Politics

On Charlie Kirk: You Can't Pick and Choose Your Martyr

Abbigale Kernya
Nov 10
5 min read

By Abbigale Kernya for The 44 North

Managing Editor

"What began as a goal to further the reach of conservative ideology on college campuses evolved into a right-wing pipeline that grounded itself in exploiting marginalized communities and inciting violence against anyone who dared to call out the deplorable white supremacist behaviour."

On September 10th, 2025, American Conservative podcaster Charlie Kirk was fatally shot at Utah Valley University on the first stop of his “Prove Me Wrong” campus tour. Kirk, who made his career founding Turning Point USA and debating college students on campus about controversial topics like abortion, same-sex marriage, transgender existence, and the right to bear arms, has left behind a legacy that continues to polarize and divide.

Kirk’s final words that afternoon perhaps speak most of all to his work, where he riled up the MAGA crowd in attendance—fearmongering about transgender gang violence—moments before he was fatally shot by a rifle 200 yards away. The suspect charged is 22-year-old Tyler Robinson, whose motives remain unknown at the time of writing, despite republican claims his actions were a blatant attack from the left.

It is without question that no matter Kirk’s controversial and bigoted stance, nobody ‘deserves’ to die by gun violence. This remains true, even after Kirk plainly stated in 2023 that he supported civilian casualties to protect and uphold the Second Amendment right to bear arms. The outcry following his assassination is as polarizing as it is frightening. Far right MAGA leaders are calling on violence towards the left (or, their “political opponents”) and conspiracy theories are headlining mainstream media, stating that this shooting was somehow a result of transgender violence—the same “violence” Kirk conspiratized seconds before the fatal shot.

And yet, on the same day Kirk was shot and killed on campus, an elementary school in Illinois was attacked by a lone gunman, marking the 146th American school shooting in 2025, as Kirk became the same “civilian casualty” he supported.

Kirk’s platform was built on oppression and harm to anyone who wasn’t a straight, white, Christian, middle-class American cis-male. It can be hard to feel empathy for someone who would not give you the same courtesy. Empathy, which, in Kirk’s own words, was seen as a made-up emotion.

Right-wing extremism has been rising steadily in America, bleeding the harmful rhetoric mainstreamed by people like Kirk into nearly every crevice of the West. When the news broke that Kirk had succumbed to his fatal shot, the response heard everywhere from the internet to sports venues was shocking, to say the least.

This is not to say that Kirk deserved what he got—nobody, no matter which side of the political line they stand on, deserves to be murdered in broad daylight. Nobody deserves to witness bloodshed, and in breaking down the hypocrisies of republican outcry, it is not a pro-firearm message. Rather, it’s one that aims to draw light toward the mass mourning of a white supremacist podcaster who made a career demonizing marginalized communities under the guise of “free speech” and the right to have your own opinion.

The irony of this whole situation is hidden under the calls for violence and continued “us vs. them” rhetoric, steeped in racist comparisons between Kirk and the murder of George Floyd, to further blame the left for his assassination. However, the argument that one must feel sorry for Kirk is somewhat missing the mark in this conversation. Especially given that Kirk himself advocated for public executions, saying they should be televised to children and sponsored by major corporations like Coca-Cola. It comes as somewhat ironic, then, that the conversation around his death is spiralling into that of a memorialized martyr who died for his own opinion, not one that aims to look at the broader picture of the violence he made a career out of.

Kirk’s advocacy for the right to one’s own “opinion” is a trapdoor that invites unsuspecting viewers through the guise of free speech into the chasm of extremist ideology. As a reminder, an opinion is whether or not you like summer over winter, or what TV show deserved an Emmy Award, or how you like your eggs cooked. An opinion is not whether or not you believe the Jim Crow laws were a good thing for the Black community, or that women aren’t capable of holding equal careers to men, or that transgender people are dangerous, bloodthirsty criminals. Charlie Kirk did not die for his opinion. He held no ‘opinions’ that were not factually incorrect or spewed in the pursuit of a divided country, fueled by hatred and fear.

