Red Wall Under Siege: GOP Scrambles as Tennessee Stronghold Faces Shocking Test

Paul Riverbank, 12/3/2025Tennessee's GOP stronghold faces rare suspense, as Democrats mount a serious challenge for Congress.

On paper, the numbers paint a clear story. Donald Trump clinched this patch of Tennessee by more than twenty points in the last election, and the prevailing wisdom held that Republicans could rest easy here. But as the race heated up, those deep red assumptions started to look a bit thin. Speaker of the House Mike Johnson, not usually a staple on Tennessee back roads, campaigned with GOP contender Matt Van Epps, working to ignite supporters who sometimes forget that even “safe” seats can slip away when voters grow complacent. “We cannot take anything for granted,” Johnson warned, sounding more urgent than triumphant.

Republican National Committee chair Joe Gruters tried to project confidence. “Tennessee is the red wall,” he told a crowd, flashing a grin that didn’t quite conceal the nerves running beneath. But he also confessed to the odd nerve, admitting that special elections are, in his words, “strange”—voters may sleep through what they assume are foregone conclusions, and that’s how upsets are born. The party responded by pouring nearly half a million dollars into Van Epps’ race, a sum that raised eyebrows this far outside Nashville proper.

Van Epps himself is a straightforward candidate—an Army vet with a West Point pedigree, new to the national spotlight but at home on the campaign trail. He’s spent much of his time shaking hands in small towns while Republican senators and even old primary rivals have lined up to offer support—a rare display of public unity in a year short on guarantees. Meanwhile, Republicans hammered home their core message: hold the line, turn out the loyalists, don’t get blindsided.

But as the Republicans worked to shore up the foundation, Democrats found a door cracked open. Their nominee, Aftyn Behn, is hard to miss—she speaks with the cadence of an organizer and the energy of a true believer, anchoring her pitch firmly on kitchen-table economics. “This race is a lot closer than they ever expected,” Behn declared at a street-corner rally, ducking under a hand-painted sign. She has hammered away at soaring prices everywhere she goes, seeking to connect with voters frustrated by the cost of basics. And the national party has noticed: Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Pramila Jayapal, LaTosha Brown, and even former Vice President Al Gore stopped by to lend speeches—and, crucially, to be photographed by local news.

Predictably, the gloves came off as election day got closer. Old soundbites of Behn went viral, with Republicans seizing on quips she made about Nashville’s nightlife—her admitted disdain for pedal taverns and rowdy bachelorette parties morphed, in attack ads and Trump’s own calls, into proof that “she hates Christianity and country music.” In a moment that perhaps only a Nashvillian could appreciate, Behn tried to lower the temperature: “It’s my home. Do I roll my eyes at the pedal taverns blocking my driveway? Sure. Who doesn’t? But that’s not what this race is really about—it’s about families being priced out of the communities they built.” Her efforts to steer the discussion back to policy sometimes got lost in the din.

The rhetoric quickly grew personal. Old columns and deleted tweets surfaced, especially around policing and city budgets. When pressed, Behn responded cautiously—emphasizing that her voters wanted community safety and investment in mental health, but steering clear of soundbites that might haunt her in a district known for its skepticism of “defunding” rhetoric.

For Republicans, these moments represented an opening. “She does not represent the values of Tennessee or of America,” Van Epps told Fox News, branding her as an outsider in her own backyard. “She’s a radical. We have to reject that ideology.”

Meanwhile, outside groups cranked up the volume. Attack ads, glossy mailers, tired volunteers all stomping new ground—the kind of attention rare in a district more familiar with political business as usual. Both sides knew the stakes stretched well beyond a single House seat. With margins this tight in Washington, even a single loss can rattle leadership and offer proof that the so-called “red wall” is now more dented than anyone expected.

In the final days, the parties settled on one lesson: showing up matters, and nothing is automatic. Johnson reminded supporters, “We need everybody to turn out.” Gruters was even blunter: “We start the midterms now. Don’t hand them a surprise.” Democrats, hungry for an upset, see even a close finish as proof that their organizing is paying off.

And so, for all the talk of blue waves and red walls, the real story in Tennessee’s 7th is simpler and subtler: the ordinary work of knocking doors, arguing at family tables, and standing in line to vote. Even here, the era of foregone conclusions seems a thing of the past.

