On October 23, 2019, I sat in a room with Charlie Kirk in the Iowa Student Memorial Union.
I told him I was going to record the conversation. He directed his assistant in the room to start recording. “That way, you can’t misquote me,” he said. He smiled, like he’d already won an argument we hadn’t yet had.
Kirk was in Iowa to do what he did for years — hold town halls and debate college students to prove to them how indoctrinated and woke they all were. The town halls turned into video clips that went viral, showing Kirk getting the last word on issues like Palestinian rights, healthcare, Christianity, and the Second Amendment.
I wanted to interview Kirk because I’d spent the past two years writing profiles of men in the conservative movement — Tucker Carlson and Richard Spencer. I suppose I was also there because I was looking for answers. My own marriage to a man who had been mostly moderate and libertarian in the way a lot of white men were in the early ‘00s had fallen apart in 2016 when he became a Trump supporter. And the raw, unnamed rage of the political era leaked into my life.
In those past three years, my work had become a target of male rage online as neo-Nazis doxxed and harassed me, sending me photoshopped pictures of Pepe the frog raping my avatar and a target over my head. In my personal life, my ex was sending emails telling me I was ungodly for leaving him, that I was ruining everything. That I wasn’t a good mother, and I should just leave him to raise the kids.
Between the two, I preferred the online harassment. It hurt less.
If I could know what had happened, if I could know what had made these men play at hate like a game of Uno, I could offer a better explanation for this vituperative rage that was throbbing like an infection just beneath the skin of America.
Kirk was then 26, and already his organization, Turning Point USA, was giving a voice to something within politics. TPSUSA had been established as the conservative counterpart to MoveOn.org. But it was more than that; it was an organization that existed to bring down those bastions of liberalism — universities. And here was Kirk, a living, breathing, fuck-you to higher education. He hadn’t needed college, and look at him now, bringing down those smug elites, one at a time. Like shooting cans off a log.
TPSUA was under scrutiny for its funding and its tactics, which seemed to be playing fast and loose with campaign finance laws. And there were already allegations of racism that reached the core of the organization.
To understand conservative men, I needed to understand what created them. So there I was.
I was working for my local newspaper when I asked for an interview. I’d be given a few moments with Kirk, they said, right before the event. So I showed up. Showed my credentials and was escorted to the conference room, along with a photographer, to where Kirk was waiting.
If I could know what had happened, if I could know what had made these men play at hate like a game of Uno, I could offer a better explanation for this vituperative rage that was throbbing like an infection just beneath the skin of America.
I’d watched a lot of videos of Kirk to prepare, and it hadn’t seemed like he was particularly charismatic or skilled; he was simply normal in a way that made other young men feel they could be like him. What interested me more was the machine that made him; that was propping him up and using him as an avatar for what a young man should be. Not just independent of liberal institutions but caustic toward them. Self-made. White. A conservative David fighting the Goliath of liberalism, one viral video at a time.
He looked like he’d been made in the mold of Tucker Carlson — a conservative pundit, normal enough to wear jeans, professional enough to add a suit jacket. He seemed ready to fight. I asked him about how he got started and why he did this work. His answers were boring and practiced. He talked about his Iowa roots. He claimed to have family from Marshalltown. They’d lived there since the 1700s, he said. (White settlers didn’t come to the land until 1838.)
Then I asked about who was funding him. That’s when he leaned over the table and launched into a rant about the lies of liberal media.
The recording has been lost. My notes from the day just say, “Mad at me with questions about funding. Denies any wrongdoing on Trump campaign. Pivots to Biden’s crimes.” A man named Andrew, who worked in communications for TPUSA, pulled Kirk from the room.
I walked out feeling like I’d wasted my time. I’d learned nothing. I’d seen nothing more than a young man irritated by questions about his organization. If I wrote he got mad at me, then I’d just be another triggered lib. If I wrote about his defensiveness, then I’d just be another lying media elite.
The rage bait machine needs an endless stream of takers. And Kirk was already good at saying things that would irritate and inflame his audience of too-online 20-somethings looking for the cheat codes to prove their superiority. Write what happened, and they’d be there trying to take me down and take my job. Write anything else, and I’d be Facetuning the project of mainstreaming racism and misogyny. It was a rhetorical trap, and I was so tired of trying to get free.
The Memorial Union was already filling with spectators. Some were curious students. Others were there to protest. A handful supported Kirk. But there were far more people there to gawk and to be entertained. Rage gets clicks and gets people to attend events on a school night.
And it wasn’t just students. There were rows of Republican party donors and local politicians, like state Rep. Bobby Kaufmann and former US Rep. Bobby Schilling. All adults who wanted the jouissance of watching those smug liberals get owned.
And that’s what they saw.
Kirk mocked the protesters but claimed to be an “ambassador of decency.” He called college a cartel and insisted students just needed to be taught how to do jobs, not taught how to think. When a student asked him how he could believe Jesus rose from the dead, Kirk stated that math proved there was a higher power. When someone asked about him being called a racist, he said the term “white privilege” was racist.
He answered questions without answering. Won debates without really engaging. And he didn’t lose his cool the rest of the night, maintaining always the tailored appearance of hate. The calm demeanor of racism. The appropriateness of illogic.
I walked out of the hall thinking to interview some protesters. Maybe I’d learn something. But when I walked over to where they stood silently outside the doors, holding signs and linking arms, I saw a group of people yelling at them.
“How many genders do you think there are?” I heard an older man yell in the face of someone who appeared to be in high school. Other people stood around him, laughing, smiling, while the protesters were stoic, silent.
I tapped the older man on the arm and asked him for an interview.
I didn’t really want to talk to another shouting man that day, but I was worried something violent would happen. I was worried something would erupt and someone or something would get hurt. That all these words would manifest into something more ugly, more vile. Something no video edit could turn into an “lol pwn” or post with a #winning.
His name was Bill Montgomery. He’d spotted Kirk as a young conservative activist, and together, the two of them had founded Turning Point in 2012.
“Why? Why did you want to found this group?”
Montgomery told me about his daughter, who had gone to college and come back questioning everything that he believed in. These colleges were turning children against their parents and their country, he told me. His daughter barely spoke to him. He blamed her professors. “But isn’t she an adult?” I asked. “Isn’t she capable of thinking for herself?”
I recently chatted with the newspaper photographer who was there that night, following me around. He remembered me talking to Montgomery, and he also remembered that at one point, I asked Montgomery a question, and he turned to the photographer and said something to the effect of, “Can you believe these women?” But the exact question was lost to time. I do remember him thinking the photographer was my boss and saying they should get better reporters.
I don’t remember being mad at Montgomery. He seemed a little broken. He’d seen a world he didn’t like, and he was going to fix it, and fix it, until the next child of some other lost man went to college, but this time they wouldn’t come back with uncomfortable questions that demanded answers. This time, they’d fall in line.
Write what happened, and they’d be there trying to take me down and take my job. Write anything else, and I’d be Facetuning the project of mainstreaming racism and misogyny. It was a rhetorical trap, and I was so tired of trying to get free.
A day or two ago I saw a quote by a comedian who recognized that what Kirk did (and the other provocateurs still do) wasn't "debate," it was crowd work, rhetorical tricks to shut down debate and bully the dissenters into submission.
So we got fascism because a man couldn’t get along with his daughter.