His “Prove me Wrong” tour would be the final act in his legacy of rage-baiting college students into falling for the ultra-right-wing pipeline, spinning every disadvantage young people face into a calling card for bigotry and white-supremacy. It is extremely telling how school shootings and the rise of hate speech in North America have become so normalized that they’ve become desensitized to mainstream media. On the afternoon of Charlie Kirk’s shooting, when a man armed with a semi-automatic weapon opened fire in an elementary school in Illinois, the narrative instead became focused on protecting the legacy of someone who didn’t believe in equal rights based on “freedom of expression” rather than the epidemic of gun violence that is plaguing America.

The truth is, if people were truly outraged that this horrific act of gun violence cost Kirk his life, a conversation of change would spark. Instead, conversations around further demonizing left-leaning voters and the trans community have infiltrated online forums. Additionally, we’ve seen countless examples where anyone speaking out against the hypocrisy of Kirk’s shooting is facing harassment and, in increasingly frequent cases, being fired from their employment after speaking against Charlie Kirk's “opinions.”

How have we strayed so far from the plot that merely bringing attention to the hypocrisy and somewhat ironic nature of September 12th is an act of war against the right-wing? To say that you don’t support what happened to Charlie Kirk, but Charlie Kirk (by his own words) supported what happened to him, has become controversial—as if his platform was built around not only protecting the Second Amendment, but also advocating for looser gun restrictions.

How can one mourn Charlie Kirk and ignore the victims of his rhetoric?

What began as a goal to further the reach of conservative ideology on college campuses evolved into a right-wing pipeline that grounded itself in exploiting marginalized communities and inciting violence against anyone who dared to call out the deplorable white supremacist behaviour.

To truly mourn Charlie Kirk must mean you mourn all victims of gun violence.

To mourn him as a father, as a husband, is to also mourn the innocent families ripped apart by ICE raids.

To mourn him as a political activist for free speech is to also mourn the journalists murdered in Gaza who died documenting a genocide.

To mourn Charlie Kirk is to mourn victims of violence perpetuated with hands cradling guns and microphones.

To mourn him is to mourn trans people and childbearing folks who have died due to lack of access to gender affirming care and abortion resources.

You cannot pick and choose your martyr.

Reflections on the Sexual Assault Trial of Former World Junior Hockey Players: More Yhan Just a few 'Bad Apples'

Gillian Smith-Clark
Nov 10
5 min read

Gillian Smith-Clark, for The 44 North

Editor-in-Chief

A blurry photo negative of five men in suits

"Layered underneath that fabric of an unhealthy masculine ideal is the broader objectification and commodification of women and gender expansive people, and a culture that too often confuses coercion with consent."

The exact number remains unverified, but a group of young men got the text from Michael McLeod to come to a London, Ontario hotel room that night. E.M. testified at trial that as many as eleven men were in the room over the course of the evening; the Crown’s argument stated that ten showed up. The trial record does not fix a single, undisputed number for how many got the text or how many were present in a way that all sides accept – what we do know is that there was a group text sent to multiple players: some responded, others didn’t. It has also been reported that McLeod, after having consensual sex with E.M., went out into the hallway of the hotel that night and invited more people into the room.

No one involved, as far as we know, recognized that this could be a situation where a young woman might need help, that she might have found herself in a situation she was not anticipating, might have felt blindsided – possibly scared and overwhelmed in an environment where her judgment was impaired by alcohol, was surrounded by men who were not only strangers to her, but physically intimidating.

There are so many lingering questions about both the events of that night and the subsequent trial and verdict – the lack of empathy by the judge and prevalence of victim blaming and shaming (e.g. Justice Carroccia’s petty and demeaning finding that E.M.’s evasive response to a mistake she had made about her weight was “telling,”) that was present both at trial and in the verdict; the noticeable absence of expert testimony on trauma; the gruelling nine days of testimony that E.M. was put through on the stand, a judicial system that seems incapable of handling sexual assault cases well and a 91-page final written decision that reeks of bias and internalized miso

gyny.

Further, a crucial and haunting question is: Out of those men who didn’t respond or participate, why did none question or intervene in any way? Reach out for help or advice from a friend, coach or parent? And by extension, how can we work as individuals and as a society to ensure that future outcomes, in similar situations, end differently?

