She was 8 years old.
Her name was Zoe Falkenberg, and on the morning of September 11, 2001, she climbed aboard American Airlines Flight 77 with her mom, dad, and 3-year-old little sister, Dana.
To Zoe, this wasn’t a flight that would become part of American history. It was the beginning of an adventure.
Her family was going to Australia for two months while her mother, Leslie Whittington, completed a fellowship at Australian National University. Her father, Charles Falkenberg, had taken leave from work so all four of them could experience it together. They had talked about seeing kangaroos and koalas and exploring a place on the other side of the world. (ABC News)
Zoe sat between her dad and her little sister. Her mom was across the aisle.
She was tiny for her age, but one of the brightest kids in her class. She loved Girl Scouts, ballet, swimming, and performing. More than anything, she loved books. Harry Potter was a favorite. At home, reading was a family ritual. Her parents would curl up on the couch with Zoe and Dana every night, then after Dana went to bed, Zoe got to stay up for the longer stories. Sometimes Harry Potter. Sometimes Tolkien. (Naval History and Heritage Command)
And Zoe already had plans for when she came home.
She and her best friend Katie were going to have a Beanie Babies birthday party together. That detail gets me.
Because children don’t think about whether they’ll make it home from a family vacation. They think about stuffed animals and birthday parties and books they haven’t finished yet.
Just before the family boarded their flight, they mailed postcards to relatives from Dulles Airport. Those postcards began arriving after September 11.
Little messages from a family excited about the adventure ahead of them.
Messages that essentially said, “We love you.” Zoe never got Australia. She never got her Beanie Babies party. Dana never got to grow up beside her big sister. Their parents never got to watch either of their daughters become women.
At 9:37 a.m., American Airlines Flight 77 struck the Pentagon. Zoe, Dana, Leslie, and Charles died together. Dana, only 3, was the youngest person aboard the plane.
Twenty-five years later, I don’t want Zoe remembered simply as one of the passengers on Flight 77.
Her name was Zoe Falkenberg. She was 8.
She loved Harry Potter. She had a birthday party waiting for her when she got home.
And she should have had an entire lifetime after it.
There's a small window in life when your parents are healthy, your children are little, and everyone is happy and together. It feels like it will last forever, it won’t. Cherish every moment of it.
Mass celebrations break out in the West Bank and Gaza, and Palestinians cheer, dance, and distribute free sweets.
Palestine is the only known place on earth to see overwhelming popular celebration of yesterday’s attacks, although Yasser Arafat condemned the attacks and denied responsibility yesterday.
I lost my Dad on 9/11. I don’t get a lot of reach on here. But I just wanted to share a picture. He was 39. I thought he was old. I’m now in my mid 30s and I still feel like a kid.
He was a great trader. He loved markets. He loved to find a stock no one was talking about.
The first trade I ever placed was on his work computer, where he let me click the button to buy AMAT. I loved going to the office with him. It was electric.
He was the best dad. We spent hours out in the street after dinner where he’d throw “pop flys” for me to catch. Eye on the ball.
He loved watching Sponge Bob and eating cereal, wrestling with us in the living room. He just loved being around his kids so much, and we knew it. I’m so grateful I got a dad like that.
Love you, Pops.
If postpartum mental illness becomes a get-out-of-jail-free card for murdering your children, then by logic, anyone diagnosed with it should lose custody of their kids.
Something I realized when I became a parent is there's a window of time when your parents are healthy, your kids are little, and everyone gets to experience multiple generations of family spending time together. Cherish this time and don’t take a single moment of it for granted.
Hello Mrs. Owens,
You told millions of people that Tyler Robinson "wasn't even there." That you felt "confident stating that Tyler Robinson did not kill murder Charlie Kirk."
He was on camera. Prone on the Losi rooftop at 12:22. Shot at 12:23:28. DNA on the screwdriver at 30 quintillion to one. DNA on the rifle at 1.7 octillion to one. He told his family what he did. His parents helped him surrender. He texted his roommate: "I am, I'm sorry." He engraved "Hey Fascist! Catch!" on the ammunition a month before he used it.
You said police "didn't even question" Lance Twiggs. He was interviewed twice. FBI the morning after. Joint state-federal team seven months later. His own attorney. Voluntary phone surrender. You laughed when you said it.
You told Shawn Ryan a shaped charge killed Charlie. That PETN was in his microphone. The medical examiner says gunshot wound. Bullet fragments were recovered from his body. A .30-06 Mauser with Robinson's DNA was found in the woods. Neither side — not prosecution, not defense — has mentioned explosives. Not once in four days.
You said the shot came from below. The Losi building is above the amphitheater.
You called Erika Kirk a "clinical psychopath" to an audience of millions. You said the assassination was "an occult ritual." You said Charlie was "sitting in a pentagram." You told people Israel killed him because he refused Netanyahu.
You made over a hundred episodes. You built a franchise on a dead man's name.
And the hardest fact of all: Tyler Robinson's own defense lawyers — the people whose entire career is on the line to get him acquitted — have refused to make a single one of your arguments. Not one. They're challenging DNA methodology. They are doing their jobs. You were doing something else entirely.
