We need people in the White House who are curious about other points of view. Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz, the Democratic vice presidential nominee, is one of those people.
In the late 1990s, Mr. Walz was my global geography teacher at Mankato West High School in Minnesota. I’ll never forget sitting in his class as he passionately delivered his lesson of the day. Mr. Walz didn’t simply stand at the front of the room and talk at his students. He gestured. He paced. He asked us questions.
He made us excited to learn about the world beyond our small town.
Our high school didn’t have air conditioning, and you knew it had been a lively class when sweat lined Mr. Walz’s brow by the time the bell rang. The guy never stopped moving. He made us excited to learn about the world beyond our small town.
Mr. Walz shared many of his experiences with us, from growing up in Nebraska to serving in the National Guard. (I recall the day he explained why he often spoke so loudly. He had some hearing loss from his time in the Guard.) Before coming to Minnesota, Mr. Walz had spent time teaching in China. He shared his experiences there and even taught us a bit of Pinyin, the Chinese phonetic system that uses the Latin alphabet.
During one particularly memorable class, Mr. Walz and another student were quietly arguing at the front of the room. The argument escalated until the student shoved his desk. Mr. Walz sent the student to the principal’s office.
The rest of us sat in silent shock — until the student came back into class with a grin on his face. Mr. Walz admitted they had staged the whole “argument.” He then asked each of us to write an account of what had happened. We all remembered the incident slightly differently. He taught us a valuable and powerful lesson on perspective, memory and eyewitness testimony.
But it wasn’t the most powerful lesson I learned from Mr. Walz.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Junior year, I signed up for the creative writing class. During the poetry unit, each of us wrote a poem on a giant sheet of paper and hung it in the second-floor hallway.
My poem was about shyness. Those who knew me back then wouldn’t be surprised by my choice of subject. I was shy and quiet yet bursting with ideas and opinions. But I was often too afraid to voice them. Writing was a natural outlet for me. (It still is.)
After I hung up my poem, I decided it wasn’t quite finished. I grabbed a marker and added a stand-alone line along the bottom that read: “Sometimes people who don’t speak have the most to say.”
A few students complimented my poem. A senior on the basketball team even said it was her friend’s new favorite poem. As a young writer, receiving that positive feedback was thrilling.
One day, I was at my locker when Mr. Walz approached me. He had read my poem and was curious about the final line I had added. “Is that true?” he asked me. “About people who don’t talk much having a lot to say?”
Mr. Walz was one of the most popular teachers at school. He was outgoing and friendly to everyone. And he seemed genuinely interested in a point of view I don’t think he’d given a lot of thought to until he read my words. Perhaps he also knew I needed someone to acknowledge that quiet students have value, too.
Character and curiosity matter. They matter at home, at school, in our communities, and in our government.
Mr. Walz was the only teacher at school who asked me about my poem. We had a good chat, and his interest in my perspective stuck with me long after I graduated. Over the years, I’ve had a handful of teachers who encouraged me to keep writing, in ways big and small. Mr. Walz was one of those teachers.
Character and curiosity matter. They matter at home, at school, in our communities, and in our government. Tim Walz has these qualities in spades.
Become a member to join the discussion