My name is Sophia Gutierrez. I am a proud Afro-Caribbean, pansexual, working-class woman — and I am mourning the death of Charlie Kirk.

In his own way, he was a friend in times of political rejection from my own Democratic party and moments of national uncertainty. Mourning him feels paradoxical, and yet, I will miss him dearly. Because of my identity, I often feel both subtle and overt pressure to conform to the ideology of the left. In many ways, this makes sense — I am a progressive, after all.

But never blindly and never at the expense of democracy. Too often these days, dissent invites not debate, but layered personal attacks that target my identity. For the audacity to question critical race theory, the idea that racial bias is inherent in American institutions, I’ve been called an “Uncle Tom,” a “bootlicker” and Candace Owens.

Kirk’s death has stirred something I haven’t felt since the fall of my sophomore year of high school. It was 2020, and I sat in English class as we discussed Toni Morrison’s “Song of Solomon.” My teacher asked about the fictional extremist group the “Seven Days,” which kills white citizens at random as retribution for racial hate crimes and oppression.

The class quickly reached consensus: If you are the product of an oppressive system, actions normally deemed morally impermissible — like murder — are justified.

I raised my hand to disagree. What followed was predictable — a snowball of tribalistic intolerance — 18 angrily righteous classmates against one.

This was no anomaly. Increasingly, my education felt defined by moral absolutism in the name of “wokeness” — subjective complexity replaced by accepted “truth,” ostracism as a consequence of vigorous debate and censorship as a natural response to challenge. Rigidity and intolerance ruled the day, carried out by peers who seemed to channel both Big Brother and McCarthyism.

Years later, I find myself in a similar paradox. Northwestern was likely only on Kirk’s radar as a hotbed for leftists and their liberal agenda. Yet, I feel complicit. I am part of an institution cloaked in elitism and notorious for its frosty attitude toward conservatives.

NU is among the 64.5% of U.S. colleges and universities to receive an “F” in the 2026 College Free Speech Rankings from the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression. That “F” is not only for Northwestern, however. It is the grade I would give America itself for its failure to protect and practice the ideals of its own experiment.

Kirk’s death holds up a mirror to a national problem: a growing intolerance of intellectual diversity and an inability to sustain a genuine exchange of ideas — something Kirk, for all his flaws, insisted on.

Since 1998, FIRE has recorded more than 1,700 attempts to deplatform speakers and cancel campus events, with nearly half successful. In Heterodox Academy’s most recent September 2024 report, with data compiled from 2019-2022, nearly three in four students said they were above average reluctant to express their views on controversial issues.

These numbers matter, but more chilling is what they imply: Words once confined to classrooms or campaign trails can now show up engraved on rifle cartridges – a reminder that rhetoric is no longer just rhetoric, that civil conversation can end in bullets. The meaning of those inscriptions remains under investigation, according to Reuters.

I don’t see the two prevailing visions of the purpose of education — to create good workers or good citizens — as mutually exclusive. Yes, education should produce informed, engaged citizens. And yes, it should prepare students for work. But if both are true, then we must ask: What kinds of citizens, workers and peers emerge from institutions that crush intellectual diversity and stifle debate? Who will be left to sustain liberal democracy?

I don’t only mourn Kirk — I admire him. That is not to say I share his views — that the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was a “mistake” or that climate change is “gibberish.” Admiration is not endorsement. What I mean is that I can imagine Kirk, myself and Voltaire walking into a bar and having a few drinks (although I am not yet 21).

Coming of age in college means drafting your own ethical code as you navigate the trials of youth. You are supposed to nourish intellectual curiosity at school, which is nearly impossible to do when singular ideals reign supreme.

Over the years, I have worn many hats, literally — a Trump-branded cowboy hat at the Conservative Political Action Conference, drunk on the thrill of small government; a pepto-pink pussyhat at the Women’s March, fueled by feminist fervor; a Russian revolutionary budenovka at age fourteen. The costumes changed, but the question remained: How do we heal this fractured nation? Do the answers lie in Marx or MAGA?

Perhaps the questions — and the answers — are not Manichaean. Perhaps they are simply American, whatever that hideously beautiful word means in 2025.

When I began writing this opinion piece, someone asked me: What does it feel like to grieve someone who wouldn’t have grieved you?

Allow this to be my retort: I am an American and a proud one at that. Kirk would have approved.

Of course, he would not have approved of certain parts of me — my politics and my campus in particular. But that is the paradox of pride in America — however differently defined, it is something we all share. And it makes grief, in such a polarized nation, both unsavory and strangely unifying.

Sophia Gutierrez is a Medill junior. She can be contacted at sophiagutierrez2027@u.northwestern.edu. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to opinion@dailynorthwestern.com. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.

Email: sophiagutierrez2027@u.northwestern.edu 

X: @sophiiagutierez

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