Charlie Kirk changed my life. He platformed my work when nobody knew who I was. He had my back when I was doxxed. I was the ten-thousandth most important person in his world and I will never be able to repay him.
So I did what I know how to do. I read every transcript. I watched every hour of testimony. I cataloged your claims and I held them up against what was said under oath.
Every single one failed.
I don't know why you did this. I'm not going to speculate on your motives, because that would make me exactly the kind of analyst I've spent my career refusing to be. But I know what you did. You told people confident lies about a dead man's murder, and millions of them believed you, and some of them turned that belief into threats against his widow.
The trial continues. And every day of sworn testimony is another day your words get tested against reality... under oath, on the record, where it counts.
I'll be here for all of it... because just as Charlie defended me, I will do what little I can to defend his legacy and @TPUSA and @MrsErikaKirk from evil.
The demon is you, Candace, or is in you.
The demon is Tyler Robinson, or was in him.
The demon is not Charlie’s wife.
The demon is not Charlie’s closest friends.
The demon is not the organization Charlie bled to build and grow.
The demon is not Israel, who has nothing to do with any of this, or the Federal Government who had nothing to do with this, or the Egyptians or the French or any of the other people and institutions you have slandered for money and fame.
Your narcissism and sociopathy and self-interest and resentment and grief have all commingled into something truly sinister. What you have become and what you have done can only be answered in the blood of the very Christ Jesus you blaspheme for cheap points and clicks.
You are playing games with your soul, Candace, and with people’s lives.
It is a game you lose automatically just by playing.
You sit on top of the world of fame, but you are falling into the pit of hell itself.
You’re leading others there, too, and being cheered on by those already lost.
God have mercy on your soul.
Candace, you and Charlie were not friends. He managed you. He kept things light and polite so you wouldn’t turn on the org.
Show me any proof of genuine friendship from the last 12 months of his life? From the last 18 months? From the last 24 months? Not some 2018 text. Something recent.
You gave him anxiety whenever you called or texted asking (demanding) to speak at our events. He made me or Justin deal with you and George. This is why when you tried to hire me in Feb 2024 for PR I agreed to go along with it against my better judgment, because Charlie asked me to keep you close and protect the org from you. (The publicist I tried to hire to run point prayed about it and felt the Lord told her a firm no, and so, I ultimately declined).
This is your central, foundational lie.
You were not his friend.
You are not his defender.
You were his tormenter.
And now you torment his wife and the organization he built.
Candace, you are a fraud.
In a decent world this wouldn’t have to be said. Charlie Kirk was viciously, brutally murdered and Erika Kirk suffered an unimaginable loss. She deserves sympathy, respect, support and Christian love.
No one with a shred of decency would target her for attack. No one with a shred of decency would platform someone who attacks her.
No one with a molecule of benevolence and integrity would enable these attacks, including by listening to them and even entertaining the notion that these conspiracy theories are remotely credible.
Shame on the whole lot of these cretins. I’ve had it up to my eyeballs seeing this over and over. Quit pretending this is behavior that decent people would tolerate. I hope they get their comeuppance.
One of the richest men in all of America signed the Declaration of Independence knowing it could cost him everything. Then he left home to serve, died far away in a borrowed town, and never came back. Meet Philip Livingston.
This guy was not a scrappy underdog. Just the opposite. He was born in 1716 into the Livingston family, one of the wealthiest, most powerful dynasties in colonial New York. Manor lands, a Yale education, and a shipping empire he built into one of the biggest merchant fortunes in New York City. He had everything the British system was designed to reward.
And he spent that fortune building things that still exist. He helped found King's College, which you know today as Columbia University. He helped start the New York Society Library. He helped create the New York Chamber of Commerce. The man was basically constructing the civic backbone of New York with his own money and time.
Here's the thing though. He was not some hothead revolutionary. He actually feared independence. He worried it would bring chaos and disorder, and he was cautious about the whole idea for a long time. This wasn't a man itching to burn it all down.
But when New York finally gave its delegates the go-ahead, Livingston signed. He put the name of one of the great fortunes in America onto a document the crown treated as treason. A rich man betting his wealth against the empire that made him rich.
And the war came straight for him. When the British took New York, they seized and used his properties. He started selling off his holdings to help fund the fight, watching the empire he'd defied pick apart the life he'd built.
Then comes the ending that gets me. His health was failing, and he knew it. Congress had been driven out of Philadelphia and was meeting in the small town of York, Pennsylvania. Livingston could have gone home to rest. Instead he told his family he probably wouldn't see them again, and he went to York to keep serving anyway.
He died there in June 1778, in the middle of a session of Congress, far from home. He's buried in York, Pennsylvania to this day. He never made it back to the New York he spent his whole life building.
A man who had every reason to stay comfortable and loyal, who gave his fortune and his final months to a country he wasn't even sure would work.
Philip Livingston. He died at his post, a long way from home.
John Adams, writing to Abigail, about the Continental Congress' vote in favor of independence on July 2, 1776:
"The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more. You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not. -- I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. -- Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will tryumph in that Days Transaction, even altho We should rue it, which I trust in God We shall not."