.
Posted by: blondesense Liz | May 04, 2005 at 09:30 AM
Thanks for the great post!
Posted by: denisdekat | May 04, 2005 at 10:59 AM
Hi again -- I tried to link a trackback to my site here. I'm new to this blog game, so I don't know if it worked. (If it did, I apologize for this note) -- If it didn't, please visit my site at:
http://bluegirlredstate.typepad.com/blue_girl/
And thanks again for such a beautiful piece. I really appreciate it.
Posted by: blue girl | May 04, 2005 at 10:59 AM
Well written and thanks for sharing that!
I too was 13 years old on that fateful day.
I appreciate your comments on my new blog. My entry for today also addresses this and REMEMBERS.
Posted by: Chuck | May 04, 2005 at 12:01 PM
Well, tears fill my eyes and I'm left without words, except to say thank you, Heretik the poet.
Posted by: Jen | May 04, 2005 at 12:25 PM
The words are yours, and the story and the tears belong to all of us.
Posted by: pissed off patricia | May 04, 2005 at 03:03 PM
Thank you, Heretik, for putting a human face on this tragedy, and, by extension, the killings at Jackson State.
I graduated from KSU in the 1990s, but I must admit that I knew little about the shootings. There were annual remembrance services, but nothing was done to ensure that *every* KSU student was educated about May 4, 1970. It was not until I saw a documentary on TV, years later, that I began my education about that period in American history. I was floored when I heard the hate in some people's voices as they wished that more kids had died at Kent State. I learned that the hateful attitudes by some Americans towards those of their fellow citizens who spoke and marched against Iraq War II were not new. Why did Buckeyes re-elect Rhodes in 1975 and keep him in power until 1983? Why did Americans re-elect Bush?
To counter my increasingly dark feelings about my state, I want to applaud the courage of those who fought for a memorial (most of the time I was at KSU, the "memorial" was a plaque in a parking lot) and those Ohioans who continue to speak out and fight against injustice in the US and around the world.
Posted by: Songster | May 04, 2005 at 03:04 PM
I googled the names of all the victims after reading this beautiful tribute. Thanks for the push.
Posted by: eRobin | May 04, 2005 at 07:30 PM
You have honored Allison, Jeff, Sandra, William, your father -- all of us and all of our parents at that dreadful hour -- in this piece.
Posted by: cs | May 08, 2005 at 11:54 AM
Wow! Jeff is my hero...could have been any one of the guys I knew growing up on Long Island....I have ALWAYS admired him. I've been to the spot he was killed twice and will go again this summer.
Do you know of any memorial plaques at JFK high school?
Thanks!
Posted by: Gina | May 10, 2005 at 07:41 PM
See http://kent.state.tripod.com
Posted by: Kent State | June 08, 2005 at 11:59 PM
So Jeffrey Miller WAS from my home town. So many years have passed. Occasionally I've related the story of Jeffrey Miller. "He was from Plainview," I'd say. But I haven't spoken about him and about Kent State in a very long time, and I began to wonder whether I had the story right. Imagine today, I finally got around to Googling Jeffrey Miller + Plainview. Heretik, your beautiful essay and these postings just hit me in the gut. I was 15 that day. I lived near Diamond Drive. My best buddy lived at 30 Diamond Drive. The day after the shootings, it was cold and windy, about 45 degrees. I was in the ninth grade. I, too, defied my father, and my mother. I walked out of Mattlin Junior High, up the hill to Kennedy, where I joined a rally on the football field. We took buses (arranged by the school board, I think) to Hempstead where we marched with thousands of others from Long Island, protesting against what happened at Kent State and what was happening in Southeast Asia. The day changed me in a profound way, as I'm sure it did so many other people. Once you start questioning the authorities, from national leaders bent on dividing the country to parents bent on keeping you in line, the world doesn't look the same. It may sound cliched, but when I walked out of school that day I left a whole set of values behind. But enough about me. Let's talk about Diamond Drive. It didn't run along the Northern State. It was in a development near the Northern State. Basically, to get there you'd take the Manetto Hill Road exit from the parkway, go south on Manetto Hill, make a right on Main Parkway (a small street, actually), and then another right on Diamond. But you, Heretik, got to the heart of Diamond, whereever you found it. Thanks.
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