Brown: Despite arguments and heartbreak, a bipartisan friendship shows the way

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Matt Matasich always called his friend “Drago” even though it irked him.

Drago was Karl Oberstar Jr.’s middle name at birth. His Slovenian father and Croatian mother fled the former Yugoslavia as political refugees after World War II. Matasich’s Croatian family did the same, though he was born on the Mesabi Iron Range in northern Minnesota, where they both grew up.

When Oberstar later was naturalized as a U.S. citizen in elementary school, his parents let him drop the name Drago. Matasich discovered this fact many years later, probably while speaking Croatian with Oberstar’s mother. He used the name to rile up his pal.

Getting riled up was a big part of Oberstar and Matasich’s friendship. Their favorite topic was politics. Here’s where it gets complicated. Oberstar, 74, is a Democrat. Matasich, 65, was a Republican. They didn’t disagree about everything, just most things.

Not long ago, Oberstar said, they met to walk around the Iron Trail Motors arena in Virginia, Minn. Afterward, they sat in the stands to talk while watching a youth hockey practice. They had an argument over foreign policy, and before long were yelling so loudly that the hockey coach stopped practice to tell them to be quiet.

Matasich would invite his friend into the kitchen of the same modest home where he grew up in a Slavic immigrant neighborhood on Virginia’s north side. There, after every argument, Matasich would make old-fashioned popcorn on the stove. They’d eat it while talking about something else. It was an agreed-upon signal to put aside their differences.

“And it was good popcorn,” said Oberstar. “I just loved our sessions.”

They met while serving as local public officials in 1987. Matasich was 25 and had just been elected to the Virginia City Council; Oberstar, then 34, was the mayor of Gilbert, a role he has held off and on ever since.

Matasich started as a DFLer like Oberstar, an acolyte of the state’s first and only Croatian-American governor, Rudy Perpich. But he gravitated toward the GOP after Perpich left office in 1991. Over the years, Matasich came to be known as the “Nort’side Republican,” a proud Iron Ranger willing to run against the dominant DFL majority in the region. His losses were spectacular, but he was never discouraged.

Oberstar holds a 9-3 record in Gilbert mayoral elections (mayors are elected to two-year terms in Gilbert). That includes one win when the election was tied and broken by a coin flip that aired live nationally on “The Today Show.” Oberstar said he lost twice because people were mad about local issues, but he felt that he lost in 2022 because of partisan politics. Last year, Oberstar was narrowly elected over a write-in candidate when the incumbent didn’t run again.

Oberstar and Matasich’s friendship was tested in 2016. Matasich was as excited by Donald Trump’s candidacy as Oberstar was dismayed.

Iron Range politics changed a lot that year. Not only did Trump carry the region, he became the first Republican presidential candidate to do so since Herbert Hoover. But that year, the GOP started making inroads in legislative races as well. Within a few years, the Iron Range legislative delegation would become almost entirely Republican.

In an ironic twist, Matasich lost the GOP primary for Minnesota State House District 7B last year to Cal Warwas.Last November, Warwas became the first Republican to carry this district in the era of partisan elections. After years of carrying water for the long-suffering GOP, Matasich was left out of the party’s return to power. His DFL friend was there to console him.

“He was like a brother to me,” said Oberstar. “I never told him.”

In recent decades, the partisan sorting of our online lives makes us think that our side can “win,” and that everyone will agree with “us” when that happens.

Oberstar and Matasich never agreed on some important issues. Both of their families were tormented by the Yugoslav communist dictator Josip Broz Tito. Oberstar believed strongly that Trump was like Tito; Matasich believed just as strongly that he wasn’t. Their families spent time in prison camps, so this was no casual disagreement. Neither was it the full story of their friendship.

Matasich and Oberstar worked to find areas where they could agree. They shared community, spiritual connection, cultural experiences and the most precious commodity we have: time.

On Sept. 26, Oberstar texted Matasich to ask if he wanted to go to church that Sunday. Matasich never responded. With each day, Oberstar started to worry. On Tuesday, Sept. 30 another friend of Matasich’s called Oberstar with the same concerns. They went over to Matasich’s house.

Oberstar walked into the kitchen where they’d sat many times before. He found his friend on the floor near the table where they made peace with popcorn. Matasich died from a sudden heart attack. Oberstar delivered his eulogy.

“He never wanted to give the nursing home any money,” said Oberstar. “We had that conversation. He got his wish. I sure miss him, though. I think about him every day.”

Oberstar said hope for this kind of friendship might best be fostered in young people.

“They’re the ones that have the open minds right now,” he said. “These older ones, they’re stuck.”

Meantime, memory of this lasting friendship — tested by a changing world and the perils of Facebook — will live with Oberstar, who thinks of his friend every day.