Lawrence, 1970. On one corner of campus, a group of about 40 students gather in the street. Some hold signs that pierce the sky above their heads for emphasis. They stand against the members of the National Guard and Lawrence police force with only a few feet of electrified air separating them. Tear gas canisters are held at the ready. Someone charges, and the burning gas is let loose against the crowd.

Only a few blocks away at the Gaslight Tavern, another group has gathered. It’s late at night, and they’re breaking curfew; causing a ruckus. Wayne Propst, a Head Start teacher at the University, sits out on his front porch, watching the scene from across the street. Police arrive and threaten arrests. The crowd pushes further. Propst watches as the police level their guns into the crowd. Shots are fired and people scream. A 19-year-old is killed.

Lawrence, 2009. A couple of tables have been folded out in front of Wescoe Hall with students sitting politely behind them. Pamphlets, signing sheets and stickers litter the table. It’s a quiet atmosphere, and while some people may stop and read the signs, it’s still easy to ignore.

On a different corner of town, six or seven people line up in front of the Douglas County Court House to protest wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Every weekend, the “Honk for Hemp” guy stands obediently at 11th and Massachusetts streets.

For those who lived through the tumultuous period of the 1960s and ’70s, the calm that has settled over Lawrence is an uncharacteristic, if not welcomed, tranquility.

In the ’60s, Lawrence was a seething pit of protest, anger, hope and action. By the time 1970 rolled around, the city was boiling.

The University of Kansas earned a nickname for its clashes, the “Berkeley of the Midwest,” as a parallel to the University of California, Berkeley’s intense, emotionally charged activism in the ’60s.

That was 40 years ago. For the University and Berkeley, the scene has dramatically changed.

The calm of the town almost suggests that civil rights, gender equality and peace have all been achieved, though this is debatable. People can agree that less violence is a good thing, but the question of what appears to be American apathy or contentment might be puzzling to the citizens of Lawrence, who hit the streets every time a controversial issue arose. It takes a glance into the past to understand the present. Seeing what fueled passions then might uncover what suppresses passion now, for better or worse.

Death and Dissent

It’s an overcast, chilly morning in Lawrence. The Bourgeois Pig, a local coffee house and bar, houses a half dozen people who are sipping brew, occupied with a newspaper or laptop. In the corner, however, four men surround a table, engaged in animated discussion. Wayne Propst leans forward, recounting a story of great proportion. The “old cronies” are having a meeting.

“Activism,” one of the men says, leaning back against the window. He ponders the word for a moment and says, “If there were a draft, there would be.” Propst flips open a magazine and points to an old photograph depicting a group of people holding signs and shouting.

“See, that’s the way activism used to be,” he said.

Propst would know. Like many of his peers, he witnessed the protests and rallies of Lawrence 40 years ago. He said 1970, in particular, stuck out in his mind.

The world had ushered in the new decade, and like much of America, Lawrence residents were unsure and fearful of what it would bring. The previous decade had been building to this year, accelerating at an alarming rate. The tension was acute and seethed in every neighborhood.

On the night of July 20, Propst watched a group of 100 students and locals try to set a car on fire. After failing to calm the crowd, police opened fire, resulting in the death of a white college student, Harry Nicholas Rice.

Just four days earlier, Lawrence Police Officer William Garrett shot and killed a black 19-year-old Lawrence resident, Rick “Tiger” Dowdell, in an alley. Rusty L. Monhollon, former KU student and assistant professor in history at Hood College in Maryland, described the events and emotions leading up to these deaths in his book, “This is America? The Sixties in Lawrence, KS.” In the book, he said the culmination of both students’ deaths led to a surge in arson, firebombs and a call to arms from white vigilantes and black militants.

Second only to Quantrill’s Civil War Raid, the summer of ’70 perhaps marked the darkest period in Lawrence’s history, and fuelled a hatred so intense that most residents cringe at its remembrance.

