I can’t help but feel some empathy for the weirdness of what it must be like to really be living through all of this from her perspective.

I have no idea who she is as a person, or the story behind her and Kirk’s relationship. I think Charlie Kirk was a complete asshole, but I do think the context of how Charlie Kirk was created is not irrelevant when honestly examining this situation.

Kirk was approached in college by some shadowy old millionaire who is now deceased, and there’s oddly very little information available about what he was doing before creating TPUSA. The millionaire convinced him to drop out of school and become the young face of the Republican party, touring campuses and regurgitating the talking points that dusty millionaires were having trouble selling to college kids because they reminded them of Monte Burns. Long story short, it doesn’t excuse any of the things he said and did, but without the funding that was injected into him, would he have even attempted to become Charlie Kirk as we know him? Would anybody have listened to what Charlie Kirk minus funding was saying? I believe he was a shitty person for going along with it as long as he did, but he was also a product of exploitation. He was targeted before his brain was even fully developed, offered a shit load of money, and used to sell somebody else’s brand and message.

So anyway, fast forward to 2025, and putting aside your very valid feelings about these people, I want you to attempt a kind of thought experiment if you can. You don’t have to have sympathy for her, but it’s more an experiment in empathy (which, Charlie Kirk famously could not distinguish from sympathy, but you can, so just humor me if you will). If it helps imagine you’re not even you, you’re somebody reading about all this in the distant future.

Try to imagine from Erika Kirk’s perspective, one day you and your two young children are in a crowd watching your husband/their father speak into a microphone like you’ve done countless times before. Maybe you have plans for what you’re going to do after his talk, maybe you had a stupid fight or a sweet moment just before he went on stage, whatever, the point is you’re oblivious to the fact that in a moment all four of your lives will change completely.

It’s probably so routine for you that you’re not even really paying attention to what your husband is saying to the crowd when he’s murdered in one of the most gruesome public sniper assassinations since JFK. Suddenly you’re traumatized and left alone to raise two very young and traumatized kids in a very scary and confusing world. No matter who you are, you’re almost certainly far from being in what could reasonably be considered a sound state of mind.

Soon, the same shadowy conservative cabal that created your husband and his brand, as well as a creepy couch fucking weirdo in permaliner start exploiting your situation while pretending to be looking out for your interests and their “friend” Charlie. Permaliner offers you a shoulder to cry on, and soon it really seems like he’s moving in on you like a loveseat, even though he’s also married with his own family. He also happens to be the second in line for the most powerful position in the U.S. (and it’s not impossible he recently murdered the pope). You welcome the warm embrace and say he reminds you of your deceased husband, honestly, who’s to say how much agency your really have at this point.

As you attempt to navigate through this new life, the cabal and permaliner are taking over your husband’s podcast and his entire fanbase. When they’re not busy spreading their narrative publicly, they’re probably constantly whispering in your ear this idea that your husband was basically the second coming of Jesus Christ, and he died as a martyr to save all of the good Christians left in the U.S., but not the evil enemies and terrorists who are now cheering his death. “They” have kicked off a holy war, and there will be consequences.

It’s now on you to continue to carry out his work in his absence. You have to do it for Charlie, for your children, for America, and for Jesus. Then the next thing you know your husband’s funeral is being broadcast before a live studio audience in an arena full of strangers. People are amping up the patriotic holy war that will be fought in his honor, and some dude literally brings out a giant fucking cross to bear (on wheels) like it’s a prop at WrestleMania. Soon you’ll find out you’re scheduled to host a half time Superbowl show, as the widow of the recently murdered martyr.

So, when you honestly try to imagine yourself on that stage, in your throwback 70s variety hour sequined jump suit, surrounded by loud pyrotechnics, and looking out on this strange world that has suddenly become your bizarre twilightzone reality, I want you to answer this question.

From her/your perspective, does this or does this not feel like an episode of black mirror?