On the evening of September 25, as the sun receded behind the hills of Hanover and the Green settled into its usual hush, a group of Dartmouth students gathered not for celebration, nor for protest, but for remembrance of Charlie Kirk, the conservative activist and founder of Turning Point USA.
Kirk, who was scheduled to speak at Dartmouth later this fall, was killed earlier in the month while attending an event at Utah Valley University, a tragedy that has since reverberated across college campuses and political circles nationwide.
Though the gathering drew a modest crowd, approximately forty-five attendees, it carried a weight disproportionate to its size. Organized jointly by Dartmouth Conservatives and the newly formed campus chapter of Turning Point USA, the vigil was not merely a tribute to a fallen figure, but a meditation on the state of political discourse, the boundaries of ideological tolerance, and the unsettling rise of violence in the public square. Students spoke not only of Kirk’s influence, which they described in terms ranging from “mentor” to “martyr,” but also of the broader implications of his death, invoking themes of dialogue, dissent, and the fragility of civic engagement.
Vittorio Bloyer, a first-year student who founded the Dartmouth chapter of Turning Point USA earlier this spring, delivered remarks that framed Kirk’s legacy in sweeping historical terms. He suggested that Kirk’s impact extended beyond policy and into the realm of persuasion, arguing that his work “changed minds” rather than laws. Such a characterization, while perhaps hyperbolic, reflects the deep admiration held by many young conservatives for Kirk’s confrontational style and his willingness to engage adversaries in public debate. Bloyer’s words, tinged with grief and reverence, underscored the emotional resonance of the moment, particularly for those who viewed Kirk as a symbol of ideological courage.
Other speakers echoed this sentiment, including Jack Coleman, president of Dartmouth Conservatives, who emphasized Kirk’s role as a catalyst for student activism. Coleman spoke of the importance of continuing Kirk’s legacy by fostering conversations across political divides, warning that the erosion of dialogue could lead to further polarization and, in the worst cases, violence. His remarks, delivered with a measured cadence, reflected a broader concern among attendees that the campus, and the country, was drifting toward a climate in which disagreement is met not with debate, but with hostility.
The vigil also included readings and reflections that reached beyond the political. Colin Jung, vice president of Dartmouth’s Turning Point chapter, recited verses from “Lorena,” a 19th-century American ballad that speaks to loss and longing. The choice of song, with its melancholic tone and historical resonance, lent the event a sense of continuity with past generations who have mourned in times of upheaval. It was a reminder, perhaps, that the challenges facing today’s students are not entirely new, and that the search for meaning in the face of tragedy is a timeless endeavor.
Not all who attended the vigil shared Kirk’s political views. Several students, including Gus Bhatia, a first-year who described himself as a vocal critic of Kirk’s ideology, came to express solidarity with those grieving. Bhatia’s presence, and his willingness to articulate both disagreement and compassion, illustrated the complexity of the moment. It is one thing to mourn a public figure; it is another to do so in a way that acknowledges the tensions they embodied. In this sense, the vigil became a microcosm of the broader challenge facing institutions like Dartmouth: how to honor humanity without erasing conflict, how to foster unity without demanding uniformity.
The event concluded with remarks from Angelina Devellis, a regional representative for Turning Point USA, who spoke of resilience and renewal. She noted that since Kirk’s death, the organization had seen a surge in student involvement, with over 200,000 new members nationwide. Her message, though brief, was one of defiance against despair, suggesting that the movement Kirk helped build would endure and perhaps even grow stronger in the face of adversity.
Yet for all the talk of legacy and momentum, the vigil left lingering questions. What does it mean to hold space for someone whose ideas were divisive, even incendiary? How should a campus committed to free expression respond to the death of a figure who challenged its norms? And what responsibilities do students bear in shaping the contours of political discourse in an era marked by volatility and fear? These are not questions with easy answers, nor are they confined to Dartmouth. They speak to a national reckoning with the limits of tolerance, the costs of polarization, and the urgent need for spaces where disagreement can coexist with dignity.
In the end, the vigil was not a resolution, but a beginning, a quiet assertion that even in times of discord, there remains a place for reflection, for mourning, and for the difficult work of understanding. As the crowd dispersed and the Green returned to its evening stillness, one could sense that something had shifted, however slightly. The words spoken, the verses read, the presence of those who came not to agree but to witness, all of it pointed to a deeper truth: that in remembering the dead, we are called to reckon with the living, and with the world we are shaping together.