A Man Alone

Verner Newman, a 79-year-old life-long resident of northeast Kansas, was a first-hand witness to the conflicts and injustice suffered by black people. As the only black man on the Lawrence police force during the worst of the riots, Newman faced animosity and contempt from every corner of the city. Other police officers would often refuse to work alongside him. A few of the black residents in the community considered him to be a traitor. Whenever one would ask how he could justify being a police officer, he’d say, “Well, are you going to feed my family?”

He blamed the worst violence on out-of-town instigators who influenced locals — especially young teenagers — to follow their example. It took only a small number of leaders to stir up the crowd and convince them of justified violence. “Agitators,” Newman called them.

“We had some bad people in Lawrence, but they weren’t that bad,” he said.

It wasn’t that black people had nothing to be angry about. Although most of Lawrence was integrated by the 1970s, black people continued to suffer from extreme racism and unofficial segregation from Lawrence residents and business owners, said Monhollon.

Newman’s position as a black police officer insulted a few black residents, especially as he became more established in the police force. Newman, who said he had originally been hired because his employer considered him to be from a “good ol’ colored family,” was dedicated to improving his standing in the police department, gaining certifications for better positions. Still, for six years he remained a dispatcher, where they kept all black officers. He was finally promoted when a new police chief noticed Newman’s qualifications.

Hostility from a few fellow cops and black residents grew stronger, and Newman and the two other black officers in the police force at that time found themselves in a dangerous position.

Newman’s wife and two kids moved to his aunt’s house in Topeka for safety. He said the other two officers left Kansas because they feared for their lives. Newman was left to fend for himself, and for two years, that’s what he did.

It became a common evening ritual. He would sit on his front porch with a shotgun, rifle and pistol, as his German shepherd would guard the back door. He had positioned himself in a house with few trees so that he could see all the way around it. Newman said no police cars ever came by his house to see if he was OK. He was on his own.

Race Riots

Bill Tuttle, Professor Emeritus of American Studies and author of “Race Riot: Chicago in the Red Summer of 1919,” came to the University of Kansas in 1967. He began research on racial tensions and riots soon after the death of Martin Luther King Jr. King’s assassination and the broad injustices suffered by black people at the time led to a tense, violent atmosphere in all of America. One riot in Kansas City resulted in the death of six people. Another race riot in Detroit led to the deaths of 43.

“That was very much in the air — these urban disorders, urban race riots,” Tuttle said. “And the language became pretty important, too. Were they riots? Were they rebellions? It’s different.”

Newman said Lawrence High School students initially got involved because they weren’t allowed to nominate a black homecoming king and queen. Although a few black students turned to more violent avenues of activism, Tuttle said Lawrence High was the birthplace of some of the most prominent and effective leaders in the Lawrence black civil rights movement.

Black graduates of Lawrence High who “moved up the hill” got organized and ultimately created the Black Student Union.

Tuttle said the Black Student Union used powerful and sophisticated means of getting its message out. Established in 1968, BSU was founded as an advocator of diversity on campus. BSU printed its own newspaper, and also organized rallies to promote the cause.

At the forefront of every rally, riot or protest was a cause. Newman said the cause was often buried under the violent means of promoting it, which could render it ineffective, and even harmful, to its goals. The “agitators” from Kansas City and Topeka caused real danger.

For instance, along Tennessee Street, it was common for police cars to be shot at as they drove by. At night, people would string piano wire at neck-height across alleyways, and then light fires on both ends to lure in police officers and firemen to slice their necks.

Out with skirts: The Women’s Movement

Women who made it to college were pulled into the movement rapidly. Barbara Moffet, who said she was a very impressionable freshman when she came to the University, was drawn to the idea quickly. She found out about the movement when a girl who sat next to her in class wore jeans instead of a skirt.

“She told me there was a movement that was going to give equality to women with men — equal pay and things like that,” she said. “And I was just shocked. I just couldn’t even imagine that, and the more I thought about it, I thought it was a good thing.”

The women’s movement had the greatest progress, perhaps more than any other movement of the time. Beth Bailey, author of “Sex in the Heartland,” which explores the sexual revolution and women’s movement in Lawrence, said young women today were extremely fortunate for their current standing.

