The death today of Hulk Hogan, perhaps the most famous wrestler to ever live, carries a resonance far beyond professional sport. At times a symbol of all-American optimism, a national pariah, and an intensely political character, the man otherwise known as Terry Bollea came to represent a complex and confounding part of the US psyche.

Just a year ago, he made a theatrical appearance at the 2024 Republican National Convention, where he ripped off his shirt to reveal a Trump-Vance tank top while shouting: “Let Trump-a-mania run wild, brother!” The spectacle marked how far the “Real American” had travelled from unifying cultural force to partisan political figure.

Hogan began wrestling in 1977 as a regional villain in Florida territories. His transformation into a good guy came from media attention earned by playing Thunderlips in Rocky III, as well as Vince McMahon Jr‘s vision for national wrestling expansion. In 1984 at Madison Square Garden, Hogan defeated the hated Iron Sheik for his first WWF Championship. Commentator Gorilla Monsoon’s call — “Hulkamania is here!” — launched more than just a wrestling phenomenon.

What made Hogan special wasn’t just his success but the sort of across-the-board heroism he represented. Academic Conor Heffernan describes him as “a visual representation of moral American manhood” aligned with Reagan-era values. His red-and-yellow costume, crucifixes, and exhortations to “say your prayers and eat your vitamins” — even though we later learned his huge body was the product of steroids — created a character whom parents trusted and children worshipped.

Hogan’s transformation into “Hollywood Hulk Hogan” at Bash at the Beach 1996 remains one of wrestling’s most shocking betrayals. When he leg-dropped Randy Savage and joined the villainous New World Order (nWo), fans threw rubbish into the ring. Children who’d grown up on Hulkamania watched their hero become everything he’d fought against. The nWo’s black-and-white aesthetic replaced Hulkmania’s optimism with cynicism; Hogan’s heel turn reflected a growing appetite for anti-heroes to traditional good guys, and changed the sport’s entire moral landscape.

After his retirement from wrestling, Hogan once again demonstrated his ability to move with the American zeitgeist by embracing reality television. Hogan Knows Best premiered on VH1 in 2005, presenting Hulk’s family as successful but relatable. The show collapsed amid a slew of family crises: alleged affairs, divorce proceedings, and a serious car crash involving his son. The television family’s disintegration presaged collapse of his public image.

That collapse became complete on 24 July 2015, exactly ten years before his death, when transcripts from a sex tape revealed Hogan repeatedly using racial slurs “I mean, I am a racist, to a point,” he said, using the N-word multiple times while discussing his daughter dating a black man. WWE terminated his contract within hours, removed him from its Hall of Fame, and erased its biggest star from corporate history.

Hogan‘s $140 million victory over Gawker Media for publishing the sex tape seemed like vindication until the revelation that Silicon Valley entrepreneur Peter Thiel secretly funded the lawsuit. The case established new celebrity privacy precedents, but also demonstrated how billionaires could weaponize the legal system against media organizations. Gawker declared bankruptcy soon afterwards, while media law experts warned that it created a chilling effect on press freedom.

After endorsing Barack Obama in 2008, Hogan shifted Rightward. His 2024 RNC speech calling Donald Trump “my hero” crystallized the transformation, and in the then-Republican candidate he found another distinctly American figure, whose career was also built on theatrical performance and a canny understanding of the power of television.

Hogan’s 2003 “Mr America” character now appears prophetic. The storyline involved Hogan returning wearing a mask after being “fired” by McMahon, with everyone pretending not to recognize him despite obvious evidence. The character, complete with patriotic cape, represented American heroism as transparent theatre — a last bit of nostalgia for Eighties fans grown old.

Hogan’s career mirrored America’s cultural transformation. His Eighties persona embodied Reagan-era confidence and free-market consensus. The Nineties heel turn reflected growing skepticism about authority. His 2000s reality show was an attempt at recapturing family appeal. The 2010s racism scandal forced confrontation with American symbols’ exclusionary history. His 2020s Trump alignment completed the journey from universal symbol to partisan cheerleader. There’s no such thing as a big tent anymore, and the Hogan of the Eighties was one of the country’s last unifying pop-culture figures. His turn towards partisanship took place in concert with that of the US as a whole: in that way he was an American symbol till the very end.

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Oliver Bateman is a historian and journalist based in Pittsburgh. He blogs, vlogs, and podcasts at his Substack, Oliver Bateman Does the Work

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