When Words Become Weapons
This morning I sat in the chair at a small barbershop near Portland State. The barber—a local legend whose family came here from Brazil—has been cutting hair in that same spot since 2004.
We were talking about Charlie Kirk.
Not the headlines, not the partisanship. But what his death means for people who don’t look like me. For people of color, for immigrants, for anyone who feels the ripple effects of violence differently because they’ve seen how quickly they can become the target.
That conversation hit me harder than scrolling any feed.
Because here’s the truth: when a public figure gets shot on stage, it doesn’t just land on the person who pulled the trigger or the one who took the bullet. It lands on everyone who wonders quietly in their gut: Am I safe? Could that be me?
And that’s where leadership comes in.
The Real Cost of Dehumanization
We’ve let politics, media, and culture slide into a constant cycle of dehumanization. Treating opponents not as competitors in ideas, but as enemies to be destroyed.
It works in the short term—raising money, driving clicks, firing up the base. But it has a long-term cost. When people are painted as evil, someone eventually decides to take matters into their own hands.
For a barber whose livelihood depends on every customer who walks through his door, the thought is simple: if leaders can’t model respect across lines, why would the public respect boundaries either?
Four Hard Lessons for Leaders
1. Words are weapons.
They don’t just describe reality—they shape it. Every speech, every post, every joke at an opponent’s expense plants seeds. Some seeds sprout in ballots and debates. Others sprout in bullets.
2. Accountability starts at home.
It’s easy to condemn violence when it comes from “the other side.” The harder test is holding your own people accountable to a higher standard. Leadership means you don’t outsource integrity.
3. Security is cultural before it’s physical.
You can’t build fences high enough to stop a determined person. But you can build a culture where escalation is unacceptable. If your rhetoric tells people “anything goes,” don’t act shocked when someone acts on it.
4. Crisis strips away illusions.
When a leader is killed on stage, the usual spin collapses. What’s left is whether leaders can stand calm in chaos, tell the truth, and set direction.
What Leaders Must Do Now
Audit your message. Pull up your last company memo, your last keynote, your last social post. Did it clarify—or inflame?
Codify your code. Every leader should draw visible lines: what’s acceptable, what’s not. Don’t wait for a crisis to make it up on the fly.
Build your playbook. Know how you’ll communicate and stabilize your team if the worst happens. If you don’t have a plan, you’re already behind.
Stand up publicly. Neutrality in moments of violence reads as weakness. Say what you stand for, clearly and without hedging.
Why the Barber’s Perspective Matters
My barber isn’t a politician. He’s not a CEO. But he understands leadership in the way that matters most: how words make people feel when they leave your presence.
He knows that a careless word can create tension between strangers. He knows that respect can diffuse conflict before it starts. And he knows that people who look like him don’t always get the benefit of the doubt when words spill into violence.
That’s leadership at ground level. And if leaders at the top can’t grasp it, the culture they shape becomes more dangerous for everyone else.
The Bottom Line
Charlie Kirk’s death isn’t just about one man. It’s about whether we, as leaders, will recognize that words can heal—or they can destroy.
The leader’s job is not to feed chaos. It’s to contain it, to create environments where people can disagree without fear of annihilation.
The barber shop reminded me of something simple: leadership shows up in how you talk, how you set standards, and how you make people feel when they leave the room.
And when words become weapons, silence is negligence.
CLOSING CREED
Leadership is not neutral. Every word we speak shapes the environment we live in.
When words become weapons, silence is complicity.Our duty—as leaders, as builders, as humans—is to use language to steady, not to fracture.
To disagree without dehumanizing. To stand firm without fueling chaos.Because the true measure of leadership is simple:
Did your presence create clarity—or did it leave more wreckage behind?
— Doug Utberg