“I worry that those who have grown up in a much more equitable world take it for granted and whether they’re aware or not of how recently these battles were,” Bailey said.

Linda Thompson, a 1972 graduate, said she was only one of 10 girls in her high school class to graduate from college.

“Women weren’t expected to go to college,” she said. “It was sort of a rarity.”

Thompson said women who made it to college were limited in what they could do. They were expected to pursue only certain occupations, such as becoming secretaries, nurses or teachers.

According to the National Bureau of Economic Research, female college graduates had a low representation in the workplace in 1960. Only 39 percent of 30- to 34-years-old female graduates had jobs. 74 percent of these women were teachers.

War and Peace

The Vietnam War resonated deeply within everyone. These emotions clashed in the open air, in the streets and sidewalks of Jayhawk Boulevard and led to mass conglomerations of students chanting and marching in front of Strong Hall, where Chancellor W. Clarke Wescoe resided.

These kinds of protests were the ones that Linda Thompson was willing to attend. She said she liked them because, for the most part, they were peaceful.

“People were congregating in large groups to protest things — and of course, they were in their rights to do that,” she said.

Thompson remembers the anti-war protests to be nonviolent. Although people were strong in their convictions against the Vietnam War, she didn’t recall feeling in danger.

“They would hold hands and sing. Most people were stoned out of their minds,” Thompson said.

It’s arguable whether anti-war protesters made any progress by their own hand, but undoubtedly, they made a lot of noise. Tuttle recalled an anti-war protest in Memorial Stadium in May 1969. It was the day of the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) Review. Hundreds of people, including Tuttle, attended the event and anticipated a protest.

“As the cadets marched out to the field, the anti-war protesters also took to the field,” he said. “Nobody got hurt. Nobody wanted to hurt anybody. But they did want to lie down in front of them — make it difficult for them to march.”

In November 1969, Tuttle said the students held a moratorium of war. Hundreds of people marched down Jayhawk Boulevard, toting signs and chanting anti-war slogans.

Currently, the U.S. is fighting wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Rather than gathering in the streets for daily or weekly protests, those who oppose the war release their frustrations in blogs, editorials and letters to Congress. Those who support the war might boast a yellow ribbon on the back of their vehicles. Either way, few take to the streets.

‘The world was ending’

Late in the evening of April 20, 1970, the then Student Memorial Union, where the Kansas Union sits now, was set on fire. By the time the fire was under control, the inside was destroyed, costing about $3 million in repairs. Various theories circulated for months about who caused the fire, but the investigation eventually went cold.

Barbara Moffet was a sophomore when the Union arson happened. She remembers seeing the flames from her dorm room in GSP Residence Hall.

“I remember thinking that the world was ending,” she said.

Linda Thompson also remembered the event to be deeply troubling.

“That was so upsetting and so frightening because, you know, you were at college and loved it. So, that was very disturbing,” she said.

That same spring, Thompson remembers sitting in a large class with about 500 people when suddenly a group of black militants walked in and began yelling.

“They came in and threatened us all — said they were going to kill us all and burn down the entire campus,” she said. “And that’s when they called in the National Guard to make sure things weren’t happening like that.”

With the tension on campus, Thompson said she welcomed the National Guard. They escorted students to class and to the library, always carrying rifles. Because of the severity of the situation, the University cancelled finals and students were encouraged to head home as soon as possible.

‘The Reformation’

After the Union was gutted by fire, University officials began rethinking the function and purpose of student government. Although it was the Union fire that ultimately forced the administration to improve, the massive protesting on campus, particularly with African Americans being excluded from sororities and fraternities, played a key role in pressing forward.

Tom Cox, Shawnee second-year graduate student and chairman of the Student Rights Committee, said it was a culmination of the protests and movements that spurred the creation of the Student Code of Rights and Responsibilities. Similar to a Bill of Rights, it granted legitimate authority to Student Senate. Before this reformation, no student had ever served in University administration boards or was allowed to take part in executive decisions.

Cox said the rights committee had become a way for students to voice ideas and concerns with the prospect of actually putting them into governance. At the same time, the committee protects the rights of students.

