A group of white male lawmakers were playing cards in a back room while their female colleagues gave speeches on the Minnesota house floor. They weren’t paying attention, and Melissa Hortman had had enough.“I hate to break up the 100% white male card game in the retiring room,” Hortman said in 2017. “But I think this is an important debate.”The comment upset some Republicans, who said it was racist for her to call them white men and wanted her to apologize. Her response: “I’m really tired of watching women of color, in particular, being ignored. So I’m not sorry.”The moment went viral – people made shirts and rallied in support of her comments. The Republican men knew that they had lost, the Minnesota senator Tina Smith said about the incident. “Melissa won the day.”“I think you have to call bullshit when you see bullshit,” Hortman said at the time. “And we see plenty of it.”It was one of many moments Hortman’s friends and colleagues have shared since the 55-year-old longtime legislator and her husband were murdered in what appears to be a politically motivated shooting spree in suburban Minnesota on Saturday.Her friends and colleagues have remembered her legislative accomplishments – an ability to bring people together, stay organized, find common ground and, perhaps most of all, actually get things done. She injected humor and levity into her work. She was whip-smart. She raised two kids and had a beloved rescue dog, Gilbert.“She demonstrates how being a steely negotiator and showing toughness isn’t in tension with being human and warm and likable,” said Steve Simon, the Democratic secretary of state who knew Hortman for three decades, since the two were in law school together.Tim Walz, the Minnesota governor, an ally and friend of Hortman’s, called her “the most consequential speaker in state history”. Democrats held a trifecta in 2023 – controlling both chambers of the legislature and the governor’s mansion – which allowed the left to achieve a host of its longstanding priorities, including protecting abortion access, universal school meals, childcare assistance and paid family leave, and felony voting rights restoration. The list was long, and Hortman held together her caucus through it all, gaining national attention for the “Minnesota miracle”. Those gains are Hortman’s legacy, the result of many years of laying the groundwork so that when Democrats had power, they could move quickly, Smith said.Walz, in an interview after her assassination with Minnesota Public Radio, said Hortman understood procedure, policy and people, and she had an incredible work ethic. He puts Hortman high on the list of consequential politicians in Minnesota history and counts her as one of the people who have affected him most. She didn’t seek credit, but if things got done, it was because of her, he said.“Melissa was a singular force of understanding how democracy worked in getting things done,” Walz said. “You didn’t have to agree with her politics to know that she was effective. She was decent when it came time, and if her point did not win out, she accepted it, shook hands and signed it.”The 2025 legislative session started acrimoniously. The House was tied at 67-67, but Republicans tried to press a temporary advantage into leadership power, leading Hortman and Democrats to boycott the session until Republicans would agree to a power-sharing agreement. Hortman gave up the speaker title, becoming speaker emerita, and got to work governing the tied chamber.The session proved difficult – Hortman described, with emotion, how hard it was to be the lone Democratic vote to repeal healthcare coverage for undocumented adults, but that she had agreed to it so the state could have a bipartisan budget and prevent a shutdown.Her Republican colleagues said they liked and respected her, despite their political differences. Lisa Demuth, the Republican house speaker, said she looked at Hortman as a mentor. They could disagree politically without being cruel, in public or in private, she said.When Demuth became minority leader, Democrats held complete control of the state government. Hortman didn’t need Demuth’s help to advance legislation, but she still wanted to meet with Demuth every week so they could get to know each other. When the chamber became tied, they had a two-year working relationship to build on, Demuth said. Hortman called the bipartisan group “Team House” this year.“I learned so much from her leadership and just who she was as a person that was willing to compromise and negotiate well and do really what she felt was best for Minnesota,” Demuth told the Guardian.They shared a love of Cheetos – snacks are essential for late-night governing – and talked about Hortman’s love of flowers. Hortman had a tree that bloomed every year, and that was her monitor for when the state budget should be done: before the tree bloomed. Demuth would ask, so how’s that tree? They missed the deadline this year.Even in rocky moments, Hortman was direct, true to her word and looking for creative solutions, Demuth said. The session started with Republicans forging ahead and Democrats boycotting, an undoubtedly rough time. “We both agreed that we had to find a way through,” Demuth said.Hortman grew up in Minnesota. She told MinnPost she decided when she was 10 years old she would be the first female president, while watching the 1980 presidential campaign. She left for college at Boston University, but returned home for law school at the University of Minnesota, then began work as a lawyer. Along the way, she interned for Al Gore and John Kerry.Keith Ellison, the Democratic attorney general, shared at a rally the day she was killed that she was a “beautiful human being”. He met her before she was a lawmaker, when she was a lawyer for the Legal Aid Society, a non-profit that provides legal services for people who can’t afford it, when she fiercely defended tenants, he said. In a statement after her passing, legal aid noted that Hortman had secured what was then the largest jury verdict for housing discrimination in Minnesota history.