Bill Arthrell, Oberlin native indicted after Kent State shootings, dies in car crash

Bill Arthrell, who started his adult life with bullets and spent the rest of it relentlessly preaching peace, died last week in an Oklahoma car crash. He was 72. Arthrell, an Oberlin native, retired history teacher and renowned protester, was two hours into the long drive back to Ohio, said his sister-in-law, Claudia Arthrell. He preferred to drive at night and left her Tulsa home at 8:30 p.m.; the crash occurred shortly after just east of Miami, Oklahoma, state troopers told her. "He left in really good spirits," she said, having just spent six weeks staying at her home while he had a knee replacement and visiting with family for the holidays, she said. Her late husband, Dan, was Bill Arthrell's only sibling. "We were so excited. He felt better than he had in a long time." Bill Arthrell, of Cleveland Heights, learned a love of history from his parents, George and Mildred "Millie" Arthrell, his sister-in-law said. Every summer, the whole family would pick a book from any era or place and would study it as a family. Trips were planned to Civil War battlefields and other historic sites. His empathy was always there, perhaps, but the day it was focused like a laser could be circled on a calendar with a Sharpie: May 4, 1970. That was the day Arthrell was one of 1,500 protesters at Kent State University when National Guard members opened fire, killing four students, injuring nine and shocking a nation. He had just turned 21. Earlier that day, he told The Chronicle in 2020, he'd gone to the protest with another student, Robert Stamps. They'd gotten separated in the rally, and Stamps was seriously wounded when he was shot in the rear by a guardsman. A year later, Arthrell was one of many protesters indicted over actions that day while the guard members were exonerated. The charges eventually were dropped for lack of evidence. Arthrell, who spoke often of the events at Kent and whose recollections are included in many recountings of the period, often attributed his indictment as revenge for his actions on campus a few days before the notorious shootings. On April 22, word spread on campus that students were going to kill a dog with napalm. A huge crowd showed up at the expected time, outraged and ready to stop it, including an animal welfare officer with a leash. There stood Arthrell in a suit coat and tie to explain there was no dog and there would be no grotesque display, but if it was illegal to use such a weapon on an animal, why should our government use it on people in Vietnam? "He felt things intensely," his sister-in-law said. "There was just a part of him that felt like he needed to add a voice. That was part of his meaning and purpose." Arthrell, known to say in later years that he "never met a protest I didn't like," would continue to add his voice to many causes of the day — and to rack up dozens of arrests along the way. "What happened at Kent — that was traumatic," his sister-in-law said. "That really mobilized him internally to give a damn." He would go on to earn a master's degree in education from Cleveland State University after graduating from Kent and taught history off and on in the Cleveland Schools before retiring. But he started his teaching career in Oberlin, where he had graduated just a few years, but a lifetime, before. John Pardee was a newcomer to Arthrell's seventh grade class, new to the school and knowing no one. "He came into my life when I needed him," Pardee, now an environmental consultant in Oberlin, remembers. "He was energetic. I was tremendously inspired by his passion for social justice, his passion for doing the right thing. And eventually he spent his entire life pursuing those goals, doing everything in his power pursuing this right thing. And besides that, I just liked him. He was engaging, and funny. He cared for his students. He was just a great guy. He was extremely different and proud of that, I think. He was not afraid to stand up and be counted." Arthrell lived a vagabond life, visiting different countries and living in several. Years later, he lived briefly in Thailand, "touched by the sweetness of the people, the gentle heart of the people," sister-in-law Claudia Arthrell said. He ventured to Vietnam at the time, moved to make apologies for the war. He spent stints living in Germany, Great Britain, Israel, New York City and most recently Ukraine, moved by the plight of the Ukrainian unrest following the Maidan Revolution. Just watching the killing of 130 protesters on television threw him into a deep depression; within weeks, he was on a plane to begin a series of yearly sojourns to spend weeks and months there. He was part of a documentary, "Ukraine: Path to Freedom," told through foreigners, and he wrote a book of poetry, "Ukrainian Heart." He had six copies of his book on the last day of his life, and was looking forward to attending an upcoming event in Cleveland marking the 10th memorial of the Maidan Revolution, Claudia Arthrell said. "His heart was always for people. He always found the sweetest people, the gentlest people, that had the commitment to freedom in the midst of being overcome by others," she said. His family was able to retrieve a few of his belongings from his car after the crash: some journals, his Beatles CDs, a sweat shirt, a tie and an address book. They are remainders of a remarkable man at times brilliant and at turns frustrating because "he would never show up on time because he might stop to write a poem on the side of a road and directions just never worked with Bill," Claudia Arthrell said, laughing. In his journal was a list of the things he was most proud of in his life, written over the past few weeks. "Being courageous. Being outrageous. Being a leader in the peace movement. Taking dangerous adventures, and doing it alone. Being almost like Indiana Jones. Being a leader in the peace movement … my sense of loyalty and willingness to try new things" were listed, along with quitting drinking years ago and living around the world. He'd also been reconnecting with old friends while recuperating in Oklahoma, his sister-in-law said, and was looking forward to new adventures with his new knee, even considering a move out west himself. In the end, William "Bill" Arthrell will be home again, back on Morgan Street, the same street where he grew up in different days. He will once again join his brother Dan, and Millie and George, but now it's at Westwood Cemetery, not the family's old home. The accolades of his many international friends and students from his decades of adventures continue to come in on Arthrell's social media pages. At his funeral, set for Feb. 25 at First Church in Oberlin, Pardee will be speaking of his lifelong friendship with Arthrell, which continued long past their meeting in the classroom and inspired political activism on Pardee's part as well. The two were making plans for a podcast at the time Arthrell died. "A lot of people talk the talk, they say a lot of things about what needs to be done, but that guy didn't just give it lip service," Pardee said. "He always walked the walk. He was dedicated to justice and equality. He was an incredible human being. Absolutely one of a kind." Contact Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.