We can't forget what happened on May 4th, 1970, when four

Host: The evening was wet and cold, the kind of Ohio rain that carried the smell of mud, metal, and memory. The campus lay quiet now, long after the crowds had gone. Only the flicker of candlelight remained—small, trembling flames beside four names carved into stone.

Jack stood beneath a bare tree, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the memorial as if it were a wound refusing to close. Jeeny stood beside him, her umbrella tilted slightly, the rain sliding down like silent tears.

The echo of Graham Nash’s words still hung in the damp air—
"We can't forget what happened on May 4th, 1970… four students gave up their lives because they had the American constitutional right of peaceful protest… and to sing that song in that spot on that anniversary was very emotional for us."

Host: The wind carried faint chords of Ohio from a nearby speaker, the guitar line trembling with restrained rage and sorrow.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he began, his voice low and bitter, “how people only remember when it’s convenient? Every year they light candles, play the song, say ‘never again’—and then move on.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about convenience, Jack. It’s about reverence.”

Jack: “Reverence doesn’t bring justice. Those kids died for rights that people still trample on today. What’s the point of remembering if nothing changes?”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the stone, pooling around the memorial candles until their flames flickered dangerously low.

Jeeny: “The point,” she said, softly but firmly, “is that we still gather. We still sing. We still say their names. That’s not nothing.”

Jack: “It’s sentimentality disguised as activism. Singing about the past doesn’t fix the present.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it keeps the present from forgetting the cost of silence.”

Host: She knelt briefly, adjusting a candle that had fallen, her hands wet, her fingers trembling slightly. The light caught her face, and for a second, the rain looked like tears streaming upward.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Nash didn’t just sing Ohio that day. He sang it at the same spot—on the same anniversary—because memory needs a voice. Music turns grief into endurance.”

Jack: “Endurance isn’t justice, Jeeny. It’s just survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is the most radical thing we can do when the system wants us erased.”

Host: Her words struck the air like sparks against stone. Jack turned toward her, his eyes narrowing.

Jack: “You sound like every idealist who thinks a song can change the world. It can’t. Laws change the world. Power changes the world.”

Jeeny: “Power without conscience destroys it. But a song?”—she paused, her voice trembling with something between grief and defiance—“a song reminds us why the fight matters.”

Host: The wind whistled through the empty campus, scattering old flyers across the ground—ghosts of protests past. A distant bell tower began to ring, slow and hollow.

Jack: “You really believe they died for something? Those four students? You think they knew what would happen that day?”

Jeeny: “No one ever knows, Jack. That’s what makes their courage unbearable. They were just kids. They came with signs, not guns. And the state answered with bullets. That’s not politics—that’s tragedy.”

Jack: “Tragedy doesn’t absolve anyone. It repeats. Look around—different faces, same blood on the pavement.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s why we remember. Because forgetting is how it repeats.”

Host: The rain softened. The sound of it changed from accusation to elegy. A nearby speaker crackled, and the voice of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young filled the damp air:
"Tin soldiers and Nixon coming… We’re finally on our own…"

Jeeny: “That song wasn’t just protest—it was prophecy. It wasn’t meant to fix the wound, only to keep it open, so we don’t pretend it’s healed.”

Jack: “You think songs can do that? Keep a wound open?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because forgetting is anesthesia. And anesthesia is how nations die.”

Host: She spoke it like a prayer. Jack turned away, his jaw tight, the rain streaking down his face, though maybe not all of it was rain.

Jack: “My father was there, you know. Not at Kent, but D.C., ’71. He said he marched, sang the songs, shouted until his voice cracked. Then he came home, and nothing changed. He stopped believing. Said the world eats its idealists first.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just couldn’t carry it anymore. Some people march once and never again. Others keep singing for them.”

Host: The candles flickered once more, but one of them—one lonely flame—stood stubborn against the wind.

Jack: “You think Nash still believes? After all these years?”

Jeeny: “He has to. Otherwise, why sing? Why go back to that spot, feel all that pain again?”

Jack: “Maybe he sings because it’s all he knows how to do.”

Jeeny: “Or because he refuses to let silence win.”

Host: A long pause. The rain eased into a mist. The streetlights painted everything in a weary gold, turning puddles into mirrors.

Jack: “You ever wonder what you’d do? If you were there, 1970? Would you have run or stayed?”

Jeeny: “I’d like to think I’d stay. I’d like to think I’d sing.”

Jack: “You say that now, but fear changes everything.”

Jeeny: “So does courage.”

Host: Their voices had grown quiet now, like two instruments after the final chord, vibrating in the same silence.

Jeeny looked out at the wet memorial, at the names: Allison Krause. Jeffrey Miller. Sandra Scheuer. William Schroeder.

Jeeny: “They weren’t martyrs. They were students. And that’s what makes it so unbearable. They didn’t die for a grand cause—they died because they believed they had the right to speak.”

Jack: “And fifty years later, people still die for that right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re the ones carrying their song now.”

Host: She said it not as a metaphor, but as truth. A truth heavy enough to hang between them, glowing like the last candle refusing to die.

Jack stepped closer, his voice low.

Jack: “You really think memory can change the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can stop the world from changing us.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sky broke open into a vast, dark blue hush. The candles burned steadier now, defiant in their fragile light.

The song faded. Only the sound of the wind remained—a wind that once carried bullets, now carrying silence, now carrying a vow.

Jeeny whispered, almost to herself—

Jeeny: “We can’t forget, Jack. Not May 4th. Not any of them. Because every time we remember, they live a little longer.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the fight in him dissolving into something quieter—acceptance, maybe grief.

Jack: “Then let’s keep them alive.”

Host: They stood there in the pale light, two shadows among many, the sound of memory humming through the night. And though no music played now, it felt as if the earth itself held its breath, waiting—just waiting—for the next verse to begin.