Charlie

A name like Charlie carries with it a lot of weight.

Ten years ago in Paris, a different kind of Charlie made headlines. The blood ran from employees of the magazine Charlie Hebdo, attacked due to the intolerance of French-born Algerian brothers Saïd Kouachi and Chérif Kouachi. The satirical cartoons published by the magazine were considered offensive against Islam. People died because others were offended.

Countries like ours that not only believe in the importance and value of free speech, but have embedded that value into America’s laws and founding principles, must continue to protect it. There are those who seek to silence others through fear or intimidation. Like the Kouachi brothers. And like the assassin of another Charlie, here in our own country, an assassin who thought he could end the conversation.

That assassin, an American-born, self indulgent narcissist whose ego got the best of him, cut down Charlie Kirk on a university campus in Utah. Charlie was doing what he loved — interacting with young people who might have a different opinion than his — when the assassin’s bullet ripped through his throat. But that bullet didn’t silence Charlie, it only awakened his disciples.

The misguided assassin who took Charlie’s life, whose actions left a wife and children without a husband and father, was wrong. Neither vengeance nor violence ever wins. And fame is fleeting for a murderer. The assassin’s message gets lost in the grief of a nation, while Charlie’s voice lives on forever.

Freeze Frame

Stuck in the age of Covid-19, racing to nowhere except a way out of this box to which the world has been condemned, a prison cell of prevention, or not, for those unlucky thousands who carry coronavirus with them to their graves, leaving the rest of us to worry about droplets lingering for days on Amazon delivery boxes, empty grocery store shelves, dirty gas pump handles, or our own Fido’s nose, even a child’s hand fresh from a playground jungle gym when the real jungle is Mother Earth spinning in all her infected glory, laughing as she twirls leaving that voice message that cries, “I told you so.”

—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2020