The question of the young men who did nothing to help is one that immediately invokes a toxic mixture of strong emotions – sadness, fear, revulsion, anger, contempt – yet understanding the motivation behind the thought processes of the men involved can provide at least some insight into how to change behaviour, change culture, and offer a measure of hope for the future.

Understanding the ‘Why’

Beyond the bystander effect, fear of social consequences and moral disengagement, we live in a cultural landscape that often characterizes an ideal vision of masculinity as one of power, dominance, aggression, emotional suppression, and impulsivity. Pete Hegseth articulated this philosophy perfectly in a recent speech to U.S. generals, where he describes ideal leadership culture as defined by ‘aggressiveness and risk-taking.’ Hegseth went on to say, “[…] an entire generation of generals and admirals were told that they must parrot the insane fallacy that quote, our “diversity is our strength”.”

Layered underneath that fabric of an unhealthy masculine ideal is the broader objectification and commodification of women and gender expansive people, and a culture that too often confuses coercion with consent. Underneath that layer, at the base of everything, is a cultural foundation where boys are inundated from early childhood with the message that they must suppress and lock down their own emotions or risk rejection from those they depend on and love. Activist and writer Jeff Perera speaks about this phenomenon particularly well in a recent podcast episode for The 44 North, “Moving From Harmful to Helpful Ideas of Manhood” alongside his written companion essay, “Five Truths on Not Buying into the Manosphere Bait and Switch.”

The result, on that particular evening in London in 2018, was that the text received probably didn’t trigger any alarm bells or uneasiness because this type of behaviour is not only normalized but expected. And too often, it is still celebrated.

These were young, male, elite athletes who were raised in an environment where objectifying and commodifying women was so typical, so woven into the fabric of their society, that they didn’t see it as alarming – they probably didn’t see it at all. Therefore, there was no cause for alarm or an impulse to intervene.

One of the many unintended consequences of boys and young men being systematically taught emotional suppression (and often punished and shamed for certain types of emotional expression, e.g. ‘boys don’t cry’) from an early age, is that they also learn to subconsciously ‘switch off’ their feelings, the prerequisite for an ability to switch off cognition, critical thinking and their humanity in the moment. That foundational mechanism can allow an otherwise intelligent, kind, talented young human to ignore any alarm bells that might be sounding in their heads. This isn’t a case of ‘a few bad apples’, but a foundational problem requiring systemic change.

Taking Action: What makes a difference?

It starts with us. As individuals and as a society, we play a foundational role in shaping how boys and all genders understand masculinity — what it means to be a “good man,” how to express emotion, how to relate to others with empathy and respect, and how to take responsibility for our actions. Together, we can build a new vision of healthy masculinity — one that values wisdom, integrity, moral courage and thoughtfulness.

A simple place to start is by celebrating and recognizing the right qualities in all genders – by recognizing our own humanity so that we can see it in others – and by finding everyday role models who exhibit strength through emotional intelligence, compassion, and moderation.

Resources

Echinacea: Understanding the Consequences of Police in Schools

Mikaela Brewer
Aug 4
8 min read

by Mikaela Brewer for The 44 North

**A police officer in tactical gear walking through the front door of a building**

The echinacea were still alive when the first bell of the school year rang. They’re also called coneflowers, and this is how my mother ensured we shared a name—that I carried her with me safely. Her name is Echina, mine is Connie. I didn’t understand, at first, why we didn’t have the same name. I both knew and didn’t in 2018, when the Toronto District School Board trustees voted to remove police officers stationed in their schools. But I see now, in September 2026, as I begin my senior year of high school. I was born in this country. My mother wasn’t.

The last time we drove back from Mexico, during the summer of 2025, we’d talked about our fears surrounding the upcoming American and Canadian elections. Mid-topic, we passed a strip of coneflowers and mom, as always, adored an opportunity to talk about the flowers she so admired. She loved them so much that she gifted some to my high school, now rimmed in magenta, white, and yellow.