“The Student Rights Committee is there to provide an avenue to people with concerns to essentially redress the government if they have an issue,” he said.

Technically, people could protest and rally on campus with the same vigor as in the ’60s and ’70s without University objection, said Cox. But even with two wars, gender, race, and gay and lesbian inequity, that has not happened.

“I think a lot of why we don’t see that any more is that, as the Internet becomes the norm, people can become a ‘fan’ of an issue, or join a group page or Twitter about it, and they feel like they’ve contributed to the cause,” he said.

Bailey said she suspected the Internet has played a big role in changing the way students try to initiate movement.

“The mechanisms have changed — people are less likely to believe that going out and marching is going to make a difference,” she said. “I think that people’s political practices are, to some extent, conducted in other forms. People who are online have a different kind of activism.”

Thompson said it might be a matter of not having the right leaders today. She described the sidewalks being covered in chalk when she was in school, all of them announcing the time and place of another rally or protest. Now chalk on University sidewalks advertises parties or drink specials.

“I know I didn’t have the desire to start up a protest — but maybe I would’ve joined one or two,” Cox said.

The New Activism

Although the status of minorities and women has improved since the 1960s and ’70s, many people argue the struggle isn’t over.

According to data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, black unemployment is currently almost twice that of white unemployment. Even now, with prospects for women looking better than ever, pay equity has not been fully achieved. A report by the International Trade Union Confederation in 2008 showed women earn only 84.8 percent of men’s earnings on average.

Wayne Propst said today’s youth has stopped aggressive activism prematurely. He said a great deal of the apparent idleness comes from a lack of sophistication.

Propst argued it wasn’t necessarily young people’s fault. He said the daunting task of reforming the world is still too overwhelming.

“I think the culture has morphed into such a beast that even if there were a few young people who said, ‘Wait a minute. What’s going on?’ they would be such a minority,” he said.

Propst said it was likely that students were aware of the problems still existing today, but they didn’t know how to face them. In turn, he said they “retreated to places like the Gap and Urban Outfitters.”

“They’re smart enough to realize that if they were to go get a sign and walk up and down the street, maybe throw a brick through the window, that it would be a complete waste of time,” he said.

Bailey and Thompson said the pressures of college have changed, and perhaps increased, since the 1960s, discouraging students from breaking boundaries. In general, there was less pressure to succeed back in the ’60s. For women and minorities, especially, it was a big enough achievement to have made it into college at all. Bailey said the expectations have greatly elevated since then.

“Young people who are successful enough to be going to college today have also been raised in situations where there was always a lot at stake,” Bailey said. “They’re expected to do the right things and to be conscious of social obligation and privilege.”

Thompson said she held a great deal of faith in young people’s desire and ability to change the world. She said although modern activism appeared to be more behind-the-scenes and quiet than the radical, outspoken and highly visible protests of the ’60s, it was no less effective.

With the power of Internet, Thompson said people could actually reach out beyond their own communities and spark global change.

“I don’t think they’re any less caring, any less interested — and maybe way more so just because they have the access to the world instead of just dealing with things within Lawrence,” she said.

Bailey said there was a tendency to romanticize about the uprisings of the ’60s and ’70s, and it was especially important to realize that it was a much darker time than often depicted.

“There were definitely a lot of young people who put their lives on the line and struggled for civil rights,” she said. “There were people who passionately worked for social justice and protested against inequality, but it was also a time of enormous anger and violence and a great deal of misogyny.

“It wasn’t an easy or happy time, and some people who were protesting and trying to change the world were trying to change the world in ways that weren’t necessarily all that great either.”

Officer Newman looks back at the time period with a feeling of irony and disbelief. Although it was a particularly troublesome time for him and his family, he finds amusement in the chaos.

“It was funny for awhile,” he said. “It was like a comedy. We had no idea what we were doing.”

For better or worse, the noise of the ’60s and ’70s has quieted. Despite the violence and fear that resonated in Lawrence during this time, the movements sparked change. The effectiveness of today’s activism is yet to be determined.

— Edited by Lauren Cunningham