Midwest Apocalypse

Minnesota nice in the everything-after

Madelyn Valento

If the apocalypse were to start today—whether it be zombies, aliens, nuclear war, or whatever it is that you think will come to wash the world anew—my first step would be to freak out. My second step? Pretend like I have everything under control so I can put my plan into motion.

By “plan” I mean the thrown-together idea my brother and I have agreed on for years if the apocalypse truly were to start. Get home (which is luckily only 20 minutes away by car), barricade the doors and windows, and inventory food and supplies. Trust no one—those people that arrive at your doorstep begging for help in apocalypse movies are almost never sincere. But this is real life. How far will that get you?

My parents’ neighbors, the ones I never really grew to know after moving out, can they be trusted? How far does “Minnesota nice” extend once we’re beyond the borders of normality? At least COVID taught us that your neighbors, sometimes, are willing to share rolls of toilet paper, but the people you meet at the supermarket might not be; they might hoard toilet paper instead and upcharge you five times the cost. 

The movies don’t really show you what the apocalypse would be like in the Midwest, where the best place to hide out would be. I’d say the suburbs are fine, but I’m no expert. I can tell you I’d rather be miles out in an abandoned barn next to a pro-life billboard (as we know there are many unfortunate sightings of out there) than nine floors up in a Minneapolis apartment. Think of the escape routes, people!

Ideally, I’d wait out the apocalypse in my home, where wild turkeys, deer, coyotes, and foxes frequently run across our front yard. There’s a nice, medium distance between each house—enough that my neighbor has to ride his lawn mower over to snoop on us—and fences on two sides of us. But I keep coming back to the fact that no matter how each of us may do our part, we’re left relying on the good will of others and the hope that they’ll similarly bunker down.

I try my best to always be nice to others. I hold doors open for awkwardly long amounts of time, and I say “thank you” and “sorry” until the words are burned into my throat. I don’t really care for the term “Minnesota nice,” nor does it have any influence on the way I act, but I carry with me a hope that my niceties will be returned, especially in times of need, like those we’re in now. 

You’ll hear the word ‘community’ thrown around a lot, and maybe you aren’t sure what it means. It could be within your household, but then that household can become two, it can become a neighborhood, and beyond that before you even realize. But it’s the bonds you forge now, early, learning what your neighbors are like—if you’re willing to share a roll of toilet paper or more with them, that could save your life. Hold those doors open, make a joke in line to the person in front of you at the grocery store, walk your dog on the same route past the house with the people you’ve always wanted to get to know. When we lose the ability to connect, that’s when you know the apocalypse has really begun. 

Soak in what we have. We have something special here, on this campus and in this city and in every thread that connects us across the world. It all leads back to you.