I Didn’t Know Who Charlie Kirk Was

September 18, 2025

I had no idea who Charlie Kirk was until shortly after he died.

I was at a School Board Candidate Forum, sitting next to a friend, when she suddenly whispered under her breath, “Oh my god… someone killed Charlie Kirk.”

I blinked. “Who?”

She repeated the name.

Still nothing.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

She gave me a quick explanation: something about conservative politics, Turning Point USA, college campuses, and free speech. I nodded politely, trying to place the name, but I still had absolutely no clue. I had never read a quote, seen a video, or knowingly heard his name spoken.

But over the past week, I’ve learned more than I ever really wanted to.

I’ve spent some time reading about who he was, what he stood for, the beliefs he promoted, and his love of public speaking and debate. It’s clear he thrived on ideological engagement, especially with those who disagreed with him, and many people respected him for that.

In the wake of his death, I’ve watched people grieve him: his family, his followers, political allies. I’ve seen tributes, reflections, and declarations that frame him as a martyr for free speech and conservative values. Some people are blaming the political left. Others are pointing to a broader cultural breakdown.

The conversation, like the political landscape of the country, feels fractured.

I haven’t personally seen anyone celebrating his death, but I know those responses exist. That, in itself, is heartbreaking.

As for me, I feel mostly detached. I’m not emotionally invested in him or his movement. But I’m not indifferent to the implications either. His death was shocking, and it will ripple. I’ll watch it unfold, just not too closely.

What stayed with me is how it made me examine my own responses.

I’ve only watched a few clips. I don’t pretend to understand the full breadth of his work or beliefs. But the parts I have seen triggered something immediate in me. As a fourth-generation Japanese American woman, his commentary on race, affirmative action, and gender didn’t just challenge my views. They unsettled me. I felt it in my body. A tightening in my chest. The instinct to shut it down, scroll past, and keep moving.

Even so, just this week, I came across other speakers who were unpacking those same clips. They addressed the outrage online, the accusations of racism and sexism, and offered a different lens. Not just a defense of intention, but a breakdown of what was actually said.

In one example, they showed how a remark many called racist was actually about the impacts of affirmative action. It may still be controversial, but it wasn’t what the headline claimed. People had grabbed the low-hanging fruit and missed the argument beneath it.

Different voice.

Different skin tone.

Different cadence.

Their framing was thoughtful. And for me, it landed. I didn’t agree with everything, but I found myself listening with less resistance. Curious, even. Willing to stay with the tension instead of reacting to it.

That contrast stuck with me.

It reminded me how quickly I go into fight-or-flight with certain voices and styles.

I realized how easily I confuse discomfort with danger.

And it reminded me that staying present with complexity is a practice I still have to work at.

So no, I still don’t align with Charlie Kirk’s worldview.

But I’m not walking away from this untouched.

His death, and the discourse that followed, held up a mirror.

It made me ask myself harder questions.

About how I listen.

Where I shut down.

And how often I mistake instinct for insight.

I want to be the kind of person who can hear a perspective that challenges me, take a breath, unclench my jaw, and keep listening without shutting down.

The world I want to live in doesn’t begin with someone else behaving better.

It begins with me, sitting still and listening when I’d rather scroll.