And the winner of the vice presidential debate was... Midwestern nice

In times of such polarization, the debate held in New York on Tuesday between the candidates for the vice presidency of the United States was certainly an unusual spectacle. Both the Democrat Tim Walz and the Republican J. D. Vance said so often that they agreed with the other on this or that issue, and insisted so much on how much they understood each other personally, that at times it seemed that if it were not for the existence of their respective bosses, Kamala Harris and Donald Trump, both men would be throwing in the towel and heading for the nearest bar to talk over beers about their small-town things: one man was born in Valentine (Nebraska); the other in Middletown (Ohio).

Perhaps it was the cliché of “Midwestern nice,” the epitome of which is to be found in Minnesota, where Walz is the governor. Or it could be that Vance came to the debate with a strategy, and that strategy ended up working out for him.

Vance was in a hurry to present himself to his fellow Americans as someone beyond the ridiculous memes and wild statements about childless cat ladies or immigrants who eat pets. In other words, he was not only wearing a blue suit and a (fuchsia?) tie, but also the equipment of a sensible person and a politician capable of practicing bipartisanship, even empathy.

He repeatedly called everyone by their first names: “Tim, this,” “Margaret, that.” When he talked about abortion, he was brought to tears (he must have thought that no one would remember that he had supported its near-total ban in the past). And when, during the discussion on the epidemic of gun violence in American schools, Walz recalled that his 17-year-old son had witnessed a shooting at a community center “while playing volleyball,” Vance shook his head sadly and, when he recovered his voice, said to his opponent: “I am so sorry, I didn’t know anything about that event. Christ, have mercy.” But the climax came when he assured his opponent that if he were to end up defeating him, he would be able to count on his “prayers,” his “best wishes” and his “help.”

And so the debate, which included no shortage of clashes on issues such as immigration, the only moment in which their microphones had to be cut off, or the legacy of January 6 (the Republican said that Trump’s actions when he left the White House were “a peaceful transfer of power”!), ended with both opponents shaking hands and introducing the other to their respective wives.

By then, Walz seemed less nervous than he had been at the beginning of the face-to-face, which began with a question about the topic of the day, Iran’s missile attack on Israel, and the governor of Minnesota getting stuck on his answer while to his right Vance displayed the most beatific gesture in his repertoire, before recalling, to ingratiate himself with the audience, his personal history: humble origins, a mother addicted to opiates and being raised by his grandmother from the Appalachia.

The Minnesota governor — born in “a town of 400 souls,” a member of the National Guard, a teacher (“and I think a good one”) and an American football coach — also drew on biographical literature as he loosened up, after an outburst in which he pursed his lips in dismay and lowered his eyes when it was not his turn to jot things down on a piece of paper on the lectern. His best moment came near the end of the game, when he asked Vance directly if he thought Trump had won the election, as the former president baselessly claims: Vance did not answer.

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