Shadows Don’t Silence Voices

They took a shot at Charlie to send a message. That message was as clear as the crack of the rifle, “Be quiet. Don’t rock the boat. Keep your head down, or else.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but whenever someone tries to tell me I can’t say something, my mouth gets itchy. It’s the same itch I got as a boy when my mama told me not to eat a slice of bread before dinner.

Naturally, I ate two. Not because I didn’t respect my mom, but because the forbidden often smells better than the allowed.

Charlie Kirk’s voice was loud, and it was direct, and it ruffled feathers. The kind of voice that doesn’t just fill a room but makes people sit up straighter.

Someone, somewhere, decided they couldn’t stand it anymore. So, instead of plugging their ears like sensible people, they tried to plug the man himself.

But here’s the thing about silencing voices–it rarely works. Ideas don’t bleed out when bodies do. Ideas spread like spilled ink on a white shirt—you think you’ve scrubbed it out, only to find the stain grew bigger.

I’ve seen men try to scare other men into silence before. Sometimes with fists, sometimes with guns, sometimes with whispers.

It works for a while. Folks get nervous, they hush their words, they look at the ground instead of into each other’s eyes.

But then something shifts. Somebody else—maybe quieter, maybe humbler—steps up and says what needs saying.

Then another. And another. Before long, the silence is noisier than the voices they tried to stop.

Now, I ain’t naïve. Speaking up has always been dangerous.

It’s not new. Socrates had to drink the hemlock for speaking the truth. Lincoln paid with his life. Martin Luther King Jr. fell to a bullet, too. Each time, the message was the same: “Shut up.” And each time, the world got louder instead.

Charlie’s message was simple—agree with him or not, he wasn’t afraid to say it. Such fearlessness doesn’t disappear with the man. If anything, it grows in those left behind.

It plants itself like a stubborn weed in a sidewalk crack, pushing up through concrete. You can stomp on it, you can pour hot water on it, but give it a little sunlight, and it comes back greener.

So here’s the choice–crawl into a corner and hush, or take Charlie’s cue and speak louder. I know which one he’d pick, and I know which one keeps me sleeping at night.

The world doesn’t need fewer voices. It needs braver ones.

It needs folks willing to say what they mean without checking if it’s fashionable first. That doesn’t mean shouting all the time, or being cruel, or stomping around like you’re the only rooster in the barnyard.

It means opening your mouth when your heart insists, even when your knees are shaking.

A good friend once told me, “Courage doesn’t mean you’re not scared. It just means you talked and didn’t run.”

That sticks with me, mostly because he said it right before he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him. His voice cracked, his palms sweated, but he got the ‘yes’ that made his whole life.

So don’t let the shadows spook you into silence.

Say your piece. Write your truth. Tell your neighbor what’s on your mind. Speak it kindly, speak it firmly, maybe even with humor if you can, but don’t swallow it whole.

The bullet that tried to stop Charlie only proved his voice mattered. The real tragedy would be if we all got so spooked we forgot our own voices matter, too.

And if you’re ever unsure about speaking up, remember this: the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I’d rather squeak than rust in silence.