Let’s be honest: when you think of a Kennedy striding into West Virginia, you probably picture JFK in a pressed suit, gripping hands like a rock star on a barnstorming tour through coal towns, trying to prove Catholics could be presidents too. Not someone talking about banning food dyes in school lunches while invoking the ghost of Al Smith and throwing subtle shade at soda drinkers. But hey, this is 2025, and everything is weird now.
In his first field trip as Health and Human Services Secretary, Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—America’s most earnest conspiracy theorist turned federal bureaucrat—descended upon Martinsburg, West Virginia, to officially launch his health crusade, the MAHA agenda (that’s “Make America Healthy Again,” and yes, he really went there). What began as a family history lesson about anti-Catholic bigotry in 1928 somehow morphed into a wellness pep rally, a soda-snubbing SNAP reform, and a statewide call for everyone to walk a daily “Mountaineer Mile.”
Welcome to the new Kennedy legacy tour, where the legacy is part Camelot, part kombucha commercial.
A History Lesson—With Just a Dash of Klan
Before getting to his big anti-Fruit Loops policy rollout, Kennedy took his audience on a detour through 20th-century religious prejudice, starting with Al Smith, the four-time New York governor who was famously Catholic, infamously defeated, and—thanks to the Ku Klux Klan and a generous helping of good old-fashioned American bigotry—left face down in the 1928 electoral mud.
RFK Jr., clearly reveling in his ability to weave history into policy speeches, reminded everyone that Smith’s campaign essentially ignited a panic among the Protestant South. Kennedy’s voice practically dripped with irony as he laid it out: Smith, a New York machine politician with working-class Catholic roots, ran headfirst into the brick wall of religious intolerance.
The KKK flared up (again), the South panicked (again), and despite his governance chops, Smith got flattened by Herbert Hoover. All he carried was Massachusetts, Rhode Island, five Southern states, and Arkansas, because apparently having a running mate from a place actually helps.
"And people all felt," Kennedy said with just the right amount of rhetorical sigh, "that America would never elect a Catholic president." Ah, the prophetic prelude.
Enter Camelot, Stage Left: JFK and the West Virginia Redemption Arc
Kennedy’s next historical pivot was vintage American mythmaking, served on a bed of Appalachian grit.
Flash forward to 1960, and young John F. Kennedy—Irish Catholic and square-jawed as a GQ cover—decides he’s going to crack the Protestant code. And he picks West Virginia, the least Catholic state in the country at the time (a whopping 2% of the population), as the proving ground.
Why West Virginia? Because it was symbolic. Because it was hostile. Because if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere… or at least that's what JFK seemed to believe. And, as RFK Jr. made sure to emphasize with a grin, “He came very close” to literally shaking every hand in the state.
The Kennedys invaded—parents, siblings, probably cousins nobody even remembered were related—and they embedded. They ate local food, talked to coal miners, and showed that they cared. West Virginians responded in kind, handing JFK a surprising 7-point victory over Nixon in the primary. That win arguably secured JFK the nomination and the presidency, and according to RFK Jr., that emotional bond stuck with the family ever since.
As Kennedy said in Martinsburg: “He always believed that he would not be president if he had not won this state – and he never forgot that relationship.”
So there it is: the Kennedy Family’s sacred pact with West Virginia. Not signed in blood, maybe, but definitely sealed with handshakes and a lot of eye contact.
From Coal Country to Colorants: A New War on “Pollution”
After all the sepia-toned flashbacks, RFK Jr. transitioned into what he calls a continuation of that Kennedy-West Virginia alliance—though this time, the enemy isn’t Nixon or the KKK, it’s… Red Dye No. 40.
In his speech, Kennedy made the leap from environmental activism to food policy. In a sort of greatest-hits reel of his past career as an environmental lawyer, he spoke about fighting pollution in coal country—then smoothly pivoted to a new form of pollution: toxins in the food supply.
It was vintage RFK Jr. logic: mercury in rivers and Yellow No. 5 in snack cakes are both examples of Big Industry poisoning America. And now, as head of HHS, he’s going to do something about it.
West Virginia, naturally, is where this crusade would begin.
MAHA Launches: Because MAGA Needed a Nutrition Label
And so the MAHA Agenda was born.