“If you did things that she did, you’d be on the right track in your life,” Ellison told the crowd. “She fought for people, she stood with people. She was a powerful political leader, but she also was a compassionate and kind person. Melissa proved that you could be a politician and a good person, and I know some people wonder about that sometimes, but she really was both.”Her swing district was not an easy win. She ran twice, losing both times, before winning on the third attempt by a few hundred votes in 2004. She kept her seat through 11 elections, rising up the ranks in her caucus, ultimately becoming speaker in 2018. She considered a run for Congress, previously one of her childhood dreams, but decided she could make more happen as a state lawmaker, she told MinnPost.Zack Stephenson met Hortman when he was 18 and volunteered on her second campaign. Then, as a college student, he suggested Hortman make him her campaign manager and a few of his friends full-time campaign staff during Hortman’s third run for office. They would take time off from college and work for free. Hortman would joke that, after two losses, she was so desperate she’d try anything. She won.Now a state representative, Stephenson got to work closely with his longtime mentor and friend in what became the final months of her life – he as co-chair of a house committee that worked on the budget and she as speaker emeritus. He’s one of many who called Hortman a mentor. “She was a leader who was not afraid to invest in other leaders. It didn’t threaten her,” he said.She talked about running for higher office at times, and Stephenson advocated for her to run for governor someday. But she also had a full life outside the office. In one classic example, Stephenson recalled a staff member who said his parents’ gardening business was having trouble finding seasonal help. Hortman, an avid gardener, asked how much the gig paid. “She’s like, ‘oh, yeah, great. I could pin my earbuds in, listen to disco music and just garden.’ And then she was talking about it for weeks,” he said.There are several pots of money in the state budget for tree-planting that she snuck in, he said, a testament to her love of the outdoors. She used to joke that her only two forms of exercise were cross-country skiing and doorknocking.The 2017 moment when she called out white male lawmakers brought her legislative career more attention and solidified her as a voice for her caucus, but she was always tough, Smith said. When Smith was lieutenant governor and Hortman was minority leader, the men in leadership roles once met without Smith and Hortman to try to strike a deal. Hortman called Smith early in the morning and told her they were being shut out, and they raced over to the capitol. She was determined and made clear she wouldn’t be dismissed, Smith said.“She was just so strong, like, what is going on here? This deal isn’t done until we say it’s done,” Smith said. “And it was a classic moment of her not being afraid to lean in and using her power and after it was over, we were like, can you believe those guys? I can’t believe they tried that.”Hollies Winston, the mayor of Brooklyn Park, where Hortman lived and represented, said she had to balance delivering for the local community and delivering for the whole state, and she did so “from a place of wisdom and empathy”.“She really moved the ball in terms of education and childcare, workers rights, public safety, criminal justice,” he said. But it’s the quieter moments he saw from her that truly showed her character – her willingness to serve as a mentor to youth in the area, who came to her home to learn about politics, her support for emerging voices at the statehouse.She was more interested in the work than the publicity, Simon said. She wasn’t seeking to promote herself, but to deliver results that would help the most people in Minnesota. Even her opponents knew she was “fundamentally selfless”, and it went a long way to helping her negotiate during tough moments, Simon said.“She went into politics to do something, not to be something,” Simon said.Sophie and Colin Hortman, her two children, released a statement after her death, saying their parents’ love for them was “boundless”. Their statement was a testament to their parents, whose “legacy of dedication to their community will live on in us, their friends, their colleagues and co-workers, and every single person who knew and loved them”.They called on people to honor their parents with a list of Hortman-approved acts of kindness: “Plant a tree. Visit a local park and make use of their amenities, especially a bike trail. Pet a dog. A golden retriever is ideal, but any will do. Tell your loved ones a cheesy dad joke and laugh about it. Bake something – bread for Mark or a cake for Melissa, and share it with someone. Try a new hobby and enjoy learning something. Stand up for what you believe in, especially if that thing is justice and peace.” More
