Who I Am and Where I'm From

Every campaign has slogans, policy points, and promises. But at the heart of any candidate is a story — a story about where they come from, and what shaped them.

For me, that story begins every morning when I leave my house. On the wall above my dresser hangs a framed poem written by my great-grandfather, C. Lloyd Hanson. He was a rural Nebraska school superintendent in the mid-20th century, and he left behind a piece called The Teacher.

In it, he compared teaching to gardening. Teachers sow seeds of truth. They pull weeds of neglect. They carefully nurture what is good so it can grow. He reminded us that while weeds scatter easily, good seeds require patience, faith, and care. And he ended with words that still echo in me every single day:

"The fate of nations rests with me."

That was his view of teaching. But I've come to see that it applies far beyond the classroom. It applies to leadership. To community. To public service. The fate of our country rests in the seeds we plant and the weeds we allow to grow.

That's where I come from. And that's what I believe.

My Maternal Grandfather: Senior Chief Petty Officer Kerry Hanson

My maternal grandfather, Kerry Hanson, lived his life in service to this country as a career Navy man. He served for 20 years, from Hawaii to Iceland, from Taiwan to Spain. His specialty was communications, but his legacy was so much more.

When he retired, his commanding officers didn't just thank him for his technical skill. They praised his character, his leadership, and his devotion to community. One letter described him as a man of quality — the kind of sailor who made the Navy better simply by the example he set.

Another letter praised him for what he built outside of duty. In Rota, Spain, where he was stationed, he constructed baseball fields, helped establish a football program, coached youth teams, and organized fundraisers for children. He wasn't just serving his country — he was serving the next generation, wherever he happened to be.

And when he finally came home for good, he never stopped serving. I remember watching him care for the flags at the Veterans Memorial Park in South Sioux City, Nebraska. He took it upon himself to make sure they always flew with dignity — replacing them when they were worn, raising them high when the community gathered. I watched him tend to countless military funerals for men and women he had never met. To him, they were all brothers and sisters in arms, and they all deserved honor.

That was my grandfather. His service didn't end with his retirement from the Navy. It lived in him every single day after.

My Paternal Grandfather: Roland LaBrie, a D-Day Veteran

On the other side of my family tree is another story of sacrifice. My paternal grandfather, Roland Joseph LaBrie, was just 19 years old when he stormed Utah Beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944.

In a memoir he wrote for his grandchildren, he described the chaos of that morning — landing on the beach under fire, watching death all around him. His unit, the 359th Infantry of the 90th Division, pushed inland to face the Germans. (I never heard him speak of this; only this letter written shortly before he died in 2000.)

He survived 52 days on the front lines without rest. On July 4, 1944, his company was ambushed in a ravine. Out of 44 men, only 11 came out alive. He lived because he remembered his training — rolling, crawling, running, doing whatever it took to survive.

On July 27, he was hit by an 88mm mortar shell. Part of his leg was blown away. He packed dirt into his wound to stop the bleeding until medics could reach him. He was eventually evacuated and sent back to the United States, where he underwent surgeries, learned to walk with a prosthetic, and built a new life.

But he didn't let his injury define him. He married my grandmother, raised five children, worked for the Post Office, and lived a full life. He carried the scars of war, but he also carried gratitude and perseverance. He left us his story so we would know what sacrifice really looks like.

The Weeds and the Seeds

When I put these stories together — my great-grandfather with his poem, my maternal grandfather in the Navy, and my paternal grandfather on the shores of Normandy — I see the roots of who I am.

I see men who believed that service was sacred. Men who planted seeds of truth, fairness, sacrifice, and community. Men who pulled the weeds that threatened to choke out what was good.

And when I look at our politics today, I see a country overrun with weeds.

Weeds are easy. They grow fast. They spread quickly. They choke the good around them. That's what MAGA extremism has become — a choking weed. It thrives on anger, fear, and division. It spreads without building. It consumes without creating.

But good seeds — truth, fairness, opportunity, service — they take work. They take time. They require patience and sacrifice. They require people willing to get their hands dirty, to nurture what matters, and to leave things stronger than they found them.

That's the lesson I take from my family. That's the lesson I want to bring into public service.

Who I Am

I am not a career politician. I am a tradesman, a small business owner, and most importantly, a father.

But I come from a family that taught me service is not optional. My great-grandfather planted seeds of truth in classrooms. My maternal grandfather planted seeds of dignity and integrity in the Navy — and kept serving even after he came home, caring for the flags and honoring veterans he never knew. My paternal grandfather planted seeds of courage and sacrifice on the beaches of Normandy.

I don't need wealth or status. I don't measure my success in headlines or political points. What I need — what South Dakota needs — is to plant seeds of fairness, opportunity, and truth. Seeds that will grow into something lasting. Seeds that our children and grandchildren will inherit.

That's who I am. That's where I'm from. And that's why I'm running.