Days before Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz was officially tapped to be Democratic nominee Kamala Harris’ running mate, the internet let us know what kind of man he is. A photo of him beaming while holding a piglet checked the state fair campaign stop box, the difference being that he looks genuinely ecstatic to be cuddling it.
In another video, he talks about replacing the headlight harness on a 2014 Ford Edge, which is not a sexy car, before urging his constituents to vote.
What sold Walz for me is a clip from Twin Cities PBS’ “The Wrap,” the St. Paul, Minn., public TV station’s weekly web series.
The full exchange lasts nearly four and a half minutes, but the 17 seconds that went viral show reporter David Gillette asking him, “What is the last thing that you did, truly out in the public, truly by yourself?”
“I went to Menards and bought an air filter for my furnace,” Walz responds.
One of the fastest ways to murder a meme is to try to explain it (R.I.P. Brat Summer; cause of death: that CNN panel). Memes are the materialization of vibes, the innate wisdom of a feeling, the idea that when you know, you know.
But some small details beg to be noticed. Walz took it upon himself to run an errand other governors might pawn off on a staffer. Choosing to do it himself shows competence, thriftiness and humility, which may be why this bit clicked so broadly.
But Menards is a specifically Midwestern reference. Walz could have gotten that furnace filter at Home Depot or Lowe’s. Instead, he hit up a regional chain whose longtime jingle is a banjo riff set to the straightforward motto of, “Save big money at Menards.”
It smacks of a very down-to-Earth Midwestern TV dad choice, the energy Walz is bringing to the national stage.
Americans aren’t alone in gravitating toward fathers in troubling times, but our TV shows and movies sell daddy comfort like few other cultures can. Ask Pedro Pascal, who built a career peak out of playing father figures sheltering youngsters from the ravages of lawlessness. Or Tom Hanks, who weeks before the 2016 election gave us a pep talk as America’s Dad on “Saturday Night Live.” Then there’s Kentucky Gov. Andy Beshear, who was also on Harris’ shortlist for VP due to his stern but caring and empathetic leadership in the earliest days of the COVID-19 pandemic.
“In an incredibly difficult and destabilizing time, Andy Beshear is modeling a masculinity that stands in direct opposition to what pop culture, at least, has told us we'd be drawn to when the s**t goes down,” wrote Salon’s Chief Content Officer Erin Keane in 2020.
Soothing Hallmark movies commonly feature kindly small-town mayors, but if one were to show off a governor who also runs a Christmas tree lot, he’d probably look like Walz.
Four years later we find ourselves in another difficult and destabilizing time. But when the threat is a sex offender convicted on 34 felony counts publicizing his authoritarian intentions for the presidency, we don’t need a governing "daddy" as much as a solid Midwestern dad pushing us to do the right and responsible thing.
Politicians and Hollywood treat the Midwest as an abstraction more than a geographical description of 12 states. That view treats Middle America as a catchall for sensibility, moral uprightness and a mythical strain of virtue incorrectly believed to be absent from the supposedly libertine coasts or in large cities. They call it "real America," pitting those voters against out-of-touch blue state residents.
This forgets that some of the biggest cities that define what American culture is – Chicago, St. Louis, Cleveland, Minneapolis – are also in the Midwest. Many of those places are amply represented on primetime TV.
But so is the Midwestern father Walz epitomizes.
“Almost no one knows who Tim Walz is,” read an early Washington Post headline on Tuesday, which is true; it's also OK. Thanks to TV and movies, and the ever-present emphasis on playing to Middle America, they know his type, and that's enough of a sell for voters who are dying to unclench a little. Soothing Hallmark movies commonly feature kindly small-town mayors, but if one were to show off a governor who also runs a Christmas tree lot, he’d probably look and behave like Walz.
“Fargo” sells a hyper-realistic take on “Minnesota nice” that does not resembles Walz’s demeanor. But the character closest to what we imagine he represents could be Lou Solverson, the principled police chief and veteran who raised his daughter to be a tough and capable cop.
He's a bit like Mike Heck from "The Middle" mixed with a little of Dan Conner's DNA, and wasn’t Dan's affability a main reason “The Conners” could move forward without Roseanne Barr?
The Nebraska-born Walz also emanates the positivity of Ted Lasso, a Kansan, minus the stuffed-down crippling depression and the barrage of folksy similes. But he can also be tough in a way "That ‘70s Show" patriarch Red Forman would respect. "There’s a golden rule: Mind your own damn business,” he told attendees at Tuesday's Philadelphia rally, where the campaign formally introduced him.
Yet he can gently pull off a comedy duo act with his vegetarian daughter Hope in a way that is regionally specific and hilarious, for reasons other than their stage being the 2023 Minnesota State Fair.
"We’re going to go get some food. Corndog?” he asks Hope.
"I'm vegetarian," she deadpans.
"Turkey, then," he says.
"Turkey's meat," she reminds him.
"Not in Minnesota,” he finishes, “Turkey is special."
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Walz’s background as a social studies teacher who coached the football team at his Mankato, Minn., high school reminds us of Coach Taylor from "Friday Night Lights” although, obviously, Texas isn’t part of the Midwest.
All this on top of being a guy who knows his way around auto parts and appliance repair aisles gives Walz an aura of familiarity JD Vance lacks, which is vital in an election that hangs on feelings and brand association more than policy.
We don’t need a governing "daddy" as much as a solid Midwestern dad pushing us to do the right and responsible thing.
Menards is a quintessential Midwestern fixture present in large cities and smaller towns, whereas Vance's Diet Mountain Dew name-drops are weak pandering to a demographic to which he has no true claim. Vance is also weird, a descriptor Walz popularized and Republicans haven’t figured out how to counter.
Referring to something or someone as weird is an acceptable if pointed way of calling out the abnormal and an entry point to showing a better alternative that is not weird.
After Walz’s pick became public, Donald Trump’s supporters tried to tack the hashtag #TamponTim onto him to cite his policy of ensuring all school bathrooms offered feminine hygiene products for free, which a thoughtful voter may see as common courtesy. After all, half of the population menstruates. Trying to present that as weird just made those MAGA attacks look even weirder and more out of touch.
Actions and reactions like this draw a bright spotlight between the two types of Midwest represented on each major party’s ticket. In Vance, Republicans have a potential vice president who projects a hostile affectation of purported Middle American family values.
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In Walz, Democrats are countering with genuine Midwestern decency and everyday aptitude encompassed by a guy accustomed to keeping his house in order and vehicles in good repair.
Common thinking about vice presidential nominees indicates they don’t make much of a difference in terms of swaying voters’ choices. But in a race that’s so far been fueled by emotions more than a candidate’s qualifications, Walz's selection complements Harris by tapping into the best of both.
In the full interview with Gillette, Walz answers other lighthearted questions similar to the classic MTV “boxers or briefs” question that Bill Clinton fielded back in the ‘90s – but the "Minnesota nice" edition, being public television and all.
Does he eat the last muffin in the office breakroom or cut it in half? Trick answer: He'd take the muffin top, leaving the bottom. How many pairs of shoes does he have? A sensible seven.
As for that Menards run, Gillette asks if Walz did it with total anonymity. “Yeah, the people there knew me but they had, like, been angry at me enough. They were tired of yelling at me,” he said, so his errand went smoothly.
Then he laughed like a man who accepts that neighbors can disagree on policy, but find common ground in appreciating the effort that goes into repairing what's broken instead of chasing convenient fixes. "Repair" and "fix" may be synonyms, but your trustworthy Midwestern TV dad understands the difference.
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