“You know, echinacea are native to North America. They’re tough and sturdy and colourful. Resilient—surviving full sun, bad soil, and drought. They help the bees and butterflies, feed the birds, and boost our immunity. They even self-seed non-invasively. Do you know what I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re trying to say.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you make them sound like a perfect flower. Maybe they are. But we’re not perfect. And flowers can be ripped from the soil by their roots, no matter how hearty they are. That’s what Trump’s going to do. And it can surely happen in Canada, too.”

Mom’s bony, ringed fingers slid down the steering wheel to eight and four. She took a loud breath that slumped her shoulders. “You don’t know what I’m saying because you didn’t let me finish.”

I regret it now, but at that moment, I shook my head and put my headphones in. She was right—I didn’t know what she wanted to say.

And here I am, waiting in a long line of students entering the school. Doorways doubled by scanners, tripled by police officers, and quadrupled by cameras. I remember my mother’s words, but I don’t yet know how to enact them. I’m terrified.

When I was nine, police roamed my elementary school grounds. But more than the coldness of the cops, I remember Mandy. Mandy with freckles, dimples, warm brown skin slightly darker than mine, and polished copper eyes. One of the first English words I could spell was penny, because I’d met Mandy in kindergarten and been in love with him since. I fight to remember him this way: Mandy, who smelled of his grandfather’s tobacco pipe when he kissed my cheek inside a dead tree trunk during recess.

But he was a troublemaker, always making things when we were supposed to be quiet and listening. A delinquent. A thief. His every move was watched, surveilled, and reprimanded in the halls. Detention for backtalk became suspension, and soon, arrests. So many frightening phone calls with the Canada Border Services Agency. A model of the school-to-prison pipeline. And it all started, from what I can remember, when he borrowed Jenny Barton’s glue stick and scissors without asking her. “What are you going to do with those?” they’d asked, fearfully. I know it started before that. Start isn’t the right word. What was cut up and flimsy as construction paper, to begin with, was his trust in adults. And I wasn’t enough to glue something so hurt back together—at least not faster than it shredded.

Mandy’s in prison now, so I hear. Just shy of nineteen. I haven’t spoken to him since he was fourteen and I was thirteen. He disappeared from my life. And out of manufactured fear, I let him.

I know peers, parents, and teachers who protested police in schools. I have friends who stopped coming to school because their parents and guardians are afraid of being reported to immigration officials, even though mom said the Education Act guarantees them an education regardless of status. But Mandy needed support. Not the police.

About midway through the lineup to enter the school, this old heartbreak snapped into panic. As nonchalantly as I could manage, I slipped out of line behind a portable and again behind the echinacea bushes. How else could I protect my mom? I put my headphones in and played two poems by Celia Martínez with my arms hugging my knees. I couldn’t stop my tears and heaved the still-humid air silently.

[A moment to pause with Connie & watch/listen to Celia’s brilliant poems, linked here & here].

I slowly calmed, listening to Celia’s words. As I fought to figure out what to do next, vehicle headlights lit up my hiding spot magenta. There was a catwalk to a subdivision next to me, but these lights were too bright and close to be coming from the road. I sank further into the bushes, so afraid that it was some form of authority figure looking for me. But nobody would’ve known I was missing yet. It was only 7:53 and classes didn’t start until 8:15.

A loud engine growl startled me, but it was turning off. A kickstand scraped the fence, thick-heeled boots hit the pavement, and headlights clicked off.

It took my eyes a moment to adjust, finding focus on a yellow floral dress hugged by a red leather jacket. My mom was crouching in front of me. She smelled like fruit.

I smeared my glittery white eyeshadow across my face trying to wipe tears away. “How did you know I was here?” I murmured, nearly incoherently.

Echina smiled and almost laughed as she sat down cross-legged beside me, out of view. “Your brothers and sisters hid here too.”

“But how did you know I’d be here today?”

“Moms know a lot of things. I had a feeling.”

“So you know why I didn’t go in.”

“I do. And I understand.” She took my hands in hers.

I swallowed, clearing my throat. “I know what you meant last summer. About coneflowers. About us.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not about perfection. It’s about believing in ourselves. In our love and hope and joy.”

“Yes, it is. And so much more.”

I nodded, but she could tell I was waiting for her to expand on the ‘much more.’”

