Another Grain of Sand, Another Bell Tolls

I was finishing up my Speech class on Wednesday, answering questions from students milling around when I heard the news. There was uncertainty and shock among them, as often occurs when news like that breaks. Nobody laughed or cried or scoffed; it was just news to them. I walked to my truck and sat in the parking lot for several minutes, scrolling though various newsfeeds, trying to absorb it all.

I didn’t know Charlie Kirk, but he attended Wheeling HS when I taught there, a 2012 grad. I knew who he was as I’m sure he knew who I was, as is typical in a school of 1800. He was an honor student and a fine athlete (in a school not known for our sports). Sometimes his name came up in conversations with other teachers because that’s what teachers do–we talk about our students.

I heard Charlie could be contentious, challenging, but he wasn’t one who caused major problems that I knew of. I never had him in class, but I typically welcome students like him. Folks like Charlie, their questions create discussion and elicit new ideas, often voicing positions that quieter students hold but don’t verbalize. Give me a Charlie every day over the lethargic and apathetic lumps, eyes glazed over if they’re even open. You have to be secure and knowledgable in your content with students like Charlie. They keep you on your toes.

I recall he was part of a “protest” over cafeteria prices. It amounted to not much as I recall. Teenagers are renowned for their bluster, their ability to whine and moan, big talk followed by no action. The emotion is real, so is the desire to stand for something. But as quickly as the righteous indignation rises, it ebbs like a wave retreating to the sea. Charlie sustained more momentum than most his age, drive that grew and grew as he aged.

Since I was the head Debate coach at WHS, many have asked if Charlie was on my team. The short answer is no. The longer answer is he may have attended a meeting or practice, but I have no recollection of him there. I recall, maybe his sophomore or junior year, asking some of my varsity debaters if I should recruit him. I heard he liked to speak his mind, that he was an intelligent guy. The general consensus was no, that he wouldn’t blend well with our team. I took their word for it. Likely, Charlie would have rebuffed my efforts anyway as he played both basketball and football, and those sport seasons conflicted greatly with Debate.

I know Charlie’s sister and think very highly of her. Mary is a very talented artist, quiet but funny. She designed the class AP Lit shirt her senior year. She and Tegan sat at the front table every day. We discussed literature, we laughed, we contemplated hard questions, mused about dreams. They, along with hundreds of other students, blessed my life daily just from spending time together. My heart aches for her.

For reasons I can’t exactly articulate, Charlie Kirk’s death has hit me hard. Maybe it’s this event layered on a number of other trials I’ve faced lately, some of which I addressed in a post a month or so ago. Maybe it’s just that Charlie, for all his flaws and talents, was a Wildcat. We walked the same halls at the same time, ate the same gooey chocolate chip cookies, cheered on the same struggling Wildcat teams. And maybe it’s because I know his sister, which adds a personal link to this tragedy. All of these are true and valid and help explain the grief.

Here’s my best guess, in addition to the other reasons. Lay aside your political daggers for a moment. Charlie Kirk did what few people are willing to do, what even fewer are capable of doing. He entered hostile environments to engage young people. He asked questions, he answered questions. He was cocky, maybe even arrogant sometimes, believing so strongly in his beliefs and his mission. He challenged ideas, asked youths to articulate their point of view. Many people would be terrified to spend an hour doing what he did hundreds of times.

On campus, this conflict of values was always verbal, never physical, highlighting the power of words. Charlie’s emphasis rested on words, personal expression, asking hard questions to young people of all sorts.

I’ve spent my whole life doing that. I’m not as provocative or as antagonistic, probably more reserved in highlighting differences between me and them. I’ve always viewed my role as getting young people to think, to defend their positions rather than repeating cliches and stereotypes they’ve accumulated from family and friends.

John Donne’s celebrated No Man is an Island argues the loss of one individual diminishes us all. Last Wednesday, a part of the continent was washed out to sea. A Wildcat. A husband and father. A debater. A Christian. A person.

Long ago, bells tolled to announce a death in the village. Donne’s classic poem admonishes us: Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. It’s a solemn reminder of our shared humanity.

Since I sat in my truck last Wednesday afternoon and even now, I’ve heard the bell tolling loudly for me.

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