Yes, it’s a little cringey. The slogan “Make America Healthy Again” borrows shamelessly from Trumpian branding, but with kale instead of culture wars. RFK Jr. is a Kennedy with a populist streak and an Instagram wellness influencer’s obsession with clean eating. And he’s not afraid to blend both.
The agenda’s opening salvo? A ban on food dyes and preservatives in school lunches, which Gov. Patrick Morrisey signed into law with a flourish.
Now, say what you will about West Virginia—its coal mines, its poverty, its meth problem—but by God, it will not be feeding its schoolchildren synthetic colors anymore. Not on Kennedy’s watch.
SNAP Judgment: No More Soda for the Poor?
But Kennedy and Morrisey didn’t stop at the school lunch line. Oh no, they went straight for the grocery cart.
In a move that’s bound to inflame both public health advocates and libertarians (the rare policy crossover!), West Virginia is seeking a waiver from HHS to prohibit SNAP benefits from being used to buy soda.
Yes, they want to keep government aid from subsidizing sugar water. It’s not the worst idea in the world—diabetes is a public health crisis—but it’s also the kind of policy that lights the fuse on a thousand “nanny state” rants.
And there’s more: the state wants to reimpose work requirements for food stamps, a policy that has Republicans cheering and Democrats squirming. All under the wholesome umbrella of “making America healthy.”
You know, by making poor people work more and drink less Pepsi.
The Mountaineer Mile: Kennedy’s Daily Walk Into the Future
If soda bans were the stick, the Mountaineer Mile is the carrot.
Morrisey, leaning into the initiative like a man who’s just discovered Fitbit, launched this symbolic-but-serious challenge to get every West Virginian walking at least one mile a day. It’s got the folksy branding of a middle school fundraiser, but the intent is clear: movement is medicine, and Appalachia needs a lot of both.
Kennedy, in turn, used the Mile as a metaphor for MAHA as a whole. It’s about small, daily commitments to health. It’s about building community around change. It’s about trying to turn the state with the highest obesity rate in America into a wellness leader.
And for extra measure, Morrisey posted scenic sunset selfies from his own evening walks—because of course he did.
Food, Faith, and Federalism: The New Kennedy Doctrine?
It’s hard to overstate how weird and fascinating this whole event was.
Here we had a Kennedy, scion of liberal royalty, standing shoulder to shoulder with a Republican governor, in one of the reddest states in the country, talking about food policy, Catholic history, and the spiritual healing properties of exercise.
It was like watching a TED Talk mashed up with an episode of “The West Wing,” but in front of a high school gym banner.
This isn’t the Kennedy brand of yore—no sweeping civil rights bills or moonshot ambitions. This is Kennedy 3.0: part public health advocate, part eco-crusader, part anti-chemical warrior, and now, the face of MAHA.
And West Virginia? It’s not just a nostalgic backdrop. It’s the test kitchen.
The Politics of Kale and Coal
But let’s not get too lost in the idealism. There’s real political maneuvering at play here.
RFK Jr.’s MAHA agenda is a clever way to thread a bipartisan needle. Conservatives love “personal responsibility” and hate soda. Liberals love banning stuff that’s bad for you. And both sides are desperate for a non-toxic, feel-good story out of Washington.
Plus, let’s not forget that RFK Jr. has presidential ambitions. His 2024 campaign may not have cracked the mainstream, but this role as HHS secretary is a powerful national platform—especially when it comes with the kind of sweeping authority that can approve SNAP waivers and pilot public health programs.
So is this about health? Sure. But it’s also about optics, legacy, and maybe, just maybe, a dry run for another Kennedy campaign down the line.
Conclusion: A Mile in Their Shoes
So what did we learn?
We learned that West Virginia holds a strange, mystical power over the Kennedy clan. We learned that Al Smith’s catastrophic campaign loss still echoes nearly a century later. We learned that school lunches are the new front lines of federal policy. And we learned that RFK Jr. isn’t just here to talk about vaccines—he’s here to talk about vitality.
More importantly, we learned that if you want to make America healthy again, you apparently start by banning Gatorade in Wheeling and encouraging people to walk their dogs a little longer after dinner.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the kind of politics we need right now—less doom, more walking shoes. A little less outrage, and a little more Mountaineer Mile.
West Virginia, you’ve officially become America’s wellness guinea pig. Let’s hope it sticks.
