Five years ago I was sitting in a computer lab at the Humphrey Institute, waiting for a stats lab to begin. Students trickling into the class mentioned something about a plane crash on MPR. A few minutes of frantic searching on the internet and the rumors became reality, first that a plane had crashed, then that it carried Paul and Sheila, and finally that they were dead.
Within minutes I realized I didn’t want to be in class, to be around all these people trying to grasp what was happening, but to maintain some sort of façade of normalcy. Stumbling through the tunnels, I could but glance at other students, dazed, faces contorted in grief. I wept briefly in my cube, then tried to compose myself on the bus ride home.
Barely had we pulled off campus that I began sobbing. The other passengers were unaware, didn’t understand the loss. They didn’t understand how his passion and determination inspired mine. And how his courage gave strength to so many.
Gone was a voice, often lonely but always strong. A voice speaking for those who have no spokesman, no lobbyist. The mentally ill, abused women, immigrants struggling to make their way in a confusing foreign land. These are the people for whom Paul and Sheila spoke every day.
The next few days would race by numbly. First I would be inspired by the support and the strength of the community as we said goodbye to our champion in Williams Arena. Within hours I would watch the right distort a ceremony to honor and grieve into a tool for gain. No surprise there, but sadly now the one man who would speak against such absurdity had been quieted.
It has now been five years since Senator Wellstone’s plane crashed outside Eveleth. In those five years we’ve been taking to war, seen our rights and liberties erode, our Constitution trampled. And we crave leadership, someone to stand up, to fight. I still have the button I received that damp afternoon at a vigil at the Capitol. Its message, Paul’s message, abides even knowing how much we’ve lost:
Stand up. Keep fighting.