This commentary is by Mandy Chesley-Park of Bristol, who works in the field of education and child care and is a doctoral student at the University of Vermont.
We found ourselves Monday night at the Hilton’s front desk on Burlington’s Battery Street at 7 o’clock. It was, after all, the appointed venue for Charlie Kirk’s controversial critical race theory tour, but the hotel was quiet. Patrons sat idly in the foyer, scrolling their phones.
“The event’s been moved,” the kind woman at the front desk reported. No, she didn’t know the newly appointed location, nor did we, though we’d officially registered. What ensued was a series of texts, phone calls and leads that eventually uncovered a location: The DoubleTree, a Hilton, up the hill.
We arrived late, my friend John and I, an odd pairing who represent a wide spectrum of contrary beliefs, ideologies, and opinions that should — if we followed Charlie Kirk’s rhetoric — draw us to separate corners of the proverbial ring.
The event was held in the “Emerald Room.” Men in well-pressed suits checked our registration and pointed us to the entrance. The large conference room was electric. Charlie Kirk at the mic, supporters clapping in concert at times and jeering appropriately in solidarity provoked by keywords: socialists, woke, anti-American. We sat in the back. It was time to absorb a phenomenon we’d only witnessed online.
You should know that all weekend I’d prepared for this moment, anticipating the open mic, engaging with imaginary Charlie: “Hi, Charlie,” I’d say, “in some ways I am the poster child for your movement: I am a Christian, a mother of four, a homeschool advocate, and a proud American.” Imaginary Charlie would see me as an ally, and then I’d defect. “Here’s the deal,” I’d say, “your Jesus is not my Jesus. Your Christianity is not my Christianity. In his time and in his way, my Jesus dismantled the law, bigotry, biases and religious hypocrisies. My Jesus taught us to feed those who hungered, clothe those who were naked and house those who were homeless. And, he taught, if one suffered, we all suffered collectively. So, Charlie,” I’d say, “you and I are as diabolically opposed as you and my ‘woke’ friend here,” pointing to my friend. “Critical race theory is the study of systems that have caused suffering,” I’d continue, “and understanding suffering is the work of Christianity. Sitting in that suffering, acknowledging that suffering and then working to rectify that suffering is the work of every Christian. And so I repeat, my Jesus is not your Jesus. Thank you.”
Then I’d sit down, and maybe — just maybe — drop an imaginary mic.
But I didn’t speak Monday night, even when I had the chance. I couldn’t. I was immobilized by what I witnessed: Charlie Kirk was feeding, clothing and sheltering a crowd of people who collectively suffered. They were, according to Kirk, Vermont’s marginalized, minimalized, categorized and, ultimately, persecuted. The very fact that Burlington groups had worked tirelessly to shut this venue down drew Charlie’s “followers” into a fever-pitch of collective suffering. When no one understood them in this region of the world, Charlie Kirk sure did.
I didn’t speak, but my friend John did. A little bit about him: John is a proclaimed “believer of nothing,” reformed “man” and social/justice warrior (all titles underscored with self-deprecation). Our personal conversations are rife with disagreements, eye-rolls, jabs and, thankfully, humor. How have we remained friends? We’ve learned to listen, to seek common ground where we can, and to sit comfortably in very uncomfortable spaces. Thus our pilgrimage to the Emerald Room at DoubleTree Monday night was an exercise in extending our “sitting uncomfortably” practice. If nothing else, we agreed that Charlie’s rhetorics and tactics were dangerous and divisive.
Toward the end of the Q&A portion of the program, John informed me he was “going up.” When the line coordinator saw him — bearded, vested, generally disheveled — she asked if he was “for or against Charlie.” John indicated he was “kinda against.” She bumped him to the front of the open mic line even as one man protested, “Hey, no cutting!”
In retrospect, I think Charlie’s staff was hoping to offer Charlie one more lamb. If he could slaughter one more woke man he’d end where he’d begun with a cacophony of cheers, jeers and general ovations. But Charlie’s staff couldn’t know that John marinates in talk show radio and podcasts as far left and then as far right as he can go. He works to understand, decipher and self-inform by seeking a broad knowledge base. And thus his approach at the mic was, in the end, disarming.
“Hi, Charlie, I didn’t grow up here in Vermont, and I want to say I love this country and I believe in free speech, and I have a deep passion for being American.”
Charlie: silence.
John continued, “And I also want to say I disagree with a lot of what you say, but I do appreciate the opportunity for there to be dialogue. I think that’s really important.”
Audience: muffled applause.
John then introduced his personal context and a point of disagreement: He grew up close to Boston, an area, he explained, deep-seeded in racism. He witnessed racism firsthand. Then he pointed to recent data that identifies a vast earning disparity between African American and white American Bostonians.
If systemic racism doesn’t exist, how do you explain this data? Charlie explained a lot, but conceded that he was unfamiliar with this specific data set. John then seized the opportunity to introduce the crowd to the 14-part documentary series “Seeing White,” produced by Scene on Radio.
“I listen to you too, Charlie,” John admitted.
Charlie used this tidbit to close his show, “Want to thank my Boston friend for subscribing to my podcast!” To which John yelled, “I’m not a subscriber.” Another audience member volleyed, “You should be.” And with that the show was over.
But I can’t shake it. I can’t shake the vision of Charlie Kirk figuratively constructing a shelter for his audience to take cover from the “opposition” validated, Kirk emphasized, by Vermont advocacy groups working to cancel his presentation. He leveraged fan-based fear and comforted his “fold” in their sufferings; and in turn, audience members spoke to him at the mic with reverential tone; he responded deftly, offering hope and sanctuary. He lauded their work and their endurance living as strangers in a strange land. He became a savior figure.
And so I submit this: Perhaps instead of working to shut down speakers like Charlie Kirk, we show up. We show up, trailing our differences, experiences and complex belief-systems and work to engage in curious, probing and even challenging dialogic exchange. What if we had all approached the mic Monday night with a common-ground offering and a challenging question? What if we sheltered in place together instead of subcontracting to derisive political factions?
On Monday night, Charlie Kirk’s audience left the Emerald Room renewed and prepared to reenter a region of the world that, Charlie reminded them, misunderstood and persecuted them. They were fed half-truths, partial histories and fear-affirming rhetorics.
In the end, as we filed out with the rest of the audience, several attendees asked John about the podcast he referenced, and one of Charlie’s own suit-clad staff, sitting alone, said quietly as we walked past him, “Hey, that was a good question.” Perhaps my friend John and I are evidence that disagreeing humans can plot an intersection on a complex map of contrary points-of-view, and there break bread.