The 7th Congressional District of Tennessee, usually only a footnote in national politics, has lately found itself thrust into the spotlight. There’s a quiet tension running through the place: cornfields giving way to city blocks, rural calm brushing up against the pulse of Nashville. No one expected the district—drawn reliably Republican through and through—to flicker onto the national radar. Yet, that’s exactly what happened after Mark Green left his seat, triggering a special election that’s brought everyone from party brass to old skeptics out of the woodwork.On paper, the numbers paint a clear story. Donald Trump clinched this patch of Tennessee by more than twenty points in the last election, and the prevailing wisdom held that Republicans could rest easy here. But as the race heated up, those deep red assumptions started to look a bit thin. Speaker of the House Mike Johnson, not usually a staple on Tennessee back roads, campaigned with GOP contender Matt Van Epps, working to ignite supporters who sometimes forget that even “safe” seats can slip away when voters grow complacent. “We cannot take anything for granted,” Johnson warned, sounding more urgent than triumphant.Republican National Committee chair Joe Gruters tried to project confidence. “Tennessee is the red wall,” he told a crowd, flashing a grin that didn’t quite conceal the nerves running beneath. But he also confessed to the odd nerve, admitting that special elections are, in his words, “strange”—voters may sleep through what they assume are foregone conclusions, and that’s how upsets are born. The party responded by pouring nearly half a million dollars into Van Epps’ race, a sum that raised eyebrows this far outside Nashville proper.Van Epps himself is a straightforward candidate—an Army vet with a West Point pedigree, new to the national spotlight but at home on the campaign trail. He’s spent much of his time shaking hands in small towns while Republican senators and even old primary rivals have lined up to offer support—a rare display of public unity in a year short on guarantees. Meanwhile, Republicans hammered home their core message: hold the line, turn out the loyalists, don’t get blindsided.But as the Republicans worked to shore up the foundation, Democrats found a door cracked open. Their nominee, Aftyn Behn, is hard to miss—she speaks with the cadence of an organizer and the energy of a true believer, anchoring her pitch firmly on kitchen-table economics. “This race is a lot closer than they ever expected,” Behn declared at a street-corner rally, ducking under a hand-painted sign. She has hammered away at soaring prices everywhere she goes, seeking to connect with voters frustrated by the cost of basics. And the national party has noticed: Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Pramila Jayapal, LaTosha Brown, and even former Vice President Al Gore stopped by to lend speeches—and, crucially, to be photographed by local news.Predictably, the gloves came off as election day got closer. Old soundbites of Behn went viral, with Republicans seizing on quips she made about Nashville’s nightlife—her admitted disdain for pedal taverns and rowdy bachelorette parties morphed, in attack ads and Trump’s own calls, into proof that “she hates Christianity and country music.” In a moment that perhaps only a Nashvillian could appreciate, Behn tried to lower the temperature: “It’s my home. Do I roll my eyes at the pedal taverns blocking my driveway? Sure. Who doesn’t? But that’s not what this race is really about—it’s about families being priced out of the communities they built.” Her efforts to steer the discussion back to policy sometimes got lost in the din.The rhetoric quickly grew personal. Old columns and deleted tweets surfaced, especially around policing and city budgets. When pressed, Behn responded cautiously—emphasizing that her voters wanted community safety and investment in mental health, but steering clear of soundbites that might haunt her in a district known for its skepticism of “defunding” rhetoric.For Republicans, these moments represented an opening. “She does not represent the values of Tennessee or of America,” Van Epps told Fox News, branding her as an outsider in her own backyard. “She’s a radical. We have to reject that ideology.”Meanwhile, outside groups cranked up the volume. Attack ads, glossy mailers, tired volunteers all stomping new ground—the kind of attention rare in a district more familiar with political business as usual. Both sides knew the stakes stretched well beyond a single House seat. With margins this tight in Washington, even a single loss can rattle leadership and offer proof that the so-called “red wall” is now more dented than anyone expected.In the final days, the parties settled on one lesson: showing up matters, and nothing is automatic. Johnson reminded supporters, “We need everybody to turn out.” Gruters was even blunter: “We start the midterms now. Don’t hand them a surprise.” Democrats, hungry for an upset, see even a close finish as proof that their organizing is paying off.And so, for all the talk of blue waves and red walls, the real story in Tennessee’s 7th is simpler and subtler: the ordinary work of knocking doors, arguing at family tables, and standing in line to vote. Even here, the era of foregone conclusions seems a thing of the past.