Mourning Trey Reed & the Demand to Call Each Other In

I recently wrote a piece about the death of Charlie Kirk. I asked that we stop the hate and start the love. My piece was a call to end the cycles of hate that have defined the United States system for centuries. Perhaps the cycle of hate is as old as humanity itself. Then I got the news about the death of a young Black man in Mississippi.

Demartravion “Trey” Reed — a 21-year-old Black student at Delta State University — was found hanging from a tree on his campus on September 15, 2025.

His death is a wound much bigger than the current moment. It’s one that spans generations. A reminder of the lynchings, the hate, and the terror that Black people in America have carried for centuries. The symbolism is uniquely “American.” 

I write this piece aware of my own privilege. I’m a queer, trans, nonbinary person who has felt threatened by hate. I also live within the margins of whiteness that protect me in ways that Trey never knew. While part of me is vulnerable, I can’t say that I know what it’s like to feel constantly exposed. 

When I ask for love instead of vengeance, I know it may be a privilege to even ask. Some have lost too much, and they cannot wait for justice. It’s a matter of life or death. Undoubtedly, my call to love does not soothe their wounds or calm their fears.

Still, I am trying to imagine a world where murders like these stop happening. 

We cannot only rage. Though rage, especially in these moments, is necessary. Rage, however, when sustained, turns us into versions of ourselves devoid of humanity. 

What if love — as messy as it sometimes is — is what breaks the cycle of hate that leads to moments like this? Part of me is starting to doubt that love is the answer, so this is more a question than anything. But I can’t look at this current moment and imagine a more nonviolent path than love.

Charlie Kirk and Trey Reed are dead. Different contexts, but in the United States, these seemingly unrelated deaths, to me, definitely overlap. Both deaths carry the weight of a system that tolerates violence against those it deems “other.” Both expose how fear, silence, and dehumanization are at the heart of what we call “our society.” To me, both call on us to respond but with a radical insistence on shared humanity.

There’s a stark difference that I must name, however. Charlie Kirk upheld the system of racism and hate that has dominated the United States since before it’s founding. Trey Reed was a young Black man who grew up in the system that Charlie Kirk upheld. Charlie Kirk used his far-reaching platform to normalize hate. Trey Reed was a student still finding his way in the world. I’m not comparing the two individuals. They couldn’t be more different as far as I can see. I’m contextualizing their deaths in a system that condones hatred and seems to be offering only one solution: more violence. I’m saying their names in the same sentence because I believe they are both victims of a larger, more sinister problem. The system doesn’t harm us all in the same way. It brutalizes some, benefits others, and tricks all of us into thinking domination is normal. Trey bore the sharpest edge of that blade.

When the first report came out about Trey’s death, the university, the coroner, and law enforcement said there was no trauma, no broken bones, and no signs of assault. That’s the same story authorities have been telling about the murder of Black people for centuries. But as many people are saying on social media, “Black people don’t lynch themselves”.

When Charlie Kirk died, blame was immediately cast with some even saying it was the fault of liberals. Charlie Kirk’s death somehow sparked outrage against the very minorities he often erased. The same communities Charlie Kirk hated are now being blamed for his murder. But that’s reductive and dangerous — and simply untrue.

Truth matters. Because if the state moves too quickly to declare “no foul play” without fully understanding what happened, it compounds harm. If we scapegoat marginalized communities, we perpetuate harm against innocent people. This behavior echoes a pattern Black people have known since before this nation was founded: the assumption that their deaths are either self-inflicted or unimportant. The refusal to fully investigate is part of the larger wound. It’s a pattern that too many people understand — Black people, trans people, queer people, poor people, homeless people — too many people.

So what does it mean to call people into love? When people keep dying, when justice seems slow or absent, when truth is not prioritized, when harm is scapegoated, and when violent patterns continue?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m writing this piece. But I have some thoughts.

I think we have to let those who have lost speak first. We have to let them grieve. We have to hold space for anger and fear. We have to let them tell us how they feel and what they need. We have to listen and understand them. Otherwise, we breeze over the most human part of this tragic time and we risk devolving into unhealthy banter of the political circus.

We have to demand transparency and accountability — for Trey Reed — for every victim. That’s the only way that we can all same-page about truth. If we can’t see what really happened, how can we know how to keep it from happening again? Love demands truth. That means that power is exposed, that institutions are accountable, and that unjust patterns are disrupted.

We have to love in a way that cares for survivors. We have to build a community that supports mental health, protects students, protects Black folks, protects trans folks — protects people. But I have a hot take that I don’t really know how to communicate. But, I think we have to build a community that somehow protects people from harm and from the temptation to inflict it. Those that would do harm must be protected from themselves too. Hating murderers doesn’t stop murder. If we can intervene early enough with care and connection, maybe we prevent harm before it takes root. Hate grows when care is not present. Love interrupts it.

What would it look like if our system was rooted in love? How would things change? How would we see others that lived across lines of difference?

I do believe that love asks us to see ourselves in others. About six years ago, I saw this video called The Egg. It has influenced the way I think more than years of practicing Christianity. It’s part of the reason I believe in empathy. And it’s part of the reason I think love will break the cycles of hate we are all victims of. 

Crying for Trey — for anyone who is a victim of this violent system — is not a political act. It’s human. Hating those that inflict the harm is human too. But that hate isn’t sustainable. I’m asking if transforming that hate into love, into repair, and into transformation is a more beautiful path forward. One that eventually eliminates violence entirely.

I’m standing with those who disagree, not against them. I know that for many, asking for love feels like a betrayal. Maybe it’s a softness in this moment that requires something harder. What I’m asking about may feel like a privilege we cannot afford. But I believe demanding vengeance without offering restoration is to keep the machine of hate alive. That’s what I believe we must resist. That’s the truth I keep circling back to. 

I don’t think we can erase the pain that this system has caused. I don’t think we can forget injustice. I don’t think we can forgo accountability. But, when we have nothing else — not hope, not justice, not accountability — maybe love can be what sets us free.

Trey’s family deserves every camera, every autopsy, every public record. And if Trey’s family wants rage, or protest, or silence, or love — that is theirs to choose first. My reflections don’t come before their grief. 

Again, transparency is the first step toward truth. It’s necessary if we want to heal.

Along with transparency, we must let Black people, trans people, Indigenous people, women, queers, and other violated communities set the terms of their own mourning.

And the best place to start, if you’re reading this and wondering what you can do in your own life, is to practice love in small ways. Try kindness. Try listening. Start recognizing humanity even in those you fear — because love doesn’t start large. It starts in your heart.

We are in this together. Yes, the system is broken. Yes, it kills. But if we only ever push back with hate, we’ll be forever trapped in the same cycle. 

Calling each other into love is soft, but it’s also the hardest work. It’s the work of seeing people who hate — and also being unwilling to let hate define us. 

Love doesn’t always stop death. But love is the only force that makes life worth living after.