America, we have to talk
Today, we commemorate the most fearful moment in the lived experience of most Americans—the September 11th attacks.
I remember working out of the iconic General Motors Building on the corner of 5th avenue and 59th street. We were at the corner of Central Park, seemingly vulnerable to an aviation attack and I was thinking that our building could be next.
I remember not leaving my apartment the entire next day—because I didn’t know what else to do.
Our brains are hardwired to detect threats and maintain safety. When information is lacking about an outcome, ambiguous situations are magnified into scenarios of potential peril, triggering a fear response. It’s what’s known as the “intolerance of uncertainty”.
Some people were wired differently—and immediately sprung into action to help. A friend of mine went down to 14th street to help unpack supplies and volunteer to do whatever was needed.
A lot of people responded in similar ways, but not most.
At some point, the collective fear of the unknown became a useful tool for rallying the country in ways that were both popular and profitable. It took us to war and we spent trillions on what was, at first, a very popular fight.
It’s not unlike the environment we have today.
Our current American society is a product of stoked fear. The majority of people in this country are scared that we are headed in the wrong direction—a direction of less freedom, more radical change, and worsening economic stability. Obviously while the specifics of those fears and their origin differ— fascism, immigration, religion, crime policy, tax policy, gender issues. On both sides of the aisle fewer and fewer people are optimistic about what comes next.
This provides a useful substrate for those that would profit and grow their influence by giving people a way to channel their fear into increased hate and violence.
It’s too easy.
I get it.
I didn’t like Charlie Kirk or anything he stands for. He and others like him made me angry. If I ever met him and got into a conversation with him, I think I’d want to punch him.
Is that how I’d want my daughter to handle that situation?
Not for a second.
And here’s the tension I’m trying to hold: in a healthy democracy, it’s supposed to be a war of words, not of fists or bullets—and the way you win that war is by showing up where you’re outnumbered and persuading. You can despise the message and still learn from the method. He showed up—especially in hostile rooms—and that often worked, which is exactly what unnerved the left on campuses. The left can and should do that too—without mimicking the content.
Does it make me upset to think that his two small children will grow up without their dad—a guy that no matter what he said in public, probably read the same bedtime stories to his kids that I did. (I mean, probably not the inclusive What Makes a Baby book that never mentions gender and says that some people have a uterus and some do not... but I imagine the Little Red Caboose is in there somewhere.)
I wonder what his reaction would have been if I ever did meet him and say, “This fear that you’re contributing to, the policy positions you’re taking, they will literally kill you. Your wife is going to lose you. You will not see your kids grow up because of it.”
Precision matters here. I can hear myself collapsing “speech I abhor” into “violence.” I believe that sometimes rhetoric does create permission structures for harm and I want to call that out. But there’s a difference between asserting a right, advancing policies that predictably raise harm, and inciting harm. If we blur those lines, we harden the people we need to move. We need to keep the critique on consequences and responsibility.
Would he have pulled back at all? If he was given the choice—save your life and work towards helping lower the fear, or continue the path and lose it—what would he do?
I’m not going to sit here and say it’s really that easy.
It’s not easy to try to understand someone who thinks differently than you. It’s not so easy to be a man and confront years of avoided emotional work. Do we have to in order to survive and not pass the same emotional trauma onto our kids? Yes.
It’s not easy.
Striking out violently against people you do not understand or agree with is never ok.
But I understand how it seems easier—and how it even feels good. No one likes confronting their own insecurities with the vulnerability and inadequacy it creates. It’s much harder work than imagining yourself a warrior in a battle against things that you choose not to understand or people you choose not to empathize with.
So what do we do with that energy, if we’re serious about lowering fear and lowering harm? We compete—at the level of words, presence, and persuasion. Students who went to see him weren’t all true believers. Many were curious, some oppositional, some just bored. He offered contact, conflict, and clarity.
Ask yourself: where is your version of that, on their turf?
Who is your messenger who enjoys the argument, isn’t prickly about hecklers, and can leave the room with 20 new subscribers and three volunteers?
A practical playbook (method, not message):
Build a circuit that loves disagreement. Put compelling pro-democracy communicators—students, veterans, clinicians, faith leaders—into red-leaning rooms and record the exchanges. Make their audience your content pipeline. Brand promise: We answer every hard question.
Trade “gotcha” for “grapple.” Viral dunks are easy; durable conversions need curiosity. Reward your messengers for thoughtful exchanges, not humiliation. Edit for clarity more than for “owns.”
Lead with freedoms you protect. If their frame is “freedom to,” emphasize “freedom from”—from being shot in class, from government in the exam room, from the state deciding your family. Then back it with policy and data.
Concrete help beats abstract virtue. Register voters. Help with debt-relief forms, internships, mental-health navigation. People remember who helps them.
Radical civility as asymmetry. Promise—and deliver—safety for dissenting questioners at your events. Make it safe for skeptics to come argue. That’s how you grow the reachable middle.
But it’s necessary. We need to elect leaders who make us less fearful, not more. We need to follow voices that incite us to care about people and understand them better. We need to come together to condemn violence.
Before I hit “post,” I’m running a simple test on my own words:
Accurate — Did I state their position as they would recognize it?
Concrete — Did I show real-world consequences, not just my disgust?
Invitational — Did I leave a door open for someone to move one step closer?
I want to live in a society where whoever did this, just before that moment of no return of whatever radicalization they went through, found a friend, found support, and found a loving environment where they could confront whatever pain they felt easier to lash out on someone else.
We’re not going to shoot our way out of this. We’re not going to punch our way out of this. We’re not going to hate our way out of this. We have to win the war of words—by showing up, arguing well, and persuading better than the people we oppose.