The Democratic presidential ticket has been riding high since Kamala Harris tagged in, replacing outgoing President Joe Biden and bringing with her a new surge of energy and (relative) youth. The Kamala is Brat shirts, however, may not prove to be the high point of the presidential style race thanks to the announcement this week that Minnesota Governor Tim “these guys are just weird†Walz will be joining the ticket as Harris' running mate. Walz was a smart choice on a few levels, not least because he’s an older white dude (a demographic who continues to wield significant clout, despite making a bit of a mess of things thus far). Equally important, however, is the midwestern folksiness Walz brings to the campaign in his demeanor as much as his familiar dadcore wardrobe of flannel shirts, lived-in tees, and barn coats.
Walz was born in Nebraska and was a high school social studies and geography teacher before getting into politics. He also spent 24 years in the Army National Guard and is an avid small game hunter who, among other accomplishments, inaugurated Minnesota’s first “Governor’s Turkey Hunting Opener†during his tenure. Silver-haired, balding, and slightly jowly (Tracy Letts would play him in the movie version), he has a penchant for Minnesota Grown merch and camo hats that speaks to weekends spent stalking the woods for wild turkeys and grouse. (Little surprise that not 24 hours into Walz’s appointment, an official Harris-Walz camo hat was released, promptly went viral, and almost immediately sold out.)
Walz’s ability to look at ease in classic American workwear—and the genuine roots among honest-to-goodness working people to which it speaks—stands in notable contrast to countless other politicians who have donned Carhartt jackets and cowboy gear in an attempt to trade on everyday-people realness. Whether it’s former Texas governor Rick Perry, whose homophobic campaign for the 2012 Republican nomination included an infamous spot wearing a too-stiff barn coat (for which he got savagely roasted), or Florida Governor Ron DeSantis’, who failed to appear relatable in a wardrobe of logoed work shirts and fleece vests in his attempt to dethrone Donald Trump, cosplaying as a blue-collar American has become a standard element of the political playbook in recent years, much to the peril of many a would-be candidate.
The campaign trail littered with discarded Carhartt chore coats holds a lesson both for politicians and the rest of us when it comes to workwear: there’s no substitute for authenticity. As anyone who’s gone through the process of breaking in a new canvas duck jacket, a pair of selvedge dungarees or a set of Red Wing Iron Rangers knows, these clothes are designed to be worked in, lived-in, and generally beaten up, and until you get to that perfect level of patina, they won’t look (or feel) quite right. That’s not to say workwear should be reserved for the folks who actually wear it to work—quite the opposite. These pieces have become pillars of the wider American wardrobe because they’re built to last and can look good on just about anyone, but they’re nothing if not honest about the person wearing them.
When someone in pressed jeans and a fresh-off-the-rack canvas jacket stands next to someone for whom those clothes are a uniform, not a costume, it doesn’t take a trained eye to spot the difference. Tim Walz does such a good job of dressing like a working-class midwestern dad because that’s who he is and where he comes from. This, perhaps, is the real power of workwear: A man might lie, but his barn coat always tells the truth.