“There’s a story that I used to tell your father before he died. I haven’t told it since, but you need it now.” She shifted to face me. “There was once an echinacea flower who—”

“Mom, do you have any stories not about echinacea?” My face cracked a wet smile.

Echina smirked. “Yes, but they’re not as good. Don’t interrupt.” She paused to paint a fresh layer of red lipstick, put the tube in her bra, and clapped her hands together softly. “So, there was once an echinacea flower who thought she couldn’t support the roots of the flowers around her unless she was completely filled—brimming with nourishment (this tale is inspired by the wonderful work of Christabel Mintah-Galloway, RN, BSN). She thought that she couldn’t give unless she was full. Gradually, the flowers around her began to die. And then, so did she. What mistake do you think she made?”

“We’re never fully or perfectly nourished. So she never helped.”

“Precisely.” Mom squeezed my hands and kissed them.

“But I don’t understand. I do help.”

“You do. You always help me. But I tell you this little tale to say: almost always, even when we feel most alone and hopeless, there’s something we can do—especially something we can give. And we must keep giving and gifting so that others can do the same for us. We can’t sever that connection. All relationships are tended most lovingly this way; it’s how we keep making in every sense of the word—change, progress, love, art, each other, and the list continues.”

“But I’m so afraid to walk into that school now, mom. With all the police and surveillance. Why is it always us who have to give. So many people only extract. Even my school friends.”

“I know. I know, my love.” Mom hugged me. As she stroked my hair, she asked, “Is there someone who gave to you, who you once shared roots with—made with, maybe—who you could give back to today?”

“Aside from you?”

“Mhm.” She smiled appreciatively.

It only took a moment to figure out who she was trying to get me to remember. And it was with his memory that I eventually walked into the school for my last first day.

***

That afternoon, I sat inside what felt like a particle board booth for standardized test-taking. There was a grey landline phone on the wall beside me, its coil nearly reaching the floor. This room of the county jail smelled of sweat, cheap coffee, and old paper. I looked down, picking at my purple nail polish. I don’t know what prompted me to look up, but when I did, I didn’t startle. I didn’t know how long he’d been sitting across from me, watching from the other side of the glass, with those same eyes.

I stared back, my brow creasing involuntarily to mirror his. It’d been long enough for both of us to notice change, but not long enough to not recognize each other. He was thin, but stronger, and with black facial hair that suited him.

Mandy picked up the phone on his side but my hand went to the glass, as if my palm could push through it to reach his cheek. Keeping the phone to his ear, his head sunk, as if in shame. Afraid he’d leave I quickly picked up the phone.

“Mandy. Don’t go.”

He looked up. His eyes were kind, but it almost looked uncomfortable for them to soften. As if softness was the only muscle he hadn’t trained since I last saw him, chiselled now in more ways than one. He started to speak but stopped and pressed chapped lips together.

“It’s me. C—”

“Connie.”

I nodded, unsure why I thought he wouldn’t remember.

“Thought I’d never see you again.” His voice was like gravel.

I smiled and nodded.

“Why did you come?” There was a sternness now.

I took a deep breath and looked down for a moment to gather myself. He thought I was patronizing him.

“If it takes that long to say I—”

“No, wait.” I snapped my head up. “My mom told me a story. And I wanted to tell you about it.”

“You want to tell me a story?”

“It’s about us. About what we can make.”

“Us?” There was a slight momentum in Mandy’s voice that gripped my heart. The wit that once made much of what he said sound like a wink. I’d missed it so much.

“Don’t you want to hear it?”

“Well, what are we going to make?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how are we going to make it?”

“Together.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help but beam back.

We truly hadn’t said much of substance. I didn’t yet know why he was here, nor how we could make anything, let alone make anything happen or change in our corner of the world. He didn’t yet know what I’d been doing for five years. But a shared fight within the two of us found its reflection.

Mandy kept smiling. It was a disarming, determined smile, with an undercurrent that I recognized. My cheeks warmed, realizing my hand was still on the glass. I was about to move it when he reached up and pressed his palm to mine. The sweat from our palms ran down the pane like tears.