How death became a test of american democracy

Between myth and reality, between emotion and political instrumentalization, comparing the way America mourned the death of George Floyd in 2020 and the death of Charlie Kirk shows two sides of the same nation: one mobilized by a call for social justice and the other galvanized by political and religious identity. In the first case, in 2020 George Floyd was led to his final journey through a succession of memorial services in Minneapolis, Raeford (North Carolina) and Houston, with a private burial at The Fountain of Praise church, marked by prayers, gospel music and calls for reform; it was not a "national funeral” in the protocol sense of a state funeral, and no American president attended in person. The most prominent political message came in a video of Joe Biden, then a 2020 presidential candidate, telling those attending the funeral: "Why do so many African-Americans wake up in this nation knowing they could lose their lives? And of course, they just live their lives. Why doesn't justice flow like a river or justice like a mighty stream? Why? Well, ladies and gentlemen, you cannot turn your backs. We must not turn our backs. We cannot walk away from this moment thinking that we can turn our backs again on the racism that sears our souls. On the systemic abuse that still plagues American life. As Thurgood Marshall once pleaded, "America must disagree with indifference. It must disagree with fear, hate and distrust. We must disagree because America can do better, because America has no choice but to do better.'” Ladies and gentlemen, you must confront the denial, the promise of this nation to so many people for so long. It is about who we are, what we believe, and perhaps most importantly, who we want to be to ensure that all men and women are not only created equal, but are treated equally. Today, now is the time, the purpose, the season to listen and to heal. Now is the time for racial justice. This is the answer we must give our children when they ask why. Because when there is justice for George Floyd, we will truly be on the path to racial justice in America.”

Then-President Donald Trump chose not to attend the ceremonies, a decision that accentuated the perceived rift between the White House and a moment of civic catharsis experienced on the streets and in sanctuaries.

In 2025, the paradigm reversed: the violent death of Charlie Kirk-conservative activist and founder of Turning Point USA-generated into a rally-sized spectacle at an NFL stadium in Glendale, Arizona, with incumbent President Donald Trump in attendance and delivering a eulogy that mixed funeral pathos with campaign rhetoric. In contrast to the sobriety focused on mourning and reform in Houston, this gathering functioned as a camp-building ritual, religion, and politics, with thousands of people, high-level security, and a central message of sacrifice and mobilization. Here, the "quote from the president who attended the funeral" is impossible to ignore: on the microphone, Donald Trump said of his political opponents "I hate them", adding, in contrast to the portrait of the call to love attributed to Kirk, that "I don't want what's best for them, I'm sorry", a phrase that sparked uproars in the hall and heated debates in the public space precisely because it transformed the elegy into a marker of confrontation.

Donald Trump's speech is eloquent: "Charles James Kirk was murdered in cold blood by a radicalized monster because he spoke the truth from his heart. He was murdered violently because he spoke about freedom and justice for God. He was assassinated because he lived courageously. He led boldly and argued brilliantly without apology. He did what was right for our nation. He was a missionary with a noble spirit and a great purpose. (...) He did not hate his opponents. He wanted what was best for them. This is where I disagree with Charlie. I hate my opponents and I do not want what is best for them. (...) Our country did not deserve this. And anyone who would make excuses for this is simply crazy. Charlie's murder was not just an attack on one man or one movement. It was an attack on our entire nation. This was a horrific attack on the United States of America. It was an attack on our most sacred freedoms and the rights granted by God. The gun was pointed at him, but the bullet was pointed at all of us. That bullet was pointed at each and every one of us. Indeed, Charlie was killed for expressing the very ideas that practically everyone in this arena and most other arenas holds. (...)you can't let this happen to a country. You can't let this happen to a country. The Department of Justice is currently investigating networks of radical left-wing maniacs who fund organized crime and commit political violence. And we think we know who many of them are. But law enforcement may be just the beginning of our response to Charlie's murder.”

The dramatic comparative advantage between the two funeral moments is not just "who spoke” or "who came,” but "what was demanded” of society: for Floyd, an America in the midst of a pandemic transformed mourning into an agenda of civil rights and police reform, with religious and community leaders calling for the US to "breathe” as a nation and with a message from Joe Biden focused on reconciliation and justice; in Kirk, an America of late polarization reconverted mourning into political energy, with a sitting president who emphasized partisan mobilization even within the public liturgy of memory.

The difference in "national protocol” matters: neither Floyd nor Kirk had state funerals in the institutional sense of the term, but the aura of "national” was produced culturally: in Floyd through the global amplitude of the protests and broadcasts, in Kirk through the scale of the stadium where the religious ceremony took place and the establishment of a conservative martyrology supported at the top.

When we lower the analysis to the level of key quotes, the conclusions are clear. In 2020, the "quote of the American president who attended” does not exist: no president was there. We only have the video statement of Joe Biden, then former vice president, candidate for the 2020 presidential election, with the leitmotif "now is the time for racial justice,” a statement that entered the moral corpus of the Floyd moment and served as a bridge between tears and legislation.

In 2025, in Glendale, President Donald Trump's quote is frontal and controversial: "I hate them” - a short sentence that reframed the funeral message in the register of struggle and diverted the emphasis from the Christian reconciliation proposed by the widow herself to antagonism. Now, it is precisely in this gap between "let's do justice” and "let's defeat them” that we see the mutation of the role of the public funeral in contemporary America: from a sacrament of the wounded community to a scene of social peace, to a scene of mobilizing political identity.

There are, of course, real bridges of humanity in both paintings (prayers, forgiveness, promises to children) and there are also irreconcilable differences in framing. In Houston, heavy, intimate, with a horse-drawn carriage at the end and a message to the world that "your father changed the world," as Gianna, Floyd's daughter, was told; in Glendale, pomp, a packed stadium, presidential promises of honors, and a selection of words that overshadowed even the theme of forgiveness.

Public mourning, as a mirror of democracy, has shown how two tragedies can be absorbed by the body politic in almost opposite registers: when the core is justice, language seeks healing; when the core is camp identity, language seeks victory. And if the question is what the presidents who witnessed said, the cold, necessary factual truth is this: no president witnessed George Floyd; Charlie Kirk was attended by incumbent President Donald Trump, whose words-"I hate them"-will likely remain the phrase that defines the era and ethos of the two public funerals.