Charlie Kirk was denied the chance to grow and mature in political commentary.
T he deaths of public men often produce more than one type of tragedy. For a death such as the assassination of Charlie Kirk, the most gaping tragedy is that of his family and friends. Only a monster could be unmoved by the pain of his widow, Erika, speaking of the loss to her and their two very young children. There is also the loss to the wider conservative political movement, especially on campus; to the MAGA Republican faction in particular; to his organization, Turning Point USA; and to the cause of free and open debate in America.
A lesser loss, but nonetheless a real one, is this: Kirk was robbed of the chance to add more chapters to his story. It might have read much differently.
Kirk founded TPUSA when he was 18 years old — just a kid. It is generally not a great idea to thrust people that young into positions of visible political leadership, especially in the internet age, but both sides of our politics keep doing so, for similar but distinct reasons — the left because it venerates youth, the right because it is desperate to speak its language. Becoming a public spokesman full time in your teens is a good way to build a public record of saying ill-considered things, to paint yourself into corners, and to make enemies.
Aside from a column in the campus newspaper that I had a week to mull over before publishing, I didn’t start writing about politics in public until I was past 30. Even though my core political convictions have changed very little over my lifetime, I probably would have said more things that I’d be embarrassed about today if I’d been out not just writing but speaking regularly in front of the world at 18.
Kirk, unsurprisingly to anyone who’s considered a life in this business, jumped at the chance. He was glib, raw, short on formal education, and full of ambition and missionary zeal. He proved very good at raising money, grabbing eyeballs, and making converts. He sold right-leaning politics without nuance or reflection, although naturally he got better as he went along. He was patient with foolish college kids. He became, as Tanner Greer explains, a key power-broker and coalition-builder:
All of this gave Kirk an impeccable Rolodex — he had access to a vast network of conservatives who mattered and an unerring eye for up-and-comers who should matter. He was constantly connecting politicians with donors, statesmen with staffers, and media outfits with the next brilliant young producer or marketer. There are a good four dozen people in the Trump administration who owe their appointments to an introduction Kirk made on their behalf — and this was true not only of the Trump administration, but also across Congress, in state governments, and in news agencies like Fox News. . . . All of this explains, in part, the reaction to Kirk’s assassination. He personally assisted an entire generation of young leaders and staffers on their journey into power. Many powerful and influential figures are thankful to him for connecting them to important donors or feeding them worthy staffers. Many received his aid before their political ascent. Many of the individuals now leading the U.S. government — including the president himself — are where they are today because of Charlie Kirk’s labors on their behalf.
Even for all of that, much of the press coverage of Kirk’s life has focused on his red-meat rhetoric, and his critics have zeroed in on quotations (some genuine, some cherry-picked, some outright fabricated) that present him in his most strident form, and not always flatteringly. Undoubtedly his most ill-considered chapter, but one that helped cement his bond with Donald Trump and his circle, came in the 2020 election contest, which he loudly supported.
Right now, none of that should matter. We should in general be charitable toward the dead, so long as we can do so without dishonesty, emphasizing their best angels and not dwelling overlong on their worst moments. This is far more imperative now because Kirk was killed for his politics, which makes it churlish to quibble over those politics.
But in the long run, while Kirk has attained a political martyrdom that will cover some of his faults, he deserved better. He deserved chance to grow, evolve, refine his thinking and his approach, and maybe even make an honest bid for power. He deserved the opportunity for a full life in which his missteps and his virtues could be judged in full.
At 31, he was no longer a kid, but a man and a father who was very much responsible for his choices. But history teaches us that many political figures are far from done writing their own stories in their early 30s. Winston Churchill changed parties at 30, changed back at 50, and came into his finest hour at 66. Abraham Lincoln, previously an undistinguished one-term representative and state legislator, only made anti-slavery politics central to his career when he was 45. Franklin D. Roosevelt was an unserious fop until he got polio in his 40s. Ronald Reagan was a Democrat until he was 51. Even figures who started young, such as William F. Buckley Jr. (who was 29 when he started National Review), reconsidered many things between being a twentysomething enfant terrible and becoming an eminence grise. Each of these figures took some stances in their 20s and 30s that they would have handled differently in their full maturity.
To say that all of this was denied to Charlie Kirk is not to say with certainty that he would have used the opportunity wisely. History is full, too, of counterexamples. But it’s the chance that he should have had — a chance we all need.
The parallel tragedy, of course, is that some people stick around long enough to ruin their own legacies. Rudy Giuliani is today’s most conspicuous example, and his later career bears some resemblance to the sad coda of the great lawman Eliot Ness. Among the giants of the First World War, you’d rather be Ferdinand Foch (who died at 77 in 1929, full of his nation’s honors) than Philippe Pétain (who at 84 in 1940 surrendered to Hitler and established the Vichy regime) or Paul von Hindenburg (who at 86 and failing in 1933 signed away the German government to Hitler). T. E. Lawrence is conspicuous among the figures of that era who was probably fortunate to have died in 1935 at 46 before being put to the test. I recently finished a biography of Santa Anna, who did enormous damage to his reputation in Mexico over the last quarter-century of his life as his judgment failed him and his reliable advisers died off.
Kirk owned his destiny and his legacy — until it was stolen from him. That is a kind of